the mEp.

 
       
                                            may 2015





may 27

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 Americans
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 place,
the red mug on a white bed
while she frames her thoughts about today
and her body about this laptop
and poets.



















may 25

it's a conspiring world these days; that conspires against me;
i've got 6 thousand ENTJs who in a week are my foe;
a boss who wants me at the office at nine o'clock;
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 store
with really expensive cheese, plants that the man chosen (not bought this weekend)
and five hundred grams of tylenol every four hours.

the longest 12 hours in dream-life
chewing before you're awake;
some calm had arrived, during moments, conficted


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.
sip.














may 21
doppelganger with the strange thing over the 'a'

  these 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 are.

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 earth. 


can you think of any better reason, to invite a stranger half way across this planet to your wedding?

...

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 night ,
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 friendship
i will take it, as i do everything, to the end of the earth
and back here,
if i have to.












may 20
7:00 am
  a 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 than
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
by day,
by night,
by candlelight.
i'm certain of it.

7:13 am.
12:13 in Alcoa, Scotland.
with one T, not two.














may 19

  those 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
tuesday beckons
with projects galore,
poor sleep,
and exhaustion,
will ensure i care less.

parents back from new york trips in the rain,
schools to change; cars to fix; vacations to book
tickets to buy; no money to be had;


810 unread tweets:

if you need me,
i'll be discussing just about absolutely everything
and nothing
over on the ENTJ board.











may 18
ENTJ

  while silence ensued; in this place,
                                                            i found my tribe.


it's a world i've not dreamed of, in a long, long, time.

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.


 












may 11
i don't have the same things to say as you do.











may 10
heat

bare belly heat.
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 of normal.

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
...














may 9
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 has returned.
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;
save. publish.
save. publish.

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
we desist;
and remain invisible
as time makes
history
of us.






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.









may 7
7:46 am

that was an unfinished park lady rant;
the subject has changed in 24 hours;
there is money in the bank;
lasagne on the table;
and trepidation,
always.















may 6
7:23 am

aHHH, the park ladies.

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 park.










may 5
cycles

our fourth 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
make sandwhiches
and sing Brandy Alexander
in the morning.


 













may 4
causative love

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 yours.

...


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.















may 2
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.
it may start with warmth;  adjusting the height of handlebars;
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 fifty;
a filter at the door allowed only those between forty something and sixty something and of course, laurence was there.
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 google's algorithms
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 this building.

now that, is how to start the day.

 









may 1
mayday

i don't need you to fit into a box;
you don't need a room for your laundry;
nor a chest of drawers for your clothing.
i don't care if you match your socks,
your drapes, or your chairs;
in fact
the less you match
the more i like you.

i'm awake early on this mayday
i was sent to bed with no dinner
and slept the hard sleep
and soon i will type drama
while a Swiss man snores.