703 Notebook by Scott Pierce

 

 
 
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703 Notebook by Scott Pierce

03/22/2006

Street noise bouncing off the brick. Car wreck of cats piled by the open door. Shifty furniture release dust in the sun rays. Galaxies spin above half-eaten breakfast. If I were to do my laundry right now no one would be here to finish the poem. How I slept last night should be illegal. Regarding repression, at the party last night I was a non amused adult. I can harbor jealousies and boredom for some time longer. Calendars and the turning of pages is filmed irregularly and with time lapse. To be used in lieu of commercials: American dinner time. We can all agree that Nanaís cornbread is righteous. Small sentences between green beans. Onward to cakes and sugar free pies. Sports too make for good conversation. Love is a solid fact of suffering. What brings us to where we donít want to go. We want a bigger map. We want more evacuation routes, concentric circles. See the stars from many places. And when the corkscrew gets us to the center it will be to have dinner. And in death weíll eat. And in waiting for death too.
  Comes now the afternoon sun. Katydids staccato in the leaves. Partially dressed we do odd jobs. If I were to do my laundry now who would talk back to the insects. Cigarettes are my best friends. Increments of time I can sit with legs crossed. I dealt with coma issues in the morning until I stopped explaining. My neighborhood should loosen up. Style is as natural as genitalia. Sometimes we are not aware. I listen for the noise spike in the trees. A slow siren for what warning we ignore. Three cups of coffee I wrestle with typewriters. What Doug did to the Star Writer made it curb-bound and in need of a black hole. Iím weary of blooming flowers in the front room. If we could afford a/c it would slow the process. In this heat all flowers have a short life. They remain dried in their vases for weeks. Our love affair with dying things. When I was younger I didnít mind catching fish from a pond to eat.
  She is building web sites in the nook of what is architecturally a dining room. Font trouble do I overhear. Even inside I get mosquito bites. Last summer it was chiggers. Working at the farm I kept nail polish close at hand. Long pants will not protect you in the weeds. Clear polish, sometimes red. I painted my ankles regularly and it worked. I can open some windows to let in hot air. If I were to do my laundry I would be hotter than I am now. At my laundromat everyone looks like me. I look then like I do when Iím at work at the corporation. A mission is a good distraction. I give myself parameters and goals. The cats deal with heat by sleeping. If I did that I would feel guilty. Like getting drunk in the afternoon. Weekends are not what they used to be. Mark plays his guitar upstairs now. There is a riff heís been working on for weeks. He apologizes for it often. I do not mind, I have my own riffs. I tap my head when I think of these. Everyone should agree there should be no work on Wednesdays. Now she is linking to many web sites.
  I wonder what good it does when I am sweating into my Oklahoma t-shirt. If I were to do laundry right now what would I wear. If I am timely with all of my payments I will be released from crawling by 2036. Then I could go to Oaxaca and binge on mescal and death painting. Debt is an entitlement by birth. If I left now to do laundry and never come back what would happen to my window screens. If my phone were disconnected and I were not here my collectors could not arrange payment plans. Could I still postcard from Mexico. At what point when you are drunk on mescal is your education refunded. Suddenly katydids stop with the chorus. Trucks amble by on 11th Street. The katydids begin again. Weed eaters around the corner. We listen to The Books cd Lemon of Pink. An emerging poetry should move like such recording art. Noise is as natural as opening your eyes. My artist emotions should get all of it but I donít know how. I will incorporate a keyboard and a balding technician. A cat rolls onto his back.
  A cello turns off and on. Lance Armstrong wins everything. Heíll come back to Austin and open a restaurant and if weíre lucky weíll work there. If I were to do my laundry now could I tell between the work clothes and the ordinary. At this party last night I couldnít bring myself to speak. Iron chairs in the backyard I pointed my body at power lines. I was minded out of my mind. In time voices arrived in the moonlight and a bench was summoned. I casually lost a blue bracelet from Guatemala. I sampled the liquor in a coffee mug. The Passenger would not eat his pretzel. I typed ten lines on a napkin about lightning and left it under a wiper blade of a blue SUV. Smokey ranted for some time, then Reed. Travis grinned. Jenni plucked bass notes. I passed through each room before I left. I could hear Dirkís guitar from the street.
  My back aches pleasantly from yesterdayís tennis. Iíve decided to do laundry another day. There are maintenance issues around the house and in the cars. My tools will get used today. If I were to fix things now would the cats wake up and play. Cigarettes run low and she is biting her lip. Iíve learned to be still and do not mind the heat. The insects have not forgotten their songs and Iíve stayed to finish the job. Upon the floor the new poem grows wings and lifts itself to go find meat. Good luck I say and blow kisses. I walk past her at the computer on my way to get a hammer.
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Scott Pierce runs Effing Press. He lives in Austin.