Friday, January 20, 2012

chapitre deux

I can't put a finger on the feel of this yet, but I know it will be different.

Different good, different bad? Maybe different in that I am calmer and I feel more a part my skin, and my thoughts are reins in my hands. 

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window panes;        25
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;        30
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
Maybe there will be enough time, though if there is, it's wrapped in discrete packaging and buried at the bottom of my lost luggage. 

Emails to write and resumes to tweak and errands to run and the drudgery of academia to attend to, and now and again, I wonder what exactly Prufrock was talking about and when I'll stop using indecipherable foreign films as means of escapism.

Gray skies are blankets over my eyes.

Sunday, January 8, 2012

âme sœur

Ah, monsieur parfait. But if only it were that way,
I wouldn't have to try to get used to staring from an overhead ledge
Or trying to make year-old velcro stick on wet sandals.

Peas and potatoes, salt and garlic, spoon and knife, peanut butter and marmalade,
and now and again, the sun in the sky is a little too bright,
and the jeans on our bodies are a little too tight.
But no matter,

forks are only needed for three-course meals
— you'd never have that anyways
and sometimes, marmalade really does taste better.

We'll wear our jeans until we grow out of them and wait for rain to
to clear disguise     to drown out lies      douse the skies.

Friday, January 6, 2012

Le moulin.

Grins as polished as the linoleum on the floor, sweaters purchased by mothers as Christmas presents, they eat dinner promptly at six in the evening.
What have you to gripe about, you animals, prancing across grounds with shiny feet, rolling dice on clean tables? Is perfection, to you, not so perfect?

White, sheltered suburbia sings you songs of home. My ears bleed.

I tread lightly, silently, through mowed lawns, through waxed cars, through hardwood houses, careful not to leave footprints in the folds of your brain, to track dirt in the foyer.
The winter wind doesn’t stay in trees for too long.

Round pegs, square holes.
I’m coated in dust, and you have no vacant rooms.