... The house he sits against is his father's, who's in a great excitement right now, he thinks he's dying...

He can't stand at the threshold any longer. He slumps from the weight of his hat. He waits for a word, a word thats late. The stars are coming out so he sits down into the wall next to the door, to keep waiting...

art i like

The Cellar

Dipping my head through the darkened doorway into the cool air chilled from the deep cellar below, I turn and sit on the front step. I need reason to go down into the cellar or else my being there is forbidden. The cellar must be filled with trunks and casks and other amazing things but it's been out of bounds forever. I'm too old to believe anymore the story of monsters my brothers tell. I imagine ancient treasures and mysterious discoveries, cool moist airs, and the dead silence of a tomb. I'm too old to believe in mummies and I'm not very afraid of the spiders and mice. I wonder if there are bats that swoop around your head with sharp little squeaks. I wonder if I promise not to make a mess I could go down and take a look.

She says though, that whenever we go down into the basement we always leave a mess, one that she has to clean up. My brothers tell me that they once found a civil war uniform and bayonet. They said that there is a shelf of a thousand different coloured cups and jars and mugs, that there's a wardrobe filled with shelves of sprouted potatoes, and boxes and boxes of ancient mysterious tools, knives, saws, clamps, and magazines. There were thousands of magazines and mountains of newspapers they say. I think I'll die of boredom this summer.

Avarice in Fantasy

Avarice in fantasy tugs you into a spiral of daydreaming reverie. Squash such desires and make the day count, the nights are for dreaming. Also, don't sleep all day or you will drive yourself mad staying up all night. Dreaming all the time will make you too sensitive to the waking world. Also, I'm not sure that the days I've yet to live aren't actually tonights dream.

Sing Sing Sing Sing

Sing sing sing sing, doesn't matter what, just start. Make it something new, something you're not sure about yet, take a risk. Just don't stop, your not making much sense but that doesn't matter it's beautiful. Let all the hanging questions be answered, assume everything for now and build syllogisms, put them into the chorus. Your song is radiant nonsense, ephemeral truth.

The Talk after Samuel Beckett

He couldn't have been much more capable. He had not a trace of wrinkle on his face. He delivered his talk in this way: he inscribed into us a text, or he spoke his mind, or he murmured to us a subtext (in an undertone), or he spoke to us a text, or he spoke to us a subtext (in overtones), or he inscribed his thoughts into our minds, or he murmured to us his text, or his murmur was only in my mind, or he didn't actually deliver his talk at all, or he talked to us in all these ways each one after the other, pausing to breathe between each incantation keeping deliberately quiet.

As For the Rest of Them

As for the rest of them, who are caught in a rut, their vision shut so that only a bit of light shines through. Or we are all completely blind.

At the Horizon's Door

I sit at the horizon's door waiting. And, from the locus of understanding a flash of light illuminates the deepest darkest crevices, and what is most exciting of all, is the plainness of what lies therein.

Bounce Step

He looked back over his shoulder towards the sound of my footsteps and let me pass, carefully shortening his step. A cross walk later he passed me again during the signal. I noticed he walked mostly with his toes with and a little bounce backwards, and as I let him pass I could see that he wanted to look over his shoulder once more but resisted. He stiffened a litte as I passed, thats how I guessed.

Bleached Bone

a weak little frail voice singing in a thin falsetto

clapboard and white washed lapels

without a belt to hang his pants

he wore tennis shoes

Late August

We go to Venice tomorrow, to find the most hidden of all the cafes. A rat with ribs splayed open alighted on the steps of a canal at low tide teeming with insects. An enormous squid has made its way into the flooded Piazza San Marco overnight and has sprayed its ink over the columns of one side of the piazza as it suffocated in the shallow water. Its late August and not one tourist was here to take note.

Bodies

Clothing is architecture, cars are architecture, these we inhabit. We cannot hold them, they are not masks, they are bodies. These are not objects, they are architecture.

Neither the Day Nor the Hour

The final system beyond the locus of understanding

Unknown truths, unhinted hitherto, out of the blue

New paradigm, new aesthetics, limitless horizons.

Creases

Sleepy creases across the cheek

Rubbing the last flecks of dreams from your eyes

The creases lift by the time your ready to face the day.

Ache

Writing can be sublime, but it is much more a wrenching ache. An ache you feel beyond your body. Whatever part of you that moves your feet, flips through your memories, and forms the words meant for your mouth, hurts as you strain to pull words and ideas out of it.