the mEp
August 2015






















august 18
  8:02 AM



i have some rules for some things i guess
but not relating to folding socks
time is of utmost importance to me
since i always feel it slipping, like sand,
through these fingers.
rules for time,
i have many.


there's a book waiting to be writ;
it's first line on my lips a million times
and each time more profound
and more evasive

it's a book not about me
since i can't be seen
but a book about us
our condition
and our failures
which make us human
our foils and follies
which they don't let us have
so we sneak away
to break ourselves
hiding the most interesting parts in books
which are often never written


so with the mEp
i try, with waving hands, to compaose
to compose snippets
of a mind un-written
with all it's follies
in mid to late august


these fleeting, magical days
of outdoor coffees on leisurely mornings;
of cicadas singing their only song;

magical breezes dancing the spider's illustrious webs
and piping hot coffee in a piping hot world


















august 17

monday
  8:33AM



when the bangles wrote manic monday
how many of us noticed that it was about a single woman
with a job.

it seemed like everyone's dream:
except the getting up at 6 o'clock part.
and the running;

but today IS monday and i am old
and doing nothing on a sunday sounds nice
and the thought of getting out of bed to become a fake person revolts me.

go ahead;
hit on me;

insult me;
criticize my opinions;
that's what i'm here for.














august 16

sunday
9:00 AM



I always remember elvis on the day he died. in this case it was 1977. that number sounds so dusty;
so brown; so flat. oh my God even the math is complex. 2015-1977 i'd have to add 15 to 23.
right?

that sounds like most of my life. which is also the age she is now. i won't tell her.

through ringing ears i hear the silence of a sunday morning. on facebook teachers continue to prepare
for school, parrots mate with a man's head, and some people who get up too early are riding bikes at mont tremblant.



















I flagged a taxi long before you woke
The sun had not yet risen, morning not yet broke
It looks like rain
It looks like rain

A little starling swept above my sleepy head
He plucked a single hair and took off
Laughing madly as he fled
The driver drinking brandy
Said, "Here is to the day"
It looks like rain
It looks like rain

And every breath I ever took
Every tear I ever wept
Every star I wished upon
Seemed nothing until now
Every prayer I ever said
Seemed strangely answered now
Could it be I'm in love?
Could it be I'm in love?

I made the driver park the car beside the sea
I gazed upon the fading dark
And slowly buckled at the knees
The driver drinking gladly said
"Here is to the day"
It looks like rain
It looks like rain

And every breath I ever took
Every tear I ever wept
Every star I wished upon
Seemed nothing until now
Every prayer I ever said
Seemed strangely answered now
Could it be I'm in love?
Could it be I'm in love?
 

-jann arden





August 14 2015

7:48

malapropisms;
lady mondegreens;
and anything else you hear incorrectly;

this little poot
who nearly had a full night's sleep
can't think about anything else
than what it would have been like.

fighting against myself
is all i have planned for today
until 5 PM.

















August 12 2015


email magic and invisible hangovers; August 12 2015

7:47

email magic and invisible hangovers;
these are two things rare.
a thwarted birthday happened and is gone
finally, with every year he ages, i feel relieved;
while two years separate us for 11 days.

more change will come, from honesty, and a desire for work.
there is a desire to work still, deep inside of me, really there is.



this soft butt, too much long hair which will be gone by seven,
and tepid coffee traipse through this hallway
and this mind.











August 10 2015

how much can be taken in stride
will be told by time
August 10 2015 how much can be taken in stride will be told by time

August 10 2015

how much can be taken in stride
will be told by time

and today is told what was synthesized yesterday
which can't be said in clear text;

is just about everything

it was a tired poot
who chatted with the Jewish ladies
who painted her face French
who was brave in the face of fear
who wore her pajamas on the sidewalk
and spent a hungry night thinking about things that might have been.


















August 9 2015


here is a Sunday morning which coffee will heal
and words will bind my ringing ears and thumping heart.















August 8 2015

he who lives in the past; dies in the past;
and this is a message for everyone.










August 7 2015


today, quiet returns.

the quiet of a jet plane with two children on it;
the quiet of undressed barbies; of agario history;
the quiet tears on a teenagers face;
the quiet beats of a man's heart with two holes;
of an only child;
of my ringing ears;


the quiet of an aging love story;
the quiet of alcoholism;
of fierce Swiss pride
and of the bravery of one man.

it's a quiet shared and mourned
and gets louder with each passing year.


 










August 5 2015
my words  get stolen from me;
stolen from sleep; lack of sleep;
from irrelevant questions and from perturbations in the space time continuum.
there is still no story in my mind; nor on this page;
no tale of happiness, or sorrows, or anythings at all

there is but empty space waiting for a tale
black on white markers and blue eyes, gaze afixed.