august 2014










August 30

it's a never-ending august, on a long weekend, as scrapey sounds wake these three bodies
under the centenarian maple canopy that exists at 5327.

so late a sleep will be interupted by modern day things
like a facebook kapoloink;
a panicky Swiss man;
and a request for Pad Thai.


this small back, the small of it, bent over in bed;
and a gurgly gut and a concentrated poot;
reaches up for the java on the little shelf




twitter is for talking about dental hygene with the stars


oh yeah, in your arms.







August 28

needing more toronto, i pray.
where was i yesterday morning,
oh yeah, in your arms.

another day another dollar
another test case
brain blocked

my ears are ringing louder than a symphony






August 26

whiny baby stop
parts of me look nicer in the glow of the laptop
a longer panicky morning
a talkative Swiss man
in a flowery towel
approaches.

 
those who died - are still dead -
and each of us - needs a purpose
moving from this bed
is mine
for now.







if you are angry
i understand.







August 24
the after burn

forty-nine and one day, the coffee on my lips is finally sweet again;
the contents of my stomach settled, it's been a whirlwind tour of eating the town,
says she.
from east to west and non east to non west, Swiss men and Italian Swiss men,
familiar haunts and unfamiliar ones, hundred and sixy seven dollar lunches,
liver on laurent, cocktails mixed by beareded men. and getting a table at Gibby's
is still tricky in montreal.

and after all,
and after all the songs were sung, the theatre watched, the new friends greeted,
after every chip was scanned,
every last sip of port, and every pepto bismol chewed,
(and every last child yelled upon),
i wake in this place to hollaring joggers in pink,
the fish tank is louder than the cicadas,
visitors will leave,
bananas will rot,
my Nabob and I
will stand here waiting to do it again
for another year.





fascinating how i now read the mep thru my spoken eyes






August 23
ding ding forty-nine








August 21
ding ding
8:48

still feeling very fuckoffish, no amount of tepid-sweet coffee is waking me.
mildly headachish, there's that stiff neck yet again, and a snuffly-nose
tips my head to seek kleenex, waiting for the brainspace to appear.

i'm trying to immerse myself into european thoughts
while hurrying, scurrying, and sitting very very still.

when you're twelve, you have to learn to cook.
your mother simply leaves you alone.

and there she goes, poots, today,
letting her thoughts filter
through a sieve
rushing





i have soft knees, was it arbonne.
i like what i wrote this week.
five more minutes.






August 20

wednesday wednesday wednesday what else can i type.
pulling myself out of this fog, day by relentless day.
phrases hanging in my ears, french ones, symbolic,
of the eat pray love routine: EVERYONE CAN JUST FUCK OFF.
wow. that felt grand. just grand. like as if there is no tree in the forest.

august is coming toward's it's end; we all know what that means;
it's harder to remain hopeful; falling madly in love helps;
but looks like we need more than that.

running through a list of what builds hope:
A LIST?
YELLING IN CAPS?
SAVING FOR RETIREMENT?
NOTE THE QUESTION MARKS?
one day our children will get married.
or they will not.
not everything is romantic. certainly not this.
what gave my parents hope?


if you post a piece of shit on my facebook wall,
i just might tell you it smells.
i have that right. i actually do.







August 19
tuesday

less achy on a tuesday, buses roar past, after the parc grass was mowed down and left to rot in the august grey.

sometimes i live alone; thinking about interactions now, in a house, it's a social setting, where we can choose
to be alone, or choose to interact. i think formalities might be higher in other houses; they take energy;
why don't i like formalities? did it take me so long to determine that they are fake? and how thick the line
between fake and not. more coffee please.

after 18 years of mEpping, finally someone wants to be mentioned here. little does he know i rarely name names;
he'll have to read through these lines to find himself. he was impressed with the length, in fact

it's not persistent if you need the interaction.
with yourself.









August 18

achy monday 8:03 AM

forcing a wakeup, poots sips, through nausea, with a single goal.

many long hours of sleep, wasted, without a reason.
places to go, people to meet, fates to seal. move poots.
move.

the clothing is hung in the blue room with care,
in hopes that Francesco soon will be there.






