soups of old dreams

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(11/26/09 19:45:50)

ezOP

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i wanted you to be here as well, the open windows
open door of late novemeber florida. the room
painted key west motel/condo beside the seine, no not the seine
isn't there some other river in france i could know about?
to the east the room becomes the orient, chinese caligraphy
on the wall, the returning soldier wants to know if i know the words
but the excavation of the poem is not that simple
translation is a rickety scaffold that sprouts branchlets & berries
where i becomes us with an added stroke. she is a linguist
the soldier, silent when politics
enters the room. her step father and i
exchange pleasantries from opposite sides
of the ailse, w0ndering what mirror
the other wakes up to each morning
the soldier

plans her wedding, talks about babies
with her pregnant cousin, they sit side
by side in a worn loveseat, looking
thru the winnie the pooh scrapbook she bought
for the expectant mother, this girl she once changed
the diapers f herself, swam in the hottub
with her and baby brother, who towers
over her now, he must have grown two inches since
last novemeber, when she left for the desert
the dust that blew over time, ripped
the chronicals to shreds
stored in facebook
now to scrap

into the next report home. fully sanctioned
by the machine that feeds her by policing
thesource of thwoesoghasodifsdk


transmisiion aborted. it is what it is, empire. deal.






()***








i do not know what wall has come between me
and thre rest of the world. i put one foot in front
of the other, feel the tug at the ankle. so
i tear the lettuce, bake the yeast rolls. i want one now
with cold turkey, mayo, a bit of pickle and onion
or if that isn't available, some cornbread suffing will do.
but i'm pale as my stained dress i've really let myself go
i didn't even put on face cream
until everyone went home. i wanted
to fade into the kitchen
and not have to deal with
people's feelings, i mean ok
let them have them but please
don't try to engage me
with your world
view , i like
my tarpa
per
shack on the bayou it won't outlast me by much take
what you can when i go. raw sugar
plays on pandora i've missed
this song, your sweet rush
the settling down into
krone, not ready for
the cauldron
i burn a red hole in my dress.










(*&_____




see it was like , she wrote the same damn thing.
we got bored with it after a while, the heron talking
to the frog, the flight of cotillions over the marsh
the song of the bumblebee, the lament
of the flower. those dumb flowers
yearning for the touch of butterflies
with their own agenda
and that of the wind.


one second. turkey sandwich.

















(**)






pandora's listening is limited to 2 free weeks. or a dollah for the rest of november.
if i had itunes i could listen to soma again. i wonder if the netbook will support it.
the kitchen is clean, the dishes put away, the flood on the counter dealt with.
the soldier and her family are home again, done with the care package
of leftovers, she packs her bag for the flight back to her station.
she has two years left. she knows she will probably be sent
back to the desert or perhaps further inland, to the craggy
mountains where rebellion grows fast and thick
as poppies in the canyons. her pregnant
cousin asked if she will re-up at the end
of her enlistment. her mind
changes daily. her aunt is opposed
to the service, but she lives
on the fruits of its
policy, like the drosophilia
that buzzed around
the bananas, ripening for bread
on her kitchen counter.
her says to her step father this is what i love about this country~
we can disagree and no one is pointing guns at each other.
yet, thinks the soldier. we're not pointing them yet.

like lost belief the sunlight fades from a marble sky--

title by midlope/matt


the hanged man changes dark to light, dimples on a golf ball.
the roll keeps happening. i remember to take my meds
and the sunset ,missed, becomes important. the inner legs
of sanctity twirl around a chicken sandwich and a shared pipe.

just a bit paranoid, i slip feet into a down comforter, staving off the cold i invited in. the laundry is done, the floors swept. food is an issue i can delay.i find this is where i want to be, immoble, writing. the dance of the outside world frightens me, engagement with anything other than the sound of tipping keys and jetoff in the distance feels dangerous, fraught with the living gods and all their desires. i wait for a train's horn, to soothe me into a springing
cat after dinner.

ok./ thank you blogger for uploading what yuku and facebook apparently were unable to do. this pic is called excavating the poem. and yes, this is my living room.

limes, nuts, i don't wanna work today

music and plumbing
Lead [-]

(11/18/09 20:24:58)

ezOP

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i'm just a figment of your imagination
the fifth chakra of cassiopea. rub my feet.

