writing memory

1
no time in the shoe box
such verbiage like the dead string lovers’ play
she does the call to interpret limitations
laps around the track and a lake in the middle
maybe a reservation

training requires dedication and patience
give me give me give me $20 in the parking lot box at the corner.

her tongue is timid knows the scar and works its way around the edges
like a disco ball parade white black, slip of

the tongue knows the outlines of the mouth
of its owner and that of its lover becomes a game.

remember the color of first?
close your eyes now go backwards three times…
she is writing to make a new one or maybe just working through to gain the courage.

2
He said stutter and she said how?
Impediments reach in touch and let go –
They sent war machines with poems and dropped punctuation marks
There are no vowels to spare.
She hasn’t felt his tongue, doesn’t know if it will puzzle the vacancy where her art is on the floor.
The alarm clock misses

3
minutes and a number for the outside
To release from the memory, to write though to artifact where sound fills the back box
deepening digressions into deluge
sailing out of the bubble gum into the carbon dioxide

she molds the jello and dog biscuits to take care of something living.

biting down

sentences presencing taciturn or moppy the liquid runs down the floor
a gum drop placed upon the end of the nose – C contemplates alone
to blue or run the morning no clean sheets
interlude of hum two times one tuba

he says he doesn’t know any better
doesn’t make this decision very often

a butter knife down the left inner thigh
a coffee cup set dripping on the stove
three more salt licks and the block loses shape

return mem like an overdue libe

She said she wanted to watch it all a full iris from the interior like if you eat the eyeballs then you gain better understanding – if you hold his penis in your right hand you control the urination. Taped to the left cheek she sees whiskers and the upper bicuspid. Speculations make for a missed block and two miles later the bad side of town opens with grubby fingers and a finder's fees for empty aluminum cans.

This building sits on the line between them, you and the rest you know. Like that, the invisible partition between – the electrons are happening soon – two dipoles making a moment. The molecule exhibits changes in physical composition.

Birth control comes in little fabric packages purple and teal – feminine colors to make you believe you are not removing a piece of your sexuality by altering the chemical composition of the interior. The extraction of the supposed to replaced with nothing and the single stream recycling. If a paper clip gets in the way – the whole process can jam.

The body replicates and reproduces cells on a regular basis. With cancer, the cells mutate and duplicate at mass speed. The error function serving more active than supposed normal. The normal develop codes and congregations, the deviant multiply and spread along the surfaces in between crevices and asphalt.

She said she wanted to watch it all a full bulbous detracting from the outside. The ticket taker makes no refunds, and now the story has splayed.

hospital

is it justifiable to give someone treatments for a disease when it has eaten the insides of the body? can the body regenerate for the sake of others so they dont have to let go?

watching my grandfather with tubes coming out his chest and abdomen it makes me wonder if all the technology we have is a good thing? when we kill the insides to squeeze a few more days or weeks are we getting more life out of someone or is it just extended moments because we don't want to let go?

the body pulverizes the interior while the exterior remains the same. "You know it is really hard to think he is so sick when he looks good." how do you handle this or respond to the wife, your grandmother? how do you tell her that even though we keep coming up here and that he ate all his jello - he is still going die within the month? if he even makes it to that point?

how do you deal with death? it happens every day and you know that it will happen to you, but the letting go - the reality that someone won't be there any more, but their smell, their clothes, the places you used to go to together - their favorite foods will still be at the grocery store. you can't make that go away - how do you mitigate that pain?

that is what keep bothering me the most - how will she just get used to being alone? how will we all do family things anymore when he won't be around? who is going to complain and ask for shrimp cocktail when he knows full and well we are at a mexican restaurant? who is going to ask the waiter if he is single so he can try and set him up with my sister or me since we haven't gotten married yet?

how do you keep from not feeling guilty for never letting him see your wedding or your children bc you just havent found that person yet?

why are hospital waiting rooms full of uncomforatable chairs and vending machines loaded with artery clogging foods? shouldn't there be exercise bikes and fruit machines so the living people can help themselves live longer? and what about a punching bag so you can release all your anger and hate on everything around because you have to lose someone you love?

these probably aren't exceptionally deep ideas or thoughts, but since this is the closest person to me that I am in the process of losing - these are my current thoughts.

under

squawk big bear three year hermit shell
go smoosh on sensitive nature valleys

she retired and promised not to return
the yellow brick
all taken for HOV passengers now
no single occupancy vehicles allowed
so she walks / counts sidewalk patterns

