Sunday, September 23, 2007
I'm melancholy tonight so I came here to sit under the palm fronds and tangled wisteria vines embracing the cafe terrace just off the boulevard. I am barely visible to others but from here I can see the street and the beach and the stars and for the moment I have found a measure of peace among the nuanced conversations wisping in the breeze.
Friday, February 02, 2007
Saturday, January 20, 2007
- letter six hundred eleven
(excerpt from The Book of Images)
I am writing this in the dark
ushering each reluctant
word to its place upon
the page the invisible theatre
fingers dipped in ink it is risky
spies and traitors everywhere slavery
and broken minds but these are
strong old friends
old as war
Sunday, December 17, 2006
The bricks looked like moldy bones beneath gaping plaster and paint and layers of posters and handbills fragile as snake skins abandoned to the sun and wind and dust turning what was once a wall into a crumbled spine blackened by the repeating, always humid afternoon. A stenciled telephone - Jesus calle de diablo - a face - Mexico, poco real - startled, black figures suspended in a running tumble; I begin when the day is done, open my window to the street, poke my brush into the sleeping paint.
Monday, December 11, 2006
One word, one sentence at a time I will reconstruct the story. I've written it before on countless scraps of paper. One word, one sentence at a time I will reconstruct the story. Forgive me. It is composed of a seemingly endless succession of beginnings. The original order of the words has been lost so I rely on you to supply the details. One word, one sentence at a time I will reconstruct the story. Forgive me. The original has been lost but I promise to stay true to its drift. That is not a matter of memory. It is a matter of being. One world at, one word at a time. Forgive me. The original version of this story does not exist. One word, one sentence at a time, this is its drift. This is the drift. The notes are scattered. No. Not scattered. The notes were never collected. Jotted. Scribbled. On scraps, in notebooks, on flaps. They have never been collected. They have seldom been re-read. Or read. The words, disjointed, have been set down and abandon. No, not abandon. There is much thinking between them, the phrases, the paragraph and elimination of words. And ideas. "Why?" I am telling a story. Build the house. Paint it later. And later still introduce the particulars. Each letter reverberates, twists but...
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Saturday, September 02, 2006
If you want to know the truth about me, I have lived in the shadows all my life. I am a watcher. I hover in the current. I look like a reflection cast upon the water. Transparent. Your hand moves through me. I break into myriad pieces and only reassemble after you are gone. My substance, if can be called that, is ineffable, deduced but never certain. What I know and who I am is held apart from me in a vault to which there is no key.
Sunday, July 30, 2006
Saturday, February 11, 2006
Ancient resident of earth. Descendant of the beast-footed dinosaur.
as n. Abbr. AS or a/s, air speed
The speed, especially of an aircraft, relative to the air.
Basic unit of composition for an image on a television screen, computer monitor, or similar display.