the voices of ants and bees are in the keys.
you're glad you failed at the post office.
a hundred people in a room speaking
in tap. medieval marketing of a square

two triangles and tres marias. let us
pray to the persieds, from whence comes
fire and ice, sparkling in a city lit night.

thank you for putting on the new shower head.
i could have done it without you, but it wouldn't
have been as fun. just relax, let loose, play
your songs on the surface of my skin.




manifestation of a lime green plymouth station wagon
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(11/18/09 05:29:41)

ezOP

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it was, like , eight in the morning.
i stop at the sign because
a car's coming fast .

you called me several times
last nite. we finally connect.
you mention the walls, how things

are left unfinished. i'm ok with
yellow bleeding through. the car
is from your childhood. pregnant

belly sides, wood paneling. the driver
smokes a cigarette. it's coming
from the back of the trailor park

where i never go. the wheels
are new shiny chrome. the paint job
looks original. the engine moves

the hunkerous beast down the bayou
with steam ship grace. i picture
you in the rear, sleeping. i picture

your brothers and sister beside you
coming home from the lake. i wanted
to stop it, look inside at your

memory but i also feared there would be
unrecognisable bodies there. an incongruity
an overlap, a nightmare in tropical murder.

i dunno. i'm sick that way sometimes.














()*






so you call and i think "why?"
homeless but employed. already you begin
to filter your words to me, miscommunicate

intentions, beg me to beg you. to move in.
or something. i have a room. but it wants
a grandchild not another sail.

we don't talk much about brasil now.
londrina is cut off by single engine stallout.
the ocean we would fuck in remains

a bad porn script. viagra and a beer chaser.
we have more fun near small airports, kids
sliding down the dirt mounds that line a hard

packed clay runway. having you for my man
might be the best thing for you. but what
would it do to me. i only want you when

you're not available. i'm such a guy that way.














*()&


i read your letters every morning
we're going to die soon and all this
will be over. i read you again

at night, after the day's gone
to sleep in the belly of the family
car. you tell me how writing saved

your life. i look at you .slant
eyeslits take in twilit sky , from
a carpeted floor. you think

no i think i'm being precious
when i use language that
that has nuance and grace.

how wonder is still possible
because i didn't guess you'd
do that to me. but the road

always leads away from the lake
of my childhood. i'm fine with letting
daddy drive the dreams home.

3 purloined titles

dusk instead of ideation,
the heart in the eggshell catastrophe

the way coffee must feel
as scalding water rushes through it,
focusing itself into something
dark and rich,

a product of,
but without being,
all it touches

midlope, djuana99, midlope








dusk instead of ideation

there is a pondering sun's red glow
falling into the southern sky, ember
underglower, a sailor's lament. delight
with its purse of tragedy.

out of the market, she places items in her trunk.
november's dark surprises her, she left her driving
glasses at home. it's almost snowy vision, little flakes
falling, cold pollen, on her windshield

she can't swipe away. she should get
progressive lenses to help her judge the distance
between where the light begins and where she is.













()9-





















the heart in the eggshell catastrophe


the burden is lifting, it's all in a place.
he flips the cards, one by one, patiently.
"cut"
"the"
"box"

~with a knife daddy?

what? oh . no son, it's not a sentence.

~ but the box, we could cut it with a knife.

he wants to cut something. with a knife. something in daddy's tone
tells him no. he looks around the kitchen for the drawer
with the knives.


concentrate son. what's this word?

"do"

good. this one?

"ran"

"run"

"rat"

~daddy, if we found a rat, could we cut off its tail with a knife?

what?

~like in that song.

what? oh three blind mice.

~ she cut off his tail/
with a carving knife.

hahahahhah. o son, you make me laugh.

he wants to hold the knife. he looks at the drawer
with the collection.
~daddy, can we cut the box now?


no son, not now. let's do more cards first.

"cat"

"dog"


"a"

~that's not a real word is it daddy?


a? sure it is.

~oh. i thought it was just a letter .

look, you just used it. it means ONE.

~ one. like you used to be just a guy. but now you're daddy.
not A daddy. my daddy.

yep. only one of those. that's me.

~ daddy/

what

~ daddy, if you were a daddy, would you let me cut of the rat's tail?

no. i don't think so. but let's see if we can find a box.






