August 16
saturday 7:50AM

the groaning belly woke me up, early on a saturday.
the coffee pot ticks, i've silenced the fish.
an aching uncooked-enough-for-me hamburger,
from st jean, has brought me here earlier than planned.
alas.

even the most veiled prose cannot say what's on my mind...
nice comforting deep thoughts of what i will tell her when she is old enough;
i won't wish her to grow faster; remnants of my fourteen year old; yes, get all this down poots
it's not prose but it's what you were thinking early in the morning, exactly twenty seven years
after elvis died.

how many ways can you frame what is important?
she is living her life; as i was allowed to live mine;
each experience catapaulting learning; did anyone,
anywhere, ever notice that for me?

and when i read that back, it's way TMI.

i've done my cooking with cranberries, thank you very much.
i've done the cabot trail, and bought a fancy camera.
i took it to the north shores of France, and i've made love in stockholm.
no, there was no internet back then, but the tree fell nonetheless.





so today's bookends are stinky sheets, a haircut, and the most silently swimming fish you ever did see.










August 14
7:38 AM

disconnectedness

a luxurious cold breeze winds through the traffic on the decarie
and into my window. the heat of the java, welcomed.
this fresh air, and the opportunity it evokes, only has ever brought me back to los angeles,
since 1998. school beginnings fade in comparison. moving to la was the atom bomb of new
school years and it hasn't left me yet.

and la is still talking about that precious, precious funny man that we all never really realized we grew up with.
and we are now grown.

it's early for a change. thursday. quiet. coffee's done. time to move.

japanese birthdays; lots of recordings; do i link to soundcloud here?













August 11
random thoughts



random thoughts on the metro include

the order in which one does things
how long it takes to figure things out
how differently one's prespective can be
why did i forget your birthday
and
how to motivate myself.

he's happy.
why.
run with it.

august 10
the short answer.


long conversations across the country;
interupted by dogs,
convservative strangers,
and finally, tears.
not mine.

poots eagerly wakes, shunning extrovertedness for pathological extrovertness,
sits, in the middle OF LUMPY THOUGHTS, in the middle of trickly bones,
poopy bum, prescient everything else.

"ready to love again"

is it time to run again?

very late at night on thursday,
the lovely jazz singer with the funky eye glasses asked me a question.
i woke her an answer from Plato through three weddings and ended up much later at the answer.
for days i have been wondering if any shorter an answer was possible.
and i suppose, there is always a shorter answer, a short answer which perhaps tells
the whole answer, in it's full form, for why would any longer an answer be required.
and.
 
the short answer is yes.

------

i don't believe in mania. it's just emotions, louder than all the rest.

August 9th.
the universe unfolds as it should.

1-2-3
1-2-3
drink

save and publish: hit record.
spend no money: hit record.
no dinner, no dime, no replies.







aside from what doesn't happen.
i don't hear anyone yelling 'Daddy'
he doesn't hear anyone yelling 'Mommy'
















On A Hot August Night

it's a beautiful night and you are far away:
thoughts only darting, without you.
hot august nights, sigh, without you.

some days my love is putty in your hands
some days a tambourine;
most times, i melt like butter,
but when you're gone, i smile, and my love is like a fortress,
extending beyond me into this empty space,
with another wall built with each passing day.





August 8 th
space to think

these are our summers: marked by arrivals and departures: each one passing faster than the last:
children do the analysis, so we don't have to, anymore.

how do you write a summer, in a few lines,
how do you tell a story with few words


when i first saw her, the blond girl up the street, i kinda new they should be friends.
why didn't i like anyone where there are pretty houses? or was everything coloured.
i don't think so, if i think back, they are more orderly there, here, we are freer.
we belong here. i hope he does too.






August 7th
fractions

we've come full circle: i've come full circle:
fractions of our lives, fractions of each other.











August 6th

they say there's a book in me.
and, i'm a storyteller, he says.
when i was little, everyone was a storyteller.
now, there's only a few of us left.
the book is outlined, outlines of my life,
outlines that shape shift as it gets writ.
















August 5th

i apologize that your misery motivates me

and going to concerts of old men whose songs have worn out airwaves.
there's very little privacy, we demand.


chairs move loudly on the balcony above.
is she happy to signal she is alive, still.
or is she the friendly giant, reincarnated.
 





August 4.


moving about late at night, mEpthoughts come to me.
the night sounds hum, fish swim, rodents run.
he has hung up a bike, switched on the oxygen,
he has done useful things.

it's late.
i look forward to his thoughts,
more than my own.








August 1.

greetings.
i need to move now as much as my body does not want to.
as long as it can, i guess i should.
although my ears are ringing louder than the garbage truck outside.