The Ghosts of Jay MillAr (19 page)

what wanted to say something

to yr voice (the theme of any telephone

connection always so fucking over

whelming) your voice after all & strong,

enough of everything to reach

yr form, being an aura, wherever

it is & what it is doing (a magnetic

pull, toward the sound itself) the

silence of noise as it is resounded:

HELLO…

& I can think of anything at all

'pon that breath (for what are tears,

really, but what they truly are) a

vacant emotion & noise to come

out of, (refraction in the

purest sense) the very most human

in & of

 

BeerTour

Tuesday morning glory in absolute sunshine & I remember

being near traintracks positive no clouds were there

Somewhere between St Mary's & London

the radio too describes early nineties pop musicalism

to the rumble of the engine the five of us are on

& the back seat is stacked with bottles of beer

Spring almost present in the blue blue sky

& the air so light & lengthening I will remember always

the shine of melting snowbanks close to blinding & the smell of them

where we stopped to take a piss

Dirt road's gravel & the spring melt there

pebbles gathered under us as the scenery chants

a memory or postcard & memory as it happens in ways

flimsy but incredibly perfect & placed openly above

Drunk in the fine weather or at least totally sober

finally in the lengthening days of spring

& feeling that for once we were who we are

yes alive                blue, white, & moving calm

calm as the sun

& clean as the blue blue sky

Even the cops there are friendly

& give everyone tickets they will never have to pay

Home

(taken from a notebook)

The Home, an extension of your skin. The Home, it draws breath, exhales, pumps its own blood. The Home has shape, it consumes daily, excretes daily. The home radiates internally, like the human heart, an angel. It sings space familiar.

The things of your offering make up its shape, its hospitality. You own its design through the very thought you had to place this photograph here, a bookshelf there. You make a space feel safe, comfortable, like a warm shower. It is the place where you return, where you eat, where lovers meet in the night. It is where human secrets can live easily, where human stories are born. Mythology.

Moving from a space lived in over a long period of time into another space is traumatic, like removing one's body & replacing it with another. I'm sure it's not all that different than a terrible scar received in an automobile accident that heals, replenishing the skin, mending itself into a similar shape, not entirely the same as it was before. But the things remain the same, are joined by new things. There is a shift in consciousness delicate enough to allow for human growth. One changes slightly to accommodate the new space, as does the space to accommodate you.

It is harder to sleep in a new space for the first few weeks. This is the transitional period. You cannot sleep how you used to sleep, dream the dreams you used to have. The sheets are different, they have a new texture, the sounds are more quiet, the direction of the wind coming in through the window is from another part of the world. The window itself is bigger or smaller, the position of the moon & the stars are not the same. This transitional period is actually a dream in which you find yourself in a new territory, an altogether different part of the universe.

Imagine what creatures dwell there. What myths you will write. How it will grow.

Bazooka

Life is not tedious. Life is not boring.

Each day is not a mindless repeat of the last.

The people in your life are not stupid/uncaring/thoughtless.

Your apartment is not a mess. The laundry is not

A chore. The dishes are not boring. Your cat will

Not die. Life is not tedious. You are not depressed.

Today is not the same as yesterday/last week/a year ago.

Life does not tire you out. You are not stressed out.

The city is not dirty. People do not die. You are

Not angry. You are not lonely. Days do

Not repeat. Humanity is not pointless. Death

Is not real. The city is not ugly. Life is not a

Mindless repeat of the last. Boredom does not exist.

No one shall ever come to any harm.

Humanism (part vii)

(parts i-vi are yours)

we can open up all those vents

only to find out how easily they close

in on us in the end. we like it that way

its so very irresponsible not to pay attention

to those fingers basking in the sunlight

every night i go home & run along your skin

it makes me happy to be human with you

owning fingers, & lips too, toes & pubic hair

just imagine what

those other hidden parts

Our Honey Moon

what the hell

this postcard has no edges

but this music definitely has longing

& being inside the water has our songs

as passionate as hate i love your songs

now come to bed & sing of longing

come here now have no edges

in heaven's postcard some other space is hell

can break through & be Love as well

Firelight

makes

all conversation

song or story

tell me the centre

around everything

in the mind-like dark

look in

get lost

crawl upward

a long spine

to the tip

of the skull

scared of

the stars that way

no light can

look out

get lost

Workin' Stiff

ride out the day

get paid

ride outa here

get beer

Jan 31 Mythologized on Feb 2