From within
A sliver, over cast: the clouds, a throne superimposed over a perspective drawing of a staircase, apparently leading to theater box seats.
Are we enacting Beckett's End Game or the individual vignettes of Foot Falls?
I remember the antique rocking chair -that my step dad insisted we move from place to place- now only elevating previously worn clothing, a few church bulletins & an old shoe box (with who knows what inside) resting beneath it's seat. These things seemed privileged with all the anonymous piles simply on the floor & under foot. Just one rat materialized from amongst the detritus; I felt confidant as a young savage with a blunt spear; the thrust was reciprocated with the rat's leap -at least five feet in the air. I now stood atop the bed as frightened as the surprise the rat felt of being shoulder level without legs to rest on. It was found a few days later in the live trap down the hall, it was enraged at the thought of it's own domestication. A day later it was dead, from what I'd like to think internal bleeding, it appeared to be in obeisance to what we'll never know.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
"Live your life from left to right."
A man stands leaning more heavily on one leg, a few cars lengths away from an adolescent girl
propped up on the edge of a backless seat, umbrella awkwardly held by both hands nearly against her bosom
it is open overhead, in her clumsy hold the stem gets repositioned, the canopy seems to swoon every now & then.
They are both enclosed, in what is thought of as an old open-windowless factory
A bulb hangs suspended somewhere above, it emits a faint yellow light
The man does not stand away nor toward the girl, that sits anxiously awaiting something in his direction:
whether that comes from above or from the black expanse (that both accentuates & delineates what is there of the man) that -just for now- hermetically keeps this little nucleus from any further physical adulteration
The man's gaze does not seem to fall in the direction pertaining to the external inclusion of this weight,
heterogeneously given off;
The direction may not be from without the nuclei, the blanketing darkness might be lending to a latency from either of the two constituents.
I feel that the umbrella is an upside down pendulum attempting to point toward magnetic north & in doing so, it alone keeps time, irregularly (but whose to tell the difference) counting down the minutes. What if it's accuracy depends solely on how the girl's actual time fluctuates: from now slow to standing to wading to when it catches the smooth surface & skips quickly three times. Do they know where their at? Is she glimpsing what she is to potentially become? Since there are no manifestations, do they supply them? Have they made assumptions... I mean to begin with, has the man taken for granted the questioning part of the process.
Yes, her limitations necessarily came from without to begin with.
propped up on the edge of a backless seat, umbrella awkwardly held by both hands nearly against her bosom
it is open overhead, in her clumsy hold the stem gets repositioned, the canopy seems to swoon every now & then.
They are both enclosed, in what is thought of as an old open-windowless factory
A bulb hangs suspended somewhere above, it emits a faint yellow light
The man does not stand away nor toward the girl, that sits anxiously awaiting something in his direction:
whether that comes from above or from the black expanse (that both accentuates & delineates what is there of the man) that -just for now- hermetically keeps this little nucleus from any further physical adulteration
The man's gaze does not seem to fall in the direction pertaining to the external inclusion of this weight,
heterogeneously given off;
The direction may not be from without the nuclei, the blanketing darkness might be lending to a latency from either of the two constituents.
I feel that the umbrella is an upside down pendulum attempting to point toward magnetic north & in doing so, it alone keeps time, irregularly (but whose to tell the difference) counting down the minutes. What if it's accuracy depends solely on how the girl's actual time fluctuates: from now slow to standing to wading to when it catches the smooth surface & skips quickly three times. Do they know where their at? Is she glimpsing what she is to potentially become? Since there are no manifestations, do they supply them? Have they made assumptions... I mean to begin with, has the man taken for granted the questioning part of the process.
Yes, her limitations necessarily came from without to begin with.
Friday, February 4, 2011
The leaves & twigs, as I poured, clung to my penis: I was going to stick it in Miranda's ass, but then I (enrapt) happened to find within the blankets & covers a large box of these natural condoms. We are in the front yard, on a sort of detached pateo under the canopy of large neighborhood trees, kaleidoscopic rays momentarily illuminate parts of our bodies. There are a few stairs leading up to us; We perform at the shoulder height of an economically sized man. This I suddenly realize, is not the first time we have slept together, she seems to be oblivious of this fact.
The neighborhood looks perpetually maintained, but there is never anyone about. Most of the houses are stories with the bottom floor depressed several feet in from the upper slab's face. All their driveways are inter- connecting roads & small one story shacks occupy the in-between blocks, as though they were being protected; just as we are elevated from any kid's possible view whether playing in an adjacent yard or gazing out of their second story bedroom window. And none of the kids were likely to be ours anytime soon, because the first coming I feel was sheathless & now my penis is encased in this cocoon, it would be at home -with this disguise- hanging from a branch of an evergreen tree. It still feels despite it's adornment & she seems to respond to it as being neither ruff nor irregular but as something fulfilling just the same without it involving any future aside from the immediate (& that is immemorial).
The neighborhood looks perpetually maintained, but there is never anyone about. Most of the houses are stories with the bottom floor depressed several feet in from the upper slab's face. All their driveways are inter- connecting roads & small one story shacks occupy the in-between blocks, as though they were being protected; just as we are elevated from any kid's possible view whether playing in an adjacent yard or gazing out of their second story bedroom window. And none of the kids were likely to be ours anytime soon, because the first coming I feel was sheathless & now my penis is encased in this cocoon, it would be at home -with this disguise- hanging from a branch of an evergreen tree. It still feels despite it's adornment & she seems to respond to it as being neither ruff nor irregular but as something fulfilling just the same without it involving any future aside from the immediate (& that is immemorial).
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