women are woven

constructed in clay, feathered in layers of deep texture. thread count high, it always seems. even when it's low, it feels perfect as cashmere on water worn hands and hangnails; when a strangers touch is staunch bleached cotton, her's remains a fresh bath of lotion, painted with worn-in childhood soft. my boyhood blanket and pillow, with matching yellow bird print, can compare in puffiness but not in symmetry the way she's put together. the head moves in cement while the heart sends a postcard, captures her gouache on recycled wood. oil paintings sit on the floor, fallen from nails. her weather pours down upon these arranged and canvassed elements and they start to bleed onto fabric. each fiber moves slightly. once dried, the tiny long flexible cylinders are thus changed, more tense, starched. the differences in localized color and shade forms shape and picture; i can only sense heat and breath, and the differential to which my blood can thus be magnetized.

i peered at a fat baby, at work, yesterday. instead of the usual aloof, the little one looked at me through engaging eyes, omniscient, it sized me better than i it. the father had a funny yet smart mustache, the mother was beaming.

a new october

a slice look at the ComEd bill and a realization that the cost of power will go up soon, not inflation but season. the paper wilts and then crushes, blows away with autumn wind from a secluded coffee table inside a semi-drafty apartment. the uneven floors and tilting walls still keep sound structure, but the elephants within keep wailing their trunks mouths speakers sound, creating drafts all their own. revised draft after revised draft keep piling on the table, covering anything of use from sight. the seasonal time change corrects the lapse from unknown pasts, when we didn't have to change (perceptually).

my notebook. my notebook for writing. my notebook for writing is open with yet another vast blank page facing ceiling through vacant eyes and head. ideas wax floors, but refuse to fall out of pen. the pen is too slow, too outdone by all forms of metaphor and irony, to use it as such in type would only deafen our understandings. so i type on a friday night with lowercase 'f' as a sore throat takes me from sleep to leftovers to a possible stand-in at watering-hole turned sleep-house. not due to any lack of purpose or passion, but mostly caution of circumstance. the writing went to fade out, to thank you, to collapse, in no particular order.

on literature (Women)

my reading list for the past (few?) years has been scant, mostly due to alcohol, social endeavors, vacations, and scholarly pursuits. however, i just noticed that most books in this period have been focused around the women who have caught my attention. i'm currently reading 'a little pregnant' because it was written by Janine's uncle and aunt. before that i read 'franny and zoey' because Janine gave the book to me. 3 years ago i started another such salinger, 'catcher in the rye', because rene gave it to me to read. we broke up and i quit reading it, and still have yet to finish. i read various Willa Cather works, along with various retrospectives of her work, because of Meg's connection and relationship to the specific author. my Mom suggests anything and i usually read it. my latest indulgences have been jeffery brown comic shorts and collections (by Mary J and Dani B, respectively) and the seattle zine 'dreamy vs sucks' from Janine.

to be fair, i'm also reading 'on the wine trail', which was given to me by a man named rick who was a frequent at the wine shop in flagstaff. and i plan to read 'the universal baseball association, inc' from brant.

but all i want is your love.