augury doggerel

Sunday, June 26, 2005


So. So here I go. 7:30, a church bell. 731, how our old phone began. A rotary phone. We never joined anything after we moved into the trees. There was the church at first, when we lived near the river, though I remember only the basement, and then just us in the trees.

We would stay out on days like this when school ended. Last night exactly at midnight I looked up and saw a flash brighter than any planet where a satellite must have turned and reflected.

I read books about the moon. I joined a rocket club for a day. My father and I sat on folding chairs and said nothing. Neither of us wanted to go back. Then I built rockets on my own and with other boys. We taught ourselves to make them explode.

There was a stream through the woods, and a small pond where it was dammed, and discarded wagon wheels with wooden spokes. Wagon wheels with wooden spokes.

Last night out on the hill, when I saw the flash, there were fires where schoolchildren had escaped. We would make fires by the stream and sleep in trees, even in winter.

Our father smoked in cafes after work. His brows were bushy and he grumbled the Niagara Falls Gazette. Our mother read. And small and sharp. I'm reading everything she read and forgetting them, like her.

And now it's noon, the same cafe, and warm as breath. More bells. I'm dundered. A man with a telescopic lens shoots the clock tower and the rows of reconstructed homes. A