money to a wedding
slips through fingers like quicksand;
folding chairs, once a dollar sixty,
become five hundred dollars,
when you want them delivered precisely.
and in another window, a Scott and two
wait for my reply
on world domination
and matters of the heart.
and at five P.V.M.,
men, several and counting,
think they know better than me
on affairs which involve me
until the lone woman mentions not
and poots, chewing, madly,
tries to summarize quickly
what is needed to be said today
while balancing her coffee in it's now usual
the red mug on a white bed
while she frames her thoughts about today
and her body about this laptop
it's a conspiring world
these days; that conspires against me;
i've got 6 thousand ENTJs who in a week are
a boss who wants me at the office at nine
a sick swiss man;
not enough energy to phone my mother,
and documents that won't be found.
where have i been in four days;
four minutes ago i was an elderly man facing
a man who was asked to kill me with a large
piece of broken and brown glass;
before that there were chairs, lots of
chairs, really weird apartments that were
cheap but made to look fancy, a grocery
with really expensive cheese, plants that
the man chosen (not bought this weekend)
and five hundred grams of tylenol every four
the longest 12 hours in dream-life
chewing before you're awake;
some calm had arrived, during moments,
Who helps me, I say.
Who asks if I need help?
And how do great authors convey emphasis
without italic and bold?
Perhaps, Poots, being forced to a schedule,
could be a good thing.
And WHO woulda thunk that the ENTJs would
like the mEp.
Who woulda thunk.
sip poots, sip.
you know that with one alt-tab
the silence ends.
doppelganger with the strange thing
over the 'a'
are some crazy days
she doesn't know it, the woman in Alcoa, but
the essence of that place is the essence of me
a chilly, pursed lipped and ringing ear poot
stands over a cement table, wandering
pre-caffeinated mind darting still,
the bittersweet espresso on her lips, not a
moment too soon to gather her thoughts.
tip-toe carefully, poots, with this hot mug,
over to your place in the sun.
square your shoulders; it's been a very, very,
long time since you remembered exactly who you
yes, that's the truth, as you rummage through
the minds and actions of those similar to you,
your worst, and your best, sharply contrasted,
as they have always been, come to the fore
but mostly you recall that time and that
place, those brief thought-moments,
those fleeting and rare hours when you felt as
connected to yourself as you desired,
and your whole being was projected onto this
can you think of any better reason, to invite
a stranger half way across this planet to your
i recall the earliest days of the 'internet' -
i recall the excitement - the hopes - i had
with an entire planet of people to meet; i
would come to this place, morning , noon, and
not to watch grandmothers post photos of cats,
not to argue about politics,
but to search out the truth in whomever was
there to find it with ,
to talk about the freedom of being free;
the beauty in our individual thoughts;
that place had been so long gone for me
that place had been boiled down to the words
on the pages in the mEp,
so no matter how long, how short, this virtual
i will take it, as i do everything, to the end
of the earth
and back here,
if i have to.
small music comes from my deep pocket, as i
re-read long messages to scotland. alcoa
Scotland, on this day.
i think in indeed time to make a Scottish
friend. and an ENTJ one, at that.
yes we are wrapped in ENTJ things, we, the
four of us, two Swiss men and a child dragging
blue-streaked hair children around the house.
we are waking either in sweltering heat, else
brisk may mornings, as today, which fill the
house with crispness, as we type more quickly
usual, racing towards waking the family time.
and all the questions i have ever had;
all the questions i could ever ask;
are in one book;
and can be answered in one group;
it's a zillion and one extroverts madly typing
into silicon-fueled boxes
i'm certain of it.
12:13 in Alcoa, Scotland.
with one T, not two.
ENTJs will never find me here;
they are far too busy;
with time for facebook;
also they are American; for the most
monday again not monday
with projects galore,
will ensure i care less.
parents back from new york trips in the rain,
schools to change; cars to fix; vacations to
tickets to buy; no money to be had;
810 unread tweets:
if you need me,
i'll be discussing just about absolutely
over on the ENTJ board.
silence ensued; in this place,
i found my tribe.
it's a world i've not dreamed of, in a long,
every idiosyncrasy of mine is normal there;
i can talk out of of turn;
i can make female friends;
i can ask questions and get answers;
people are not afraid to speak,
not afraid of criticism;
don't care if they are accepted or not;
and are allowed to mention their greatness.
i don't have
the same things to say as you do.
the whole world does mother's day on facebook.
i do other things on facebook.
