in the morning, i like to have time.
my E l e c t r o n i
stormy at six am, yet i see
while others wane
to everything turn, turn turn
poots is calm.
of houses and sleep.
monday chills, the decarie
hums, i slept all night.
the rhomboids took a beating; but the room is mostly yellow.
self-checkism, but the panic is not myselfs.
in dreams on a working sunday night, poots drove all night;
from one side of the mountain til the other,
in vemont she was, the students sent her left over the
mostly everyone is well,
but they get weller.
its restful in vermont.
'good day' - as per Oleg, my Russian SA, would say.
on a friday, early, with
nineteen degrees Celsius blowing in, in a sleeping house. i
sit to write.
it's a sip of coffee between sentences;
a quiet poot-stretch of the arched back;
a new smell; an old smell;
we used to sing:
sunlight filters through
falling from the sky,
time slips like a silent stranger softly passing by,
life goes on in busy
circles, leaving me behind;
memories like footsteps fill the attic of my mind,
teach me to die; give all you can give;
if you'll teach me of dying;
i will teach you to live.
what is the difference between life passing us by and
being what happens while we are making plans.
also i ask.
can you fail to convey love?
he knows me so well;
how can that be?
who compares minds, else than me?
is that what it's about alfie, comparing the same things?
sometimes, i take command. and when i do, i'm in charge.
and this morning, for once, i had the time.
now what will today bring, let's
let's just see.
grunties awaking a well-slept
little poot. go away, grunties.
google, fuck off this morning with your modern browser.
leave me in my 1996 hole of html.
life,as poots would like to know it, between seven and seven
thirty, didn't exist before and still doesn't.
shoulders square down; scrambling through a sea of sirens;
student swarms on ste catherine, we should be safe here in
conversations with librarians;
small, flat breasts,
begging for three more minutes of sanity:
there will never, ever, be a perfect day, will there.
maybe i am miserable.
but once again, as in the beginning, my mind needs clearing:
his, filling, replacing.
mine, complete clearing, all thoughts running in all
directions until the logical conclusion is not only found,
but concluded, stamped with a B, approved by three
committees however many m's and t's are in that english
and chased away like witches in Salem.
then, and only then, is it a new day.
i am going to go insane one day.
and the only way to not do that, is to simply write it down.
is it still may, thinks little
poots as she blinks thru the morning sun.
mr. problem solver, arrives covered in chalk from work.
which child, girl or woman wouldn't dream of such a thing, i
the child coughs.
yes, summer is not over yet.
and Indian food.
greenery, framed in orange and brown, bursts outside this city
what we have made here, what have we made, we have made what.
a lone lilac bouncing with a small playful wind, by itself,
sip again poots, sip again. you woke up early, but why.
are there other ways to save things, is Indian food really the
culprit; and what evolves into what, and what are the things
they evolve into worth.
writing in tongue doesn't help, or does it. but filling the
blank space with text is like emptying a bucket of paint onto
a wall; though more so.
as they say.
can it be written, woven into a beautiful story, twisted
freedoms, cursed batters, ticking coffee makers.
can i change. please can i change.
i woke up one day and my life was
as it should be.
the yard is green; i can nearly see the Decarie, hear the
rush, feel the rhythm of the city.
i folded a blanket and a black t-shirt, i lay them on the
bed,and that bed was made.
the coffee is plentiful, and hot.
yesterday i laughed in the park. translating 'corny' is not
playing creative photoshopper in the morning and crazy
girlfriend on henri julien in the night;
in may, he is humming 'the christmas song'
how can we know someone so well when we don't even have a
chance to think about not knowing them
it turns the mind round and round.
yes, one day, i woke up and my life was as it should be. and
as it should be, is nearly as it was.
and that day was today.
what one cannot say, here, is more
than what one can.
but infinitely more.
does that make me abnormal?
conversations wrapped around a Swiss
and an El Salvadorian.
Did I know, from the start, that bouncing things off them would
be more useful,
or is it not perhaps nationality that matters, but the act of
being out of one's element.
i hear movement;
my head aches;
my heart not;
knocking me out sometimes works, and then another jolt of java
rip maurie sendak, whoopy one, whoopy twice, whoopy Chicken soup
by seven-twenty-eight on a Sunday
in May, Poots is propped up, legs four-by-squarely tucked
chewing chewing and art that aint' mine - flash away telephone,
i don't know what you want.
when it's may, we know summer is nearly gone. .
semi-normalcy returns after a whole
shoulders, squarely down, painted green leaves framed in orange,
beckon, there's a park outside, in this city, in this flat.
facebook squatters; appear, disappear, tempting me, tempting
and then opinions come full circle, where connections occur;
and even poots can't wax poetic today.
java java pull me; pull receptors, kinins and orphins, olines
maybe yoga is time again.
square back; square bowels; chitter chatter outside in the
early-ish sun; paper no paper; and how much time has one spent
working for what?
was it really worth it, so think about what you work for.