Archive for April, 2010

My Black Bag: Apartment Items

April 25, 2010

If I told you its color, it’s possible I lied. As sure as I tote it around

I look into it, at times deep, and see white.

Today it’s at the surface.

It’s comforting that this white (this white), oh surely, isn’t always so deep.

When I carry it, if it spoke to someone, I want them to like my black bag

as much as I do. How could they, at first impression, enjoy this creature

of constant levels when the surface is so obscenely pitch? Flat? Unhumoring!

Clearly. I wish all upon my black bag. It’s fresh. And though I nor my black bag

will ever admit. It’s possible a secret lay inside.

Today it’s at the surface.

Bathroom Clock: Apartment Items

April 25, 2010

Is in the bathroom. Very decorative.

There was a particular motif that was prevalent

in the bathroom but

that clock went in there anyway.

In the middle it said ‘the hours of the day’

in French, but everything else in the bathroom

was more of a tropical theme: bamboo design

on the shower curtain, parrot soap dispenser.

Then the battery died.

And the only hour of the day known

was 12:00.

Depending on whether the sun was out or not

did we decide whether it was noon or midnight.

But it’s pretty. Like some painting of a clock

to look at after a refreshing shower.

Toilet: Apartment Items

April 22, 2010

A toilet is a toilet is a toilet.

A parody is a parody is sometimes not a parody.

A Wristwatch: Apartment Items

April 22, 2010

Who wouldn’t like him? He recites a poem whenever I listen, just like that!

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Just like that!

What Happens At Night

April 22, 2010

Who am I to deny my mind’s desire for multitasking?

It usually happens in my bed while

relaxing and my brain begins to wander.

The layman refers to this act as dreaming

but I know better. It’s the act of

surrealist planning:

complete with no timetable nor ultimate objective.

Only the mind’s mad desire for scheming

for what could be, or might be, or

what would be better.

I am a hopeless surrealist planner.

I made some plans last night.

The question that ultimately remains

is “what am I gonna do about it?”

Obviously the correct answer is to

live the surrealist lifestyle, which is

to avoid mathematics and any profession

driven by hard data, and simply be.

Existence is its own reason for being.

Birthday

April 6, 2010

It’s raining again today.

It’s my brother’s birthday.

He’s 30.

“It’s raining again today,”

he said.

“There’ll be other birthdays,”

I told him, leaning against

the hood of my car, water

dripping along the bridge of my nose.

“You won’t even remember this.”

The squirrels in the neighbor’s front yard oak

didn’t rest, but I imagine they sympathized.

My brother chased them back up the tree,

soaked and stained and ready

to receive his presents.