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June 1, 2006 It looks like it’s going to rain, eh? - says my beloved. They should have made tin tops on houses for the rain to make more noise, so that the rain might be more of what it is. It is trying to flower, to blossom. Watch me now. Five hundred sheets of paper. Standard 81/2 X11. Four pockets of good silver quarters. Two clay pots, smallish. A bigger one, plastic. A tin container, with a handle. There is some silver in my hair. Razors. A proper jacket for once, that fits in the arms. A shirt with stripes, and a nice sweater. Don’t be maudlin. Look at the stream. Water talks over rocks. There is a way of things. I put three or four medium sized rocks in the plastic watering jugs. One brown. One green. This way, when they are at rest, the wind doesn’t blow them away. Some things always remain the same. The worst thing being television, and the loud, banal thing called humanity. When I am at rest, my body makes sure I don’t blow away. People, some of them, crush cans with their feet before recycling them. There is only so much room in the world. Ha. A limited amount of room in an infinite world. I have to write between life. I use an orange dollar store pen with my name on it. Fancy things never last. I am not made for them, and they are not made for me. Birds. Women. A prose all my own. The arch of her ass. The river is in the waves. A shed holds air. The tulips, a few of them, have been borne. They didn’t need caesarian sections. There is still never enough rain here though. Interlocking stone, genealogy, and forest flies sad. The bathroom must be repainted at some point. Red is an unhealthy color. The dog with sad eyes. Pastel rockets in plastic. Do you know the ones? Watch me now. What is the color of your love? What is the color of your flag? I am uninterested in Canada, and less so in the United States, and even less so in any other country. My interest is own my interiority. But if a man thirsts, I give him water right away. There is no conflict there, no dilemma. A grand defeat is always among us. Always. Not sad or the other; it just is. It waits like a hopeful child. The truth can always wait. What is true feels no pressure to convince. However, it must come forward nevertheless, being what it is. A year or so of months ago, I saw her. She was different then, she was healthier, if health is just the absence of any hindering problem. Now the glow was not in her face. She had lost too much weight. Extra lines at the eyes and around the mouth. – Isn’t it nice to be outdoors?, she said again at the end. But she was trying too hard; to make it right, to make it as it was once before. – Yes, its great, and it’s the sun that livens all things. The drapes have green dark and red dark but in the main, they are white. Life is natural to other people. They don’t question. They are at once condemned and saved by this. Saved from the problem of existence, yet condemned to learn nothing. He really just goes to work, comes home, and eats. And the other one; he’s the same. It must be nice. He is a good guy. They are all good guys. I change the handlebars of the bike to better ones. I raise the seat. I raise my eyes to the sky overhead. I pray for rain, and a thousand more things. The greatness. A silver watch and cinnamon mouthwash. A ring with waves on it. Cotton shirt and clock radio. Microwave stands and lost cats. It all screams; it all wants to be; it all always was. Quarter round and the holes in my head. The psychic said,- He puts his hand on peoples’ heads. Watch his body language. It seems like nothing, but it is to show his dominance. He has no respect for women. And what’s his is his. He has his own destiny though. Kokopele is on the wall over the bed. One of the worlds first journalists, reporters, they say. How fitting. I shall report about existence. Red brick, ceiling fans, and windows. Cars. Words are not there. Television cable wire. Unfinished basements. A woman with narcissistic personality disorder. But in an important way, she knows she’s a nuisance, a colossal, monumental, and proverbial pain in the ass. She can’t change though; not much. Not in this lifetime. Probably not in the next either. Finishing nails. Safety. In urban centres in summer there is too much world. How can anyone sensitive, or adorned of the slightest discerning spirit not recoil, not veritably flee even. Oh, but on certain days a cheeseburger could assuage all that. Ground one more in the body to cope with all the incoming psychic phenomena; which is the rub, which is always the rub. They made the world, but they put things and people in it. My hair has grown out some. There is more gray than ever. I am double jointed in the left thumb. Double crowned too. And doubly named. Once at birth, and once after. Born under a double sign. First number was two. On and on. Hell, I even have two feet. Telephone number lists. One o’clock I the afternoon. Make all my Mondays bright. You write like a girl. Magnets, soap, and Jupiter. Library and a cotton tail deer. She has to bring the car back. She only has it for an hour. Today would be a nice day to do the garden. Yellow daisies. Loud women. Pencil, oriental noodles, light switch, green chair, decks, rooftops, slides, small carpets. Bags of milk. Large, full, smooth breasts. Blow your nose. Big garbage pails. Water guns. She says, - I don’t know…I just think people…they’re so lazy sometimes…You know, I’ve been thinking about our money…we are in so much trouble… Ice cream and white bricks in the sun. The demarcation of moments. The hieroglyphs for now. Chin rested in hand. The Mulberry tree makes joy. Spring loaded pen. I dust off the rocks. Some people, at some times, put a tire in a garden, and fill it up with dirt and flowers, I am sure I saw this somewhere, either in real life or in a paper, or in a movie, or something, you know? Now, this, like other things, can go either way. It can be misinterpreted as a white trash thing, or it can be seem as the accent peace it was meant to be. So much depends on the viewer. Flowers rise to the sun. We are up. Old lunchboxes. Old vagina. Old clitoris. Old God in the clouds, crying. This is the afternoon notation. So be it. I cover my belly in cotton Kodiak. I’m convinced Vicks can save my life, and so it often does. You have to believe, you see. You have to believe. I cover a barbecue, deliberately, carefully, with joy. Sometimes, but very rarely, I cover my eyes. You see, too much sun, and too much life, bothers them. I’ve lost my sunglasses, and never had protection against the world itself anyhow. Something chirps. Life lives. I cover you, this, and all in words. Then I open myself up again, and deal with whatever comes. I wait. This is my pastel prose. I write it on the nighttime door of Judas Iscariot. Watch me now. I have a wooden table. I put down a glass. Four chairs. A tablecloth so gaudy and light green, that it is perfect. My beloved broke a large white bowl. Cereal, bananas, and milk, w/ a large spoon, lived there well. – This is a cold that I have,- she says. – This is a way that I am,- say I, to myself. Silver toenail cutters, allergies, and allergens. A pocket full of nothing. A pocket full of rockets. ------------ Email Brian Michael Barbeito: Brian1750@Hotmail.com Comment on this article here! ------------ All articles are EXCLUSIVE to Useless-Knowledge.com and are not allowed to be posted on other websites. ARTICLE THIEVES WILL BE PROSECUTED! |
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