C shines meridian like an over played record
they are going online with it now, not enough consumers
sea wind blows a loose one to the other side
see the new ness in moving away from all that
in the grey space the lingering thoughts
in the grey space she remembers
what do you desire by writing memoir

i want joan retallack to fall from my fingers and dodie bellamy to vaginally release all that is feminine and ugly like the one quote from that art chow where she saw a flower and it looked like a maxi pad brown from use where it is full and makes you feel like it is wrong to be a woman

the stomach just fills and fills bloats to belch and then a birthing device - all the beauty is rotten and rotten is beautiful like a white plastic bag in the wind the cliche american building time for another place

like the little people just take sabatical
she's ready to move

the diving bell and the butterfly

Encapsulated in a small space or a large one there is no room to move. The movement only stutters in letter form - like a myspace page "server busy" or "error notice." Try not to think about it too much - just reach out to your loved ones and say thank you. Lineal movements of the arms cause silhouette charades to mirror the inside of the right eyeball. A pound. A pound. An interior pulsating that just rotates ad nauseum. Taken to tiny measures she dreams again and again, new endings or days for tomorrow – like if you think about it long enough – there will be a remedy. Inside the diving bell: water all around...an ocean cloudy with turbid phalanges. The forearm curves like a perpetual “C” and she sees it as a sign of compatibility or genuine concern. A kiss on the left shoulder. Roll over, and begin to sleep. The days pass by in random order: not all long or too short, just pedestrian in quality until – Until she walks with determination and looks forward instead of down, to the right. A pathway for the eager is sometimes too inviting or sensitive.

When the right eye is sewn shut depth perception removes itself as being a quality of measure. The gauges freeze and you are looking down a tunnel. She knows this tunnel like the lost highway prelude – just a continuous pavement stretch. Stretch, stretch – her triceps burn from overwork and the midsection lays soft for good luck and three wishes. When he softly pressed his lips upon her a shower of acupuncture needles filled the frame – at first enraptured, and then pausing to find a flaw. The beauty of movement is that you can always change direction. In feeling the way to a tomorrow it is best to think of before and just hit replay hit replay – the butterfly lives inside the chest – papillon – mariposa – syllables that beat upon themselves, so the word actually represents the meaning. Like the casual stroke of hair from cheek conveys a novella or when you see flashbulbs in the iris and the room is dimly lit. She continues to look inside the body for elixir. A cadaver not dead opened and the moths kept in a jar on the bedside table. The diving bell regulates air so breadth is rhythmic – a thrust in and out. The left thigh pressed alongside the outer and nails running down the back scratching to lift off a piece of skin.

Encapsulated inside the mind there are no boundaries and no tactile means for gratification. The butterfly has yet to synthesize – a Diels Alder reaction taking maybe four (4) to seventy-nine (79) hours. If the body is paralyzed, would you consider a seismic event? Do we only take the time to feel the earth move when we are awake or can imagination prove strong enough to fabricate memory, and thus the perceived reality? If our toes intertwine and touch all throughout the evening will long walks around the park lead to…there are just too many ways to script an ending and the ultimate lies in everyone’s future. The ability to wake and truly enjoy the next is what is so often taken for granted. If anything comes from the incessant pondering it rests in the rising of the sun and the production of sunsets. A strong wind pushes through the window and she thinks a diving bell and butterfly: perfect matches for cinema landscapes and glacier meltdowns.


So, yeah – the diving bell and the butterfly some heavy shit :o though definitely worth viewing. I think the next time I go to the movies I will be sure and do a bit more research. Maybe that is the reason things resonate so strongly, when there are no expectations, the impact of the shudder lasts longer.

can you kick it

like the little creatures or beetles

sees scarab or sun burst as the best in the rainy days

they gather in long lines with the rainbows / patterns linikng those the same near those the lame like some sort of widnow display

the onlookers--oh, so quiet peddlers trying to get in that first door, but not quite upstairs because that makes for commitment and many just dont know who handles that kind of strong flavor, not to mention the allergies

just puke it the parking lot to relieve the pressure and drive some more

maybe all the way to albuquerque and back again like the nuclear reactions those beetles will outlast removing any chance for stomach pains or the salt licks

and the cold outside just seetles in the bones and the strong souls have risen to a higher level left us for the time being a sudden lightening just pierced through the styrofoam and she thinks chemistry: diels-alders too many organic compounds to memorize, but the fondness of finding a place to linger - she'll linger a bit fellas just a moment or two for the memory and maybe longer for the always looking to tomorrow sum the yesterdays

the yesterways link chain link fences around the suburban homes that you are supposed to move into like the little legs on the beetles paddle

around the water tank there are moments of quiet to acknolwedge those in passing it seems that the poetry is supposed to revel or revere the words in such a manner eloquent



-Farewall Dr. John Hogg (1/20/2008) - you were a mentor and your memory will be cherished.