*(&&&





the way coffee must feel as scalding water rushes through it, focusing itself into something dark and rich, a product of-, but without being, all it touch

she hisses at uses, thinks
of essence and esoterica.
product from a product
with sentience. how fitting.
she toasts the hot water
flowing over her ground bones
and curses the gods of the trash.

yes, i want you to lie to me

say you don't feel it
say you're sure you
won't ever feel it again.

this holding on to hope
is breaking me. only time heals
it's true, but my time to heal
has been interrupted countless times
by a reincision from you.

you know my weaknesses. i've given you
the tools to exploit them. i asked a man
to translate it for me and he said
the same thing i thought. the pattern
has been established. it's going to continue
i can't break it. so you need to. lie to me.
and tell me goodbye.

now that you're gone

you think you know what's going on
better than i do. but the snake
grew wings. or one of us did.

listen it's not that i don't believe you
think it's truth. in many respects, it is.

it's just not mine yet. give it time.
there are things we do, and things done to us.
all of them lessons of one sort or another.
the body needs to eat. i like this cake.
it feels familiar. it feeds the stars














IOUUU




i do. i floated onto the ceiling fan.
i dropped from the cat's mouth. bat me around
a bit. smash me with a shoe. i o u. shredding
mylar and helium glasses. a yellow ring
around a diamond head. a belly, midas esque.


the ticking of the paper bag caught
in the spokes. your teeth, by candle light
things that go smash in the night.

hip in the morning. new radio on the web.
new web on the stay put arsenal of scaterphones.
make that two teas. i want something sweet.

only one day this time

ahhh but what a day that was.

well, it's ok. at least i didn't fuck you.
that makes it easier. and the fact
that you haven't changed otherwise
well, that makes it easier too.

the adult will comfort the little girl
and we'll be be a okay.

i need a weekend guy

was thinking of using that for my headline
if i have to keep on being online, looking for love.



(()&














i need a weekend guy

i don't want to move in with you
don't want you to move in with me. if you
have kids, with every other weekend visitation
that would be good. i have a son myself, a teen
but we're tight. i need a weekend guy. a sparkler
kinda man, the way the night gets warmer
when gunpowder kisses your hand.


oops that might send the wrong message.
what's gunpowder made of anyway?

the way the night gets warmer
gunpowder hissing in your hand.

the meter on that's fucked.
but i could make it work
with the right music.






i ummmm, kinda want you to be that man tho.

































()*)*(

i don't know what's going to happen now.
if the pattern continues you will not write
i won't hear from you now for days perhaps weeks.

this is my fear. i have faced one before sleep
and two before last evening's moon. half eyed.
sleepy. like the way you gaze at me from between
my thighs. frozen in time. i do not want to write
to you, the overwhelming is for people who love me.

i could look at the cards but they
contain my wishes.



















()****









the pond winks at me-
we're walking in the industrial
park, verizon blunt brick block
building to the left, cars
to the right, safe on a narrow
strip of sidewalk- boldly,
a man in a bar, between cypress eyelashes.
i pull you down the side street.

you've seen it before, but not like this.
not with me pushing you into the shadow
and the scorpion above us, wagging it's tail.
i make you nervous. i have nothing
to lose. something crashes in the next room.
reminds me that nothing
is an awful lot.




in your front yard, sandspurs. i could show
you how to dig them up,we could spend a weekend
getting them out of the yard so the kids might
walk barefoot out here. but it's temporary
this house. just another home on the way to home.
why put love into something you're going to leave?

across the street, a small warehouse, empty at night
and on weekends. the trucks are parked elsewhere
and the pavement is smooth. you and your son ride scooters
on the white cement after homework is done.
there is white tile in your house. everything is hard
and clean. rugs cost too much. if i say spartan
don't mistake me. sometimes one needs some discipline.
i'm glad you're off the oxy.


the pond is a spring fed circle
reflecting yesterday in the night.
i watch you watching the stars.
don't you feel immense when you realise
how much a part of this moment you are?
you answer in a tone of wonder, as if i've
just told you a truth like air.
when you put it that way...

the night sky makes me swallow up darkness.
i'm full of black magic woman, oye como va.
a band plays on the land while we perch over
the sea. it's not our party. there is no us.
i teach you how to dance and look cool.
hope some day you'll want to do that with me
just to keep me from trippin over my own feet.
it's ok if you want to watch me
you're the reason i dance.