but don't mention anything anyone else doesn't
like because poof,
all of a sudden, every beautiful mother's day meme
is blown up with words of vitriol; jealously;
anger; and fear.
i might have had something to say but it seems to
have been washed away by the world's epectations
oh, and, if you are not my mother, i won't be
wishing you a happy mother's day.
that's not what it's for. the automated wishing of
every mother a happy mother's day reduces the day
to what it is;
an invented day to give the masses something to
make them feel like they have done something nice
and feel like
part of something which they already are.
if i had something beautiful to say
it's gone now.
imagine never ranting?
no, neither can i.
a veiled sentiment is not a new thing on the mEp
however silent, your silence makes me rant,
your closed mind makes me rant
and your closed tongue makes me rant more
morning has broken.
it's no longer morning.
and what a
morning it was.
the park lady saga ongoes;
it's description is befitting yet not fit
chasing dogs named Chase;
five minutes of peace is a luxury
when all other luxuries combined are had.
gayly humming church songs, a modicum of energy
never a kleenex; animals to my left and to my
right; it's a menagerie around here;
and i don't feel like an animal person; which is
perhaps what makes me one
i've asked for five minutes; i got
four; my aging eyes dart to the clock;
i could do this all day
but the time will drag me with it
leaving only an aging story
stealing time now, five minutes have passed,
the last shared luxury we have;
angry rants on twitter leave us vulnerable;
or we cease
and remain invisible
as time makes
Mine is the sunlight,
Mine is the morning,
Born of the one light Eden saw play.
Praise with elation, praise ev'ry morning,
God's recreation of the new day.
that was an
unfinished park lady rant;
the subject has changed in 24 hours;
there is money in the bank;
lasagne on the table;
we live on a park. not sure what we'd do if we
didn't' live on a park.
who could have known the joy of walking out one's
front door and watching people agglomerate on the
first warm days of the year.
the young couple, skin bared for the first time in
months, whispering sweet nothings on a blanket;
the boy with the skateboard; the girls playing
hide n' seek on the hundred year old Oak stump;
the mother with the newborn in the pram; the
business people on their way home from work.
us gregariaties need a park, if only for five
months of the year.
and then, in our particular park,
in our corner of the world,
we've got the park ladies.
the park ladies are a bonus.
the park ladies are like the interstitial fluid;
their kids don't go to the same school;
their husbands don't know each other;
they know all the children by name, as though they
painted the tableau themselves;
and they give shape and definition to the entire
cinqo de mayo comes
and will go;
as three before it have done
the singular closet which the Swiss man packs twice a
year gets shuffled
as the world outside the orange room turns pale green
summery toys, helmets, and beach chairs to the fore;
ice skates, scarves, and parkas to the rear;
in a biannual rotation of closet seasons
as i mark time
and sing Brandy Alexander
in the morning.
it's easy for you to be
my brandy Alexander
when you pull my love
from so many directions;
and when you understand your behavior before it's
but if your behavior is not owned,
when you draw a causative vector
towards anything else but you
then you just cannot be trusted
with my love.
and i did not make this up.
it's an empirical data set.
gathered over some fifty years now.
heat and where the internet is
so today we've got a proper title.
that doesn't happen unless the planets are aligned.
aligning planets is hard; because i don't know how to do
it may start with warmth; adjusting the height of
oiling breaks; digging out helmets;
and watching two young girls follow each other around
the busy park on a friday afternoon.
but there's more.
there was a dinner in a quiet indian restaurant with a
large glass of very cold indian beer for six dollars
a filter at the door allowed only those between forty
something and sixty something and of course, laurence
the attractive Indian men served us rice in covered
dishes, nary a rice out of mound-place;
the lamb phatia burned my sense from start to finish as
i gulped the ale we became far more interested together,
or than the other patrons, in whether or not that puck
had actually crossed the goalie line.
and through these tense hockey moments between a team
from a state that doesn't have ice in public places and
one where it makes our knees bleed,
we drew lines and dots and boxes on the white paper
table covering, because we both have to know how
have impacted our lives.
then, came rest.
glorious, glorious sleep, untouched only by one trip to
the aka loo,
and woken much later than the sun was so gracefully
warming the part of the earth which houses the roof of
now that, is how to start the day.
i don't need
you to fit
into a box;
you don't need
a room for
nor a chest of
i don't care
if you match
the less you
the more i
early on this
i was sent to
bed with no
and slept the
and soon i
while a Swiss