Author Archives: giovannimooring

The Powder Keg

New Zealand entomologist G.V. Hudson first proposed the idea of Daylight Saving in the 1870’s.  The vernal equinox lies this year on the 20th of March, 17:32.  5:32 somewhere.  The Saving hour has its effects on business, on harvest, and on Ben Franklin, who proposed to wake Parisians with bells and canon fire at sunrise in order to lessen the economic strain of candle burn at night.  The hour effects, most of all, the circadian rhythm of humans, and mostly then in the negatives.  We adjust, after a time.

1980’s 7-eleven Stores and Clorox, owners of Kingsford Charcoal, lobbied hard to maintain and extend the reach of today’s North American Daylight Saving.  But 7-eleven and its boon of Kingsford doesn’t conjure in me thoughts of being involuntarily pushed into a different day, depending on my location in the world; it evokes a clear image of you sweeping in front of a store I’ve never seen.  Automatic.  So let the clock be turned by who it will.  I’ll adjust to its tempo.

There is no adjustment, despite encouraging thought and talk-yourself feelings, to the half-loss of a perfect time-step.  I can’t say no to the chance to meet with my quickener.  There are those to greet, to laugh with, to yawn at, to question, to shake, and to answer.  But while they and I happily hold our temporary attentions my focus is fixed on a single point and it is you.  What of habit?  Nothing.  What of an instinct that while other ones crack in varying speeds as age cracks me remains so that it knows as much of age as I know what to say?  It is there to be fought with.  It is there to be thought of too long.  It is there to be remembered.  It is there to be forgotten.  It is something that can have anything done to it because nothing changes it.

I saw that girl, too.  The one from the bridal party.  The lady who looked exactly like.  And she saw me.  I don’t get looked at much, but I know what it is when I am.  She’d seen enough of my face and had moved on to the visible rest, to shoulders and hands and arms, protected by their crossings or their clothes.  Right there in her land of drunk was that seconds-only genetic sizing up; miles of history checking off what mine might be.  She looked exactly like.  It odded me out.  It turned my head, passed rails and noses and arms and glass and spikes that made one of the better frames for your face.  A shifting frame for something that moves most when it doesn’t.  There was my inner peace, my tension, my calm, my rest, my hyper-note, my sun and moon and stars, my standing in line, my staring at concrete, my light, my muse, and your smile, its ends tipping to shatter my my’s, happily asiding them, not to be missed.  They can be what they are.  Nothing changes them.

There are other rhythms in the world.  Ours tend to slide along the outside of the millions in between.  From here we can look in, and also turn to see the empty space beyond.  Peering back, may we be caught in a slip-gap.  May we meet in the middle.  And may that rhythm marry its courses, circle round, skim the surface, or carve paths through the others.  Occasionally we’ll stop, just to watch them all go by, or to tap our selves to their time.

rebus

if you can somehow slip between the naturalness of nothing but being and the addictive/ing learned compulsion for endless knowledge, you may for a time create.  the size of the slip gap varies per individual, but ability, what scholars refer to as talent, belongs to us all.  those advanced make nothing more than historians in destiny or without the gut.  for it is a universal reflection thru observance; it requires only the education that informs it honestly, which usually requires tremendous unlearning as one picks up new salts.  it will speak anyone’s language and any’s wanted one when it reads true.  it’s the rubies caught and given away, not the man on the camel’s back.  a rebus is a classic is a rebus.

Dear, Madame, Sir,

Madame,

Thank something you’ve got your tv girls to hear about how much you have to kowtow to and placate your man, otherwise you might stumble upon the silence to realize how much I placate you.  I don’t go into specifics about you with my friends.  If I did, they’d mistake you for an uncomfortable joke.

That veil you ask me to call you, that “paint it on an inch thick,” is not as pretty as you’ve been lead to believe.  It’s the embodiment of deception, the senses’ lie.  I prefer you in honest dark.  There we’re silhouettes, our bodies divining their shapes, altered only by muscle and movement.  Your make-up can’t be made out.  Even in that place still, if my lips brush your concealer they retract with a taste of sour clay.  Even there, your eye-liner smells up-close like concentrated skunk.  A man’s face is less smooth, but sometimes serves me better (in your world this is something I detest with ignorance.  It’s no wonder they call it a beard).

Fake it, fall asleep and flatulate so rotten it makes my eyes water and tells my time a minute’s an hour.  Your sleep is sound as the circle of an oxbow lake.  Don’t fret.  Your purse and heel club will never know.  I’ll hold it till the next time you model me a dress that places your head on Holly’s body.  I’ll smile well.  Its fabric, and your skin, are simply too tight.  Sleep selfishly.  When you wake blanketless, without a crust or wrinkle, I’ll blow morning breath between your shoulders and sunshine up your ass.  Don’t get self-conscious; dish it back better than you kiss.  I’ll always love you.  I’d like us to know each other.  I no longer see the fun in a fall with curtains drawn.

Sir,
The moon’s silver only reflects seven percent of the sun’s light.  A sidewalk gives off the same amount at brightest day.  This percentage is about as far as you’ve come in terms of any understanding of me.  The me of you, of us, as opposed to the me of my; there you’re at pluto light, were the blue invisible.

I’m happy to have caused you to dwell upon something other than yourself, even if it’s a surface turned headwards and simplified to blocks.  If you’ve bored of our graceless and lumbering dance, holding me threaded, upended as some topsy-turvy toy ballerina, then boomerang her out and wait for what you always do, that which you expect.  It will not be me in return, but a delighted echo as her body gains straightening speed without so much as a nod “home” while imaginings of false love become further and smaller.  That should give you something new to think about.  Feel free to fail to consider it a gift among many unnoticed, you swine-swoggling smugtart of an over-stretched and obliviously aging imp.

