Friday, August 20, 2004

Goodbye. I hear the last truck coming down the road. Goodbye my soft boys. The loveliest days. My woodheart begins the life before.

--The God Machine

Sunday, May 23, 2004

A summer deep freeze last night. I worried for the sutra flowers and beak beaks. The night's oval cold on everything.

But, the busy old fool has rising this morning. All seems fine.

Birdy is proving a better mother than expected. Beak beaks grow marvelously on the dead slithers and grubs.

These last summer months of Raddlers and film will be wonderful. I must not think of the day when they will all leave. The wonderment in time too far to comprehend. It's like this for us. The spirit children in stasis.

I've allowed the ants free rein; for now.

Tuesday, May 18, 2004

The trilling beak beaks have hatched. Birdy is an anxious mother these days. The orange ones circle in.

The one from before called unannounced in a skeletal sky Sunday morning. I realize today I'll wither dry pine for the boys. Their living sounds and click click nights. Slight gouges in my body.

The beak beaks gasp open sky for the love sick. The sutra flowers barricade. Faux will keep the inevitable new ones at bay. But only for a while.

The glow faces are moving in again from the ferry grave.

The boys seem not to notice as they bustle in the daylight of the afternoon velvet.

Monday, May 10, 2004

The strange growlings of small airplanes in the night set out, and followed so intently with my eyes. I must take care not just to observe the flight but see the sound as well. Soon will come the whitish yellow over the midpoint of the shoulder I have waited for. In one sequence, some women in a cab. A spare moment. A green shudder of the streets and windows. It made my head spin to think that he must also be there watching the planes.

Friday, May 07, 2004

In the very early morning, both the water and the sky are washed out, a cream white to barely blue, with the coast’s strip of black in relief, in-between. Little birds shake out their wings while they yawn. Fishercats roll with sleepy growls and a long, paw-raised stretch and flop. One of my boys is lovesick, one is asleep. One of them rose early, lifted by the coffee steam, gardening in a little patch that he dug out by the door.

Thursday, April 22, 2004

From the just-wet ground little lobes of sunflower sprouts come out to warm my little brick patio. I try my best to puff out my eaves and shelter them. The wind is very, very bad for teensy flowerets. I will sing and coo for them like crystals forming at the limelight of my feet. It is good for me to have my little bouts upon the stage, pull out the entire array of silk and linen costume. I will be the one to initate the dialogue, choose the theme, even if I only utter three short lines.

Thursday, April 15, 2004

Sunlight! Though still with a joint-wailing wind. Still, this is very pretty! Invigorating! By my deep-set woodbeam bones, I make three resolutions:

1) I am old enough now to turn away from the nightly heat-vent clangs and percussion, the windowframe whistling and such. Why waste my efforts on whining complaint and scare the little beats inside me? I could bend my floorboards into a choir of praise, drum the pipes with caught air to a steady march, a waltzing promenade.

2) I’ll ruffle my roofing, bristle the tiles. I’ve been wearing this pollen and fall leaf-fire soot as what? A badge? A cloak of rot to fit more firmly between these death-rattle shacks? This is not mine, and the sunlight is asking for the skin of me. I think it’s time to rustle and come clean.

3) I will house these flitting birds. I will open up my eaves.

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