the mending house bells

tolling mildly smell of chopped
lettuce mushrooms onthe cutting board
from behind her past the xmas
tree- 3 feet, apt sized, awaiting
uncloseted memories, things left
from a fire-a video game
blips hypnotically, two twenty
frickin one! says the boy
and the mother lets it pass

hey dude i'm on space race!
the big boy, the one who belongs
no where, makes a home for a shallow
moment, mixes and drains the noodles,//good
for you ...dude.
how does it smell, baby? to the woman
in the chair. she's typing, distractedly
giving directions from the throne
after a buffy day. .

why not say this is we, why not say
i and me. it's all we have to go on now.
third person equals third world. but but
who was stopping you? i mean me, i mean i
sometimes want to hide behind the conceit of objectifacation
perhaps i see it more clearly that way.

pull the focal lens out:

she worked all day looking thru a microscope
at three times resolution. her boss is out with a bad back.
he runs interference on vendor problems so she
can deal with umm, other things. she painted
stripes on her fingernails with scripto pins
spoke harshly to the sales vp. suddenly the kids

erupt in impatience behind her. the portable phone
is a focal point for disharmony. all she wants to do
is sit in the chair and write. it doesn't matter
about what. see how she rambles?


i just read stranger in a strange land again.


smells good.

one matter to feed
it yourself, saying goodbye
choosing change or rebirth[[
his name was joe]] quite another
to have it sprung on you, hobbesily.

but i don't regret it, this paring
down, memorials are only mortal.

there's a somber sonata, greensleeves achey
burning behind the rose bushes this year.
i go outside for a cigarette and the sun's already retreated.
musted muted melancholies. we fought
earlier, a deep lesson in relevance, choices.
i listen to the newly nymphed