2 TVs
thank the peaceful
quiet
girl and dog
resting quietly
upon cushions
in the top rooms
me here
under lights
in the cellar pit
hum of CPU
one TV down here
mutely plays
world's going to Hell
any clarity of mind
must be precious
reckoning
renegade markings
of dust covered insanity
fueling vision
of innumerable
invisible mannequins
sequestered here
8 feet under
the earth
with me
in this carpeted clearing
a drywall abode
cool and dry
as these glass beings
these mannequins
plainly bearing
their enigmatic stripes
of madness, of forgiveness
attendant only
upon my need
to discern
now I hear
orchestral movie music
in the stairwell
another horrible TV show
loudly playing out
where my sleeping girl rests
pausing in typing
I turn emptily
to the mute TV
but there's still
some substance
even horrible TV shows
can't quite quell:
down here,
these implacable figures
do not care
Wednesday, October 30, 2002
Tuesday, October 29, 2002
two TVs
(rev. 3)
thank the peaceful
quiet
girl and dog
resting quietly
upon cushions
in the top rooms
me here
under lights
in the cellar pit
hum of CPU
TV mutely plays
the world's going to Hell
any clarity of mind
is precious reckoning
renegade markings
of dust covered insanity
fuel the vision
of innumerable mannequins
invisibly sequestered
8 feet under
the earth
here with me
this carpeted clearing
drywall abode
cool and dry
as these
glass beings
plainly bearing
enigmatic
stripes
attendant only
upon my need
to discern
orchestral movie music
in
the stairwell
a horrible TV show
playing out
where my sleeping girl rests
the dog's not barking now
he's hushed for a while
he wouldn't settle
down tonight
nor do I want to
pausing in typing
I turn emptily
to the mute TV
yet here is some substance
even horrible TV shows
can't quite quell
these mannequins
implacable
do not care
[10/28/2002 9:45:39 PM | Matt Vincent]
time was a thing
(v. 1)
thank the peaceful
quiet
girl and dog
lying quietly upon cushions
in the top rooms
me here
under the lights
in the cellar pit
hum of machine
as the TV mutely plays
the world's gone to hell
any clarity of mind
must be reckoned
a precious commodity
the renegade markings
of dust covered enigmas
fuels the lives
of innumerable mannequins
sequestered here
invisibly
with me
8 feet beneath the earth
in this carpeted clearing,
drywall abode
cool and dry
as some people can be
glass beings
baring their stripes
ever plainly
attendant only
upon my need
to discern
orchestral movie music
floods
the stairwell
some horrible TV show
playing out
where my sleeping girl rests
the dog's not barking now
and perhaps he won't
for a while
headed toward sleep
he wouldn't settle down tonight
nor do I want to
pausing in typing
I turn to the mute TV
where I learn in bold font:
BUSH HITS THE CAMPAIGN TRAIL
horrible TV shows
can't quell
something
though their volume seeps past me
my roomful
of mannequins
doesn't care
Monday, October 28, 2002
time was a thing
(v.2)
thank the peaceful
quiet
girl and dog
lying quietly upon cushions
in the top rooms
me here
under lights
in the cellar pit
hum of CPU
as the TV mutely plays
the world's going to Hell
so any clarity of mind
is precious reckoning
renegade markings
of dust covered insanity
fuels the lives
of innumerable mannequins
invisibly sequestered
here with me
8 feet under
the earth in
this carpeted clearing
drywall abode
cool and dry
as these figurines
glass beings
plainly bearing
their stripes
attendant only
upon my need
to discern
orchestral movie music
floods
the stairwell
a horrible TV show
plays out
where my sleeping girl rests
the dog's not barking now
perhaps he won't
for a while
he wouldn't settle
down tonight
nor do I want to
pausing in typing
I turn to the mute TV
where I learn in bold font:
BUSH HITS THE CAMPAIGN TRAIL
yet here is some substance
even horrible TV shows
can't quite quell
their volume seeps past me
these mannequins
implacable
do not care
dog is my savior
Time
peeling off
into obligations
both honest
and dishonest
both sensible and maddening
My head
like a wound
made
no more or less murky
by the presence of
wanton ambition
disgraced goalsmanship
but that's not a word
I reside tonight among the presence
of substances
up to and including:
her heart, her hair,
the dog's
brown eyes,
television,
cans of beans,
macaroni-and-cheese,
30 cans of beer in my small fridge,
one of the cats inspecting a fragment
of sour cream and onion potato chip
Crossfire on TV bleating
death penalty or no for
murderers Mohammad and Malvo
and my pine tar inner self
down here in this hole
typing 3rd rate lines
onto the Internet
again
the dog stirs upon the floor
I'm a rodeo clown
caught up in a trapeze of
scarcely obtained
momentum
wildly oscillating between
whirling poles of safe harbor,
madness, clarity, disgrace
simultaneously
above and below
any comfortable altitude
flailing
the dog thinks I'm his master
and loves me
and owns more
than he knows
5:07 PM
and ready to roll off
into the late October dusk
unto parking lot and store
unto various lights and double yellow lines
ranging out before the boredom
stiffens into me again
a not unendurable force
causing one to pause, consider
ruminate, reflect
allowances have been made
god damn it, it's only Monday
and there will be very little pleasure
in drinking anything tonight
standing in a shed ruminating over cans of Miller High Life and Camel cigarettes
hear
how the gray rain
blows open
November's
soggy notes
of beer-colored
leaves
and
cigarette smoke
we stand in
brown shoes
upon orange
pine needles
pointlessly gazing up
the trunks
of brown oaks
and charcoal pines
moist, resplendent
speaking the whens
of fish and ice
on the small ponds
as the brown
earth waits
so do we
for snow
Saturday, October 26, 2002
wants nothing
Jackson
black dog
we'll never
trim
your wiry fur
(ever)
this Saturday night
you've lost a white
baby tooth
a tiny amount
of your blood
stains
the wood floor
as it's night
we now remove
your red collar
as you hustle
toward the back
of the house
suddenly
you see
young Harlequin
chiaroscuro
gypsy cat
black and tan
half-pint
foliage-colored
feral cat
learned of domestic ways
