July | 2022 | poemimage

Month: July, 2022

Running Backwards

Running backwards on a night when all is lost.

When you cannot remember what is lost.

When you see the night-sky running backwards.

this is…synchronicity

This is a painted mask.

This is also a painted mask.

This is a complimentary cookie in a wax paper bag stapled to a brown paper bag.

I posted a few days ago about the cow in the time machine

a few minutes later

I sat outside a cafe on a bench waiting for take-out food.

I read about a cow in the book I grabbed on the way out

then again on the previous page

then I looked to see the title of the chapter.

This is…synchronicity.

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Time Machine

I told them I was no expert but they signed the contract anyway.

The flight to the cave in the mountains was so long it included five meals.

When it came time to adjust the settings they told me I would be the operator.

They asked me over the intercom what I saw.

I said, ‘A cow.’

They said, A bull belonging to Genghis Khan?

A bull breathing fire?

A bull pulling a chariot across the sky?

I said, ‘A cow in a barn

watching Sonny and Cher sing The Beat Goes On.’

They said, ‘Adjust the settings.’

I did. They said, ‘Where are you?’

I said, ‘I see Rasputin.’

They said, ‘What is he doing?’

I said, ‘Building a time machine.’

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In Neon Mystery, in Singularity, the Flowers Explode

Last night I walked home at eleven. Dark and cool. The streets and cafes were busy – lots of children.

Turning left, then right, I skirted the park. On my street I was startled by a sudden voice behind a large bush. A woman was photographing earwigs (feeding?) in the centres of daisies.

I’m taking care of two cats and one decided to make noise at 4:45 am to let me know she expected to be fed. I lay there trying to sleep and heard the phrase ‘in singularity the flowers explode.’ I thought it needed something so added ‘in neon mystery.’

July 11, 2022

page 73

I was a dishwasher at the Executive Motor Hotel on King Street. The waitress with early 1960s-style hair, who was, maybe, 28, said, ‘If you want to come over after your shift I live nearby.’ Maggie May by Rod Stewart was playing on the radio. Seriously it was. At the time I was reading the writings of Antonin Artaud – founder of the Theatre of Cruelty. He claimed to own a walking stick stained with drops of the blood of Jesus Christ. I was trying to connect dots on a map that didn’t exist. I partook of the green, brown, and black herb. I partook of the artificial chariots. She was, maybe, 28.

from my book Meme-Noir (2019)

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