post 6 november

Justwrite 6 november

A crowd of darkly dressed coats, crowded around the entrance to the still-closed Metro—silent, still, focused, as if attending to a mime’s early morning speech. They await for the mouth to open, to swallow them whole into the dark, cool belly of the city, the long lean lines of planning contracting to track the contents through digestion, processing the meat and making it move

A fur-coated lady, maybe once a mynx, now in maybe minks, folded into herself on the edge of the sidewalk behind the bazaar, a plastic cup of nothing waiting in her hand—she is ready to change her calendar to spring, denying winter in hopeful desperation, collecting coins for this operation

An old man with a long coat and a slow step on the sidewalk sees a certain woman, of a certain age, draws back the curtain from the stage—his hand sweeps back his coat to thrusts into his pants pocket, revealing a left-side chest full of ribbons in thin lines, willing her to find something there as she reads between—wills her to walk past, then turn back and call out to him: darling, is it you?

Justwrite 5 november

I’m tired of this at this point and the disjointed aspects of the monologue clog my ears and the fears that I’ll lose focus lose attention leads to other dimensions of distraction. The contractions of noise between joy and vagueness is the way bliss slips away when what others say seems less or other. Maybe there’s some mother listening closely but none of the rest of us are bluffed, buffed like some other glistening surface on a diamond’s back. To keep track of the sense here is to prop up a bent ear and to send clear radar out—the sonar shouts its message of message-searching—lurching through the clear blue, pinging clear blue and… heading back? Still lacking traction

Justwrite 4 november

2012 looks like excitement a frenzy of people rushing around 2012 looks like logos like marketing blue and yellow and black and white blurred together 2012 looks like a stadium on its feet and roaring a wave of arms and a scoreboard 2012 looks like tension on the faces of officials of all kinds black and white and pinstripes

2012 sounds like a creaking door 2012 sounds like energy poured through a sieve and rushing out the other side 2012 sounds like hawkers selling things we don’t need the buzzer the starting whistle the cheers DAVAY DAVAY DAVAY 2012 sounds like relief exhaled taxis screeching to noisy hotel halts

2012 smells like concession French fries and the confusion set loose in Ukrainian hot dog stands with demands for one without carrots please 2012 smells like popcorn soft pretzels sweat 2012 smells like locker rooms energy streaming downface like wet grass in the morning ant the cool of dusk as it settles into empty space

2012 tastes like heartburn the worry of wonder the money swallowed the hollow space in the wallet call it out like you see it too easy to beat it from some bank tanking even as some yachts sail from no-fail safe-deposit harbors 2012 tastes like determination like concentration stored in set mouths the corners south and waiting for the calendar to turn

2012 feels like energy tied up in knots grass on a field ground by cleats deleting pieces and signing released 2012 feels like delight in the sky fireworks and time bombs 2012 feels like tourists pressed into spaces meant for fewer and less skeptical reviewers now these judging without budging 2012 feels like injury like sweaty jerseys and hard seats slumped into when defeat draws out agony