Mâlain Diaries 23 - New Millennia Job Applications

New Millennia Job Applications

There are 8 parts

+ 160 pages,

20 X the amount

of the apriori and if I

want to dig myself out

at 5 minutes a page

or 800 minutes or 13

and a 0.5 hour, then

I will work tonight

late,

technically morning,

02:00 hours,

until a rough draft

is done that will need

to be edited – 10% less,

Stephen King says

or

144 pages that will

remain at 5 minutes

a page + 2 minutes

per page to add

evidence =

1008 minutes or 16

and most of another

hour. My regular

work is added on top

of this toil to find

new work so 10 or

20 minutes sleep

between day bits

when no 1 is looking.

1 lb. flesh for a

doorway I can

count

on.

Mooretown Log Cabin

Lives quick and heavy lived-

deeply planted.

Quilts sewn by red fingers

raw

1002 stitches a night before

the burned wick;

scraps dropped on the floor,

weaved into rugs of rippled

colour to

wash over corn manure and

wet wool socks.

Stovefire and soot steep

the familial air, the timbers

where hard wooden

lines run into

chairs and backboards

like a y-axis.

These sun-soaked shadows

permeated with Ediths and

Earls – names no one

has spoken

since S.S. #13 Dawn

recorded the last

under Victoria’s

steely stare.

Snakes

Serpent, sweet-talker, smooth mover

You scaly, greasy snonym for the lemon-car salesman,

heart beating only once per month until you are

pumped alive by the Summer speed of the sun.

We’ve seen you – you poor cousin to anacondas and constrictors,

serving doctors, nurses, and Cleopatra on their staffs.

Second Chinese beast of the zodiac.

You serve, without applause, as the protector from mice, rats, and hundred-legged insects;

Eve’s turnkey to wisdom, and loose females strutting the streets.

At Simonetta's Feet

At Simonetta's Feet

O clear star that with your rays,

how did you live on the earth,

the dirt with all those primal

portraits and immediate

judgements?

She was there to look at;

she was only the façade,

but your life was looking,

 seeing what others

did not:

the colours the shape

proportions, perspectives

and smells. Lifting

the soul

the intellect in front

of the picture.

She was with you to

pose, but you, with

your Portovenere

passions caught more,

the strange

conversation, questions

that arose between the

sitting and the

vacillating. Moments

that only the patient,

the search for substance

bring forward.

And now you stare from her feet,

lying in the earth

below that clear star

a rich core

lost

on a nation of

surface seekers.

For John Keats

For John Keats

I heard you coughing this morning,

smelled the smoke

in the corridor.

The smoke, that hacking cough,

as the director di

Museo, might,

review Shelley’s papers early

with you

this Sunday morning

while the building was

closed and

The Steps

quiet.

Quiet steps down

and I was locked

 out.

I tried to

ring

that director, but

island vacations

had drawn him;

it was only

you

left.

Left locked

in

your eternal

mental end

of beauty and

sickness; joy and

death.

There you stay

As guests and fans; the

curious bore past

your door, past your land

scapes, past your friends,

past where you

Still lie,

past.