Next time’ll be your next ma’am.

Did you think I’d wrap this up with something about the moon?  Something comparing you and it?  Something about pox and scant reflecting abilities and pulls that keep those you surround in constant thankful weight while they really dream of taking off and staying away?  How you define gravity as opposed to what you and my musical tell me should be done with it?  Call those questions an answer if you’d like.  At least you were better than a lie.

81 gods

So here I am, making my way out to Virginia by train via Mobile.  Louisa, Virginia.  There is no found record as to the origin of the town’s name, but it had an infamous ordinary, which in the late 1700’s stood for a housing of just about everything; tavern, circuit court, trading post, rooming house, mail service etc. all in one building.  What is recorded, among quite a bit outside its naming, is that the Marquis de Rochambeau, on his way to Monticello, termed it the worst lodging he’d found in all America.  Further investigation into the to-be-town’s immovable landlord and good-for-nothing wife serves to prove the Marquis’s calling it such.

Louisa is where a group of Vietnam War re-enactors gather to well, in my opinion, engage in the scrupulously unthinkable.  None of these people are veterans of any foreign war, though there may be others like myself, but I have doubts.  I can’t see a vfw outside of my position wanting anything to do with such a boondoggle.  The slap-shod organizers don’t know I belong to the 1-9 Cav and if I have it my way they’ll never find out.  I won’t be crawling through a pine forest to prove a point.  I’ll be there to connect in some psychotic way to someone I recently proclaimed as just that.

I believed wrongly that my control had been as lost as it ever would during contact and clearance over jungle and brown water.  Every element of life since return was under the strictest top, with a little room for air, or error, until he decided to join up.  Now there’s a second Funk in the 1-9, charged with improving quality of life for Iraqi civilians.  His unit is much of the time dismounted in urban terrain, and control, for the little in hindsight it’s worth, laughs back from the fake world I made for it.

Clues, other than the fact he was mine, existed.  Through school, and I can only imagine where else, he was the one who ended any skirmish.  He was strong and smart, which made him ripe for picking idiots off of one another and holding them stateless.  I stood paralyzed following a fight in which his cousin attacked him; the only time I ever saw him engaged.  Some men, when pulled off of another, slink under wiser arms.  Some yell out but muster little strength.  My son, as he was dragged off, held a concentrated and wild gaze to his foe, his hands outstretched as if a toy had been unwittingly yanked from their grasp.

Eighty-one gods of war now sway mercy over him as they strive to show none.  There shouldn’t be so many.  How does a man keep his child from what he’s made of?  Maybe I’ll turn around in Louisa.  Maybe I just needed to move a bit.  No use in going to find what I’ve already got.  No use in pretending.  He won’t be there.  He’s right here and we can head back together.

ThisThat Recall

This is 508 words, but it’s tall like a flag pole and would take up too much space so as to possibly push someone else’s work right off our page.

Also {plug alert} should anyone be in the mood to see reallyreally good mixed media in los angeles monday evening…CTA.  A scene i wrote is being staged as part of the show; wouldn’t throw ya to the wolves unless i was part of the pack.

Rosebud

The Mac 5000 15-lead ECG had finally shit the bed.  Hell of a run considering they’d picked it up well before her.  She’d arrived in ’04, which made the Mac then a stalwart 10, so fortune would see its final crash at its voltage between pairs.  The ER, except for her, was empty.  It had to be at this hour.  She was fine with that.  A few allotted lights served enough reminder of the sterile white she’d goddamn never gotten use to.  She hated the smell, the patterns beyond the white in the floor tiling, the pattern on the walls in sparsely straight-tight textured paper.  Pastels for Indians.  What a joy.  Patterns in the floor.  So you knew where to put your foot.  She’d tell kids to narrate the shapes, like good clouds, as a means of distraction.  It worked in reverse because they usually had nothing to say.  The tile was for what they were told to keep on the ground when they looked up.

Lance, at sixteen, in ’06, had seen falling leaves.  He’d seen a sycamore, though he’d never seen one in the world.  One time he goddamn saw pita bread of all things.  Her distraction, the only time it worked, still did so in reverse.  It distracted her from him.  God didn’t play with dice.  There had been too much to like.  He shared the name of the man who’d started all this, Le War Lance.  She had put up with Frazier’s On the Rez, mostly cause like Le War, she cut her hair in odd shapes and wore even stranger clothes.  He taught her it was ok to feel that she was pickin up pieces of a new world as she went, even if it was the one she ‘came from’.  She’d been a yellow raft in blue water, so people gave her paint.  Thanks to Le War, she proudly kept her Rayona-esque yellow, and painted everything else.

It had taken five years from veering off the Mohawk Trail heading toward Naulakha to get to nothing.  Staring a thousand miles at a broken machine, for the first time she went numb.  Time as the changing of space continued to be everything but her, until she looked down, remembering rain on fallen leaves.

To John…

…and the multitudes who have found themselves in worlds, whether home or abroad, distant from celebrations of thanks.  A few words and a request:

Life’s a funny ole possum.  It plays tricks on you, and laughs when you look back.

I know we all appreciate our gravities.  Each of us contain too many to count; if we begin we find more than imagined.  We stumble upon reminders, impossible to verbalize, of what matters amidst unending universes within our tiny little worlds.  It’s easy to get wrapped in them, yet equally difficult to unravel.

His weight does not beg our appreciation, nor remembrance, simply a silent recognition, if only once.  Admission.  Attention.  This man has moved beyond hero, in that he’s a friend, who loves to laugh.