I had a small television on my bedside stand. In Spain as a fourteen-year old in the mid-nineties, you soon learned that television censors were far more lenient than those in the New World. I received the signal from a channel that exclusively transmitted the ongoing undressing of a woman in a shabbily decorated room. It was usually mature women that gave this peep-show, there was never any sex (I guess I needed cable for that, which didn’t extend to my dormitory). No music played as this took place, merely rustling fabric and the eventual soft moan.
Unable to sleep, probably slightly excited by my nightly entertainment, one night I emerged to the balcony to catch a breath. It was a residential neighborhood where one breathed a homely European air; gardens and townhouses abounded and streets were named after Counts. The timid buzzing of the streetlamps in summer was broken when a BMW rolled down the street and its driver failed to open the metallic garage door as it attempted what resulted in a bombastic non-entry to the house in front. BAM!
As if that wasn’t funny enough as far as 4:00am occurrences go, I held my laughter and witnessed the exchange between the male driver and his female companion, which made it abundantly clear that he was dropping off sweety-buns at her place.
I could thank my teen hormones and locally televised soft-core then for a night of very satisfying sleep deprivation. Too bad I’m not in Spain now…I might have to grab a siesta though.
WITZELSUCHT n.—emotional state characterized by futile attempts at humor.
[video]
Roll & Tumble Press. - my love for you is a stampede of horses.
Midnight fancy
Trainspotter in the dark,
alors, no tracks, no engines,
just a swelling sound nearing
and a calling; he’s a mess, he’s
untidy and the bobbing of his
glasses indicate he wants to
dance. Brushing by slicked-back
hair, the push on his eardrums
of the air cast the scientific spell
that dreams to dare: thoughts of
groovination feed what he exudes,
that belly mesmerizing flow and
quiver, the uneasy good-feel
expectant awesome awakened
in the bass of the situation, sparkled
with high hats smiling, oh,
the girls, the girls, moving well,
the female specie causes such a
daze as he sways his hips and their
hair guides as light stroboscopic flares
of glittering smells, and his arms
go up and down then side to side
(god, if it weren’t for her tobacco
suicide) and more vigor do more
rocking pelvis, yeah, feel good, he
dons the beats like a plaid pattern;
she slips past, her breasts accidentally
burn through flannel and sting like love,
harder dancing, he looks up, puckers up,
sexy, sexy, beast, oh my, he feels,
at least he got a laugh out of that one.
Rainbow Worms (via apak)
It’s much simpler than I make it out to be. It must be.
Necessarily there must be repetition in poetry, because there is so much of it in life. When is it I know better? I better just ride the wave before I drown.
Fuck. No more hesitation.
Would you like to grab some coffee? I’d love it if you would. Would you like to read my writing…I could even write a poem for you, I think you’ll be that special to me.
My road will present many, many challenges. It’s a bit of an eyesore for now, it’s not easy, I know, but it’s easier to traverse with some company.
Oh, so you’re taken. I’m a bit embarrassed now, having thought we were parallel travelers, akin backpackers. Well, I can still join you until you reach your love (it won’t be a waste), we can have a conversation, I’m sure, and surely I’ll learn. I’m fairly loyal to my wayward companions, so do remind me to stray…I think I need it these days.
I save the world for a living, how about you? I mostly save it in my pocket (har, har), but I’m expanding. It’s a notion I haven’t fully escaped, something I’ve desired since early in my youth. It’s dreaming that keeps me young, that keeps me willing to go on. It’s mostly depressing work, I’ll tell you, but it beats dying. No, I haven’t seen the sunset in Bali, but no rush, I’ll find someone who I’ll want to take there.
I’m getting into sunrises these days. From a certain temporal standpoint and according to tradition, they come before sunsets. They’re far more challenging to catch if you like sleeping as much as I do (yeah, I totally overslept today). Did I mention my first novel is pretty much done (in my head)? I really should feel glad, and I do, it’s just a matter of time now, I’m having trouble with it. I stopped wearing a watch years ago and I loathe alarm clocks. They almost ruined Jeff Buckley for me once, since I decided to play “Grace” as my alarm for a period of time, but I only ended up being unable to listen to Mojo Pin for a couple years and still sleeping in. I guess there’s a good reason for alarms to be as annoying as they are, that you won’t mind hating them.
Did I mention all of this already? I couldn’t have, I just met you. It reminds me of my grandparents and how I know all their stories by now. I love them for them, I could never hear them enough times though. It’s in many ways what they’ve become, their stories, and it’s not too bad.
I answered a silent request of
My own Lou Salomé.
She asked about the air I devoured
And I thought it might have
Been the evergreens that acquiesced
To stand still amid gnats,
Giving up on warm blood and growing
Unencumbered by the itch
Null beyond, zero air and quiet bolts.
Along a ridge, climbing dusty bones,
Wearied stones, I reached the
Top to gaze spring water stream below,
Where I had bathed unquenched
With Patriarch of the peaks above;
A constant walk mattered
More than starlit eyes to grab and hold
The leather reins passed on
Ambling steeds from Matriarch bestowed.
Beyond birds and bougainvillea,
Adobe bricks lifting
Lore amid fawn crosses, quilted fields
Sown with melancholy
Spring eternal, a face insists on
Heavenward reflection;
Bosomed valley guardian, though they looked,
You never could wake from
Wond’ring if you’d erode and deform.
New Work: Acorn. - my love for you is a stampede of horses.