day fourteen

today is the first day of the second week.
this hurts me for i have lost the ability to believe in beginning and end.
today feels like a reheated yesterday. it is my ache, chilled, overnight. i woke up full having already eaten it again. and i feel the futility of my digestion. these days are inches in the tracks of my bowels. i release useful extractions to the brain and the meat in thin invisible secretions while the material of my day moves in a well packed procession.
the process does not bring insight into purpose on the first day of the second week.
when the beginning and the end are remembered to be immaginary now is always the middle.

day thirteen

these are small cries for help to a lonely fisherman in spain who will bend his back into the moon a sunken glide up to my window and let me cast his net for the morning catch to be delivered fresh to the man in st jean who will feed the birds at low tide and speak with the only patrons in the toungue with no know origin

what i don't know is that he is on the side of the road begging to be taken up by a bus or caravan for he has given up the sea in favor of fast moving land, favoring the swift crossing of solid groud to the embedded lilt of a ship at sea

whether you return to your ship this evening or no you will always be a sailor
and behind your eyes there will always be the sea

day twelve

maxine kingston, when you write memories of cultural habit, historical memory, when you give them life in new form you do what needed to be done for me. where were you with the stories that kept the milestones of my culture, before they became acts of buying and selling, and before i began thinking of them as such. each time i see a wedding advertize a bank, or a date advertize a piece of gum i miss you, like i miss my Parents, like i miss my White Wedding, Your silent face does nothing to tell me what i am to do when my traditions are built by the bricks and cement and stone of traditional rejection. The walls are jagged and new at their apex, unfinished, abandoned to be fortified when compartmentalized vessles are full. And they are filling. And I will not send out the many hands of everyday life to build them again. They will be testiments to their own imperfection, to their own futility, to their own absence of function, and I will let them overflow into one another, and I will let myself wonder where my tradition is. And in wondering, I will find it.

day eleven

i came home tonight slightly more aware of my mild chronic depressive state, and after talking about myself for a while things seemed a little better. that cat, the sleeker brother, was sleeping on the couch. his very human face rested on a curled wrist, and maintained this serene posture as i touched his coat. he opened his eyes slowly and asked for more by moving into my stroke, positioning his body and face that i may touch it in a manner more pleasing to his own sense. he turned and returned to recline, relaxed under my hand. he closed his eyes and rested his head again as i touched him, and when i looked i wondered how it felt to be calm in the presence of another who is paying such close attention. i can't relax while i touch him, nor can i relax when i am touched this way. his calm is delicious. savory and remote. I am removed from his thoughts, and sit in tense envy of his charm, endeared by his desire to be touched. i withdraw, and look. he reaches to be touched, holding my hand by placing his on mine. he is gentle, and lays his head on my wrist, closing his eyes again. he is calm, and will rest and dream the way cats do, unconscious of himself or the delicacy of his repose.

day ten

you do not scowl away accusations of perfection, but take them as jokes and lightness. though i don't know you or how you feel about your own life, i could ask. if i did would you be modest? you appear to live such a regimented and prolific life that i can't help but wish i was more like you. either that, or i want to be around you, and as is typical, i am unable to tell the difference. is it at night when you play music for yourself? are you alone? i will not consider the fantasy of knowing what you think of me, really. i couldn't say that you think much. what do you think of how much i think of you? is it quite unappealing?

day nine

not truth, but something in its likeness.
not liked but loved, and consumed with voracity.
you a gourmand, tout le monde.
have you mistaken the footprint for the body
causing its impression?
are you mislead to believe in
truth and the existence of you or i,
u or eye?
i would forgive you, but that would be impossible.
i do forgive you, but you were already forgiven.

who am i to say that i am not ill,
or that you are well on your way. no thank you, and
seconds please.
am i trapped or have i been
let go?
this is not for me to say
or you to know.
either way knowing is overrated by
those who cannot feel the difference between knowing and realizing that
there is nothing to know.
are you absurd? am i informed?
can you help me?
can i help it?

day eight

last night i dreamt viscious anger about someone close.