My head feels a little woozey when I cough or at a the slightest tilt.
Wearing the bathrobe and pink slip this morning the same as from last nights Halloween party plus a few food stains.
The bright yellow pokey puppy of a sun is shinning on the dewy lawn.
The kids are playing in their jammies
building leggo ships and pushing wooden trains.
He won't let her play.
She hits him.
Now the teddy is crying as he conducts the train.
Roxy music comes on with More Than This,
spontaneous dance party with the tots in the bedroom.
I dream of boys in peacoats.
and finding the perfect pillbox hat.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Thursday, October 28, 2010
October 28th 2010: The Hermit
The jigsaw voice cut like sharp reeds in the head.
Vicerating a night fantasy;
pursuit rich in social folly and imprudence.
Awakened by the curdling howl of child boy.
Ruffled hair and spongy eyes of child girl resettles my countenance.
The dining room Persian rug is the key to our lives.
It mimes the story of fire roasted reds and psychic dusk blues.
The rugs frayed sides and fading strands are the the tin cries.
Its corners are you and I.
Masters of the Manor with our arms interlocked in embrace or sparring.
An auspicious waft of chimney smoke travels like heaven to the window.
The sky is white like an aspen tree.
Some matter travels up like the smoke while others fall down
like the aging leaves of October.
Now the others have arisen.
Barking! Over food, over sounds, over space, over the way they look at eachother and what remains below is the way they didn't choose to look at eachother.
Let's come back into the privacy.
Shut the door.
The Hermit strums strings
fun coiled wire brustling furious.
Brewing up songs of chaos and benevolence behind closed doors.
Then takes a walk in the rain for separation from the cat
whose smug chin turns up quickly and then
side to side
after she has snickered at you with her eyes.
Vicerating a night fantasy;
pursuit rich in social folly and imprudence.
Awakened by the curdling howl of child boy.
Ruffled hair and spongy eyes of child girl resettles my countenance.
The dining room Persian rug is the key to our lives.
It mimes the story of fire roasted reds and psychic dusk blues.
The rugs frayed sides and fading strands are the the tin cries.
Its corners are you and I.
Masters of the Manor with our arms interlocked in embrace or sparring.
An auspicious waft of chimney smoke travels like heaven to the window.
The sky is white like an aspen tree.
Some matter travels up like the smoke while others fall down
like the aging leaves of October.
Now the others have arisen.
Barking! Over food, over sounds, over space, over the way they look at eachother and what remains below is the way they didn't choose to look at eachother.
Let's come back into the privacy.
Shut the door.
The Hermit strums strings
fun coiled wire brustling furious.
Brewing up songs of chaos and benevolence behind closed doors.
Then takes a walk in the rain for separation from the cat
whose smug chin turns up quickly and then
side to side
after she has snickered at you with her eyes.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
October 27th 2010: Goodmorning Ms Plath
Slyvie rests with her earmarked veneer making a horizon atop another horizon.
Years set in motion and put to wordwork
swinging from one inspiration to the next
ended her head
in the furnace of the kitchen.
Her ghostly echo sits with the morning coffee.
I ask myself, What is it about her?
A mortal mother and self murderer.
An immortal American muse.
But no, I am not wishing to say some THING here, not now.
No cumulative overarching idea in the cathedral of clouds
Here wading in the wishing well for departed souls.
In the pause between heartbeats which we always forget,
I forget.
Years set in motion and put to wordwork
swinging from one inspiration to the next
ended her head
in the furnace of the kitchen.
Her ghostly echo sits with the morning coffee.
I ask myself, What is it about her?
A mortal mother and self murderer.
An immortal American muse.
But no, I am not wishing to say some THING here, not now.
No cumulative overarching idea in the cathedral of clouds
Here wading in the wishing well for departed souls.
In the pause between heartbeats which we always forget,
I forget.
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