by Mark Young
Lares et Penates
Again I am listening
to Miles. It becomes a
pattern. The heat, the
open Magritte on the
computer desk, the cat
wrapped around the
base of the grapefruit
tree in its pot outside,
in the shade. Again Time
After Time. But this time
a longer version, Miles
in concert in Chicago. It
holds the same emotion,
but not compacted as the
single is. Is drawn out,
like watching a person
die, instead of just being
told about their death.
Vox Populi, Vox Dei
I end up
watching
anime at
four in the
morning. Cow-
boy Bebop.
There is a
jazz sound-
track but in
my head
I hear Sinatra
singing "when
I was seven-
teen." It is
raining. It is
always raining
in anime. Out-
side & in.
A good goodnight
The beggar
dines on the
color pages
of the Good
Food Guide.
Black lines &
white. On
the wall a
Franz Kline
painting.
Beautifully
painted. Badly
printed out. My
crappy laser.
The poem
from it
elsewhere.
Tension. Ex-
tension.
A weekend supplement
kept for a story
on the loss of
languages.
A piece of pseudo-
code from
Jukka.
The cat, the
night before her.
Open window.
The neighbor’s
air-conditioner.
Open door.
Frogs, possums,
flying foxes.
Open encyclopedia.
Radium Hill to Ramsay.
Reading about rafflesia,
the stinking corpse lily,
the world’s largest flower.
Thinking about
ragas & ragtime,
the rhythmic
in-betweens.
Next to the Kline
a Chinese print
of some Japanese
calligraphy.
Washed-through
color. $6.99 at
the Remainder Shop.
Mass-produced.
But. Majesty.
Oh to have a
chop hand-
carved
from hard-
wood to
sign my
name with.
Red ink, or blue?
The night
behind me.
One lump, or two?
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