You are currently browsing the daily archive for January 18, 2012.

time to get up so get up
time to get up so jump up
time to get up and eat the coffee
time to get up and throw on some red cars and bills
time to get up and throw the Western states over East
time to get up and go an extra rice civilization and corn
time to get up and fill the water bottles and put on your backpack
time to get up and miles and books of forest rivers and rock hills rattlers
time to get up and ply the numbers of great wooden birds walking overhead with ticks
time to get up and meet our political isolation at the point of logistical gravity blushes

Three faces peer in at you, perhaps they're three aspects of one personality---or three cohorts oscillating through the middle distance of your cognizance

I picked up buns, salsa, sliced pickles, eggs, iced tea, carrots, mushrooms---chopped zucchini, carrots into ground turkey and fried the patties, sauteed the mushrooms, sliced tomato, red onion, with feta, dijon mustard, two kinds of salsa

The notes followed one another---one note closing upon another, following upon intervals, which---however long or short, moments or days---plinked frustration and overfamiliarity

Before the guests arrived, I fueled the vehicle, checked the oil, purchased power steering fluid ($3.99) to top off the reservoir---as the steering column had been protesting that the level was low---and cleaned off the seat

One thought that you thought to afix in memory, clarified by weariness to some fragile expediency, attenuated by darkness or whatever came next

I read Viktor Shkovsky's Third Factory and Bharati Mukherjee's The Middleman and Other Stories (which reminded me of New Yorker stories), several poetry books by Michael Burkard, reread Noelle Kocot's Sunny Wednesday, and was reading Virginia Woolf's Jacob's Room

The vantage point is in mid-air, and there is a sea wind blowing, which means that you have stepped over the edge and are falling a great distance, or you are simply standing at the edge, or maybe you are aboard ship, passing through the clouds

I put in many, many hours---totaling hundreds of hours overtime, extra, taking care of the needs of others, and Sunday (my one day off in weeks) I woke to the message that my father had died, that day I worked building fence

All that was interior to me seemed strange and ossified and brittle and empty, and all the world seemed green and purple and murky and sweet and empty, so I knew I must not be seeing it for what it was, or thinking right

But there was nothing unfamiliar about waking in the night and knowing it was not yet time, nor the hour of winter darkness when the alarm went off, and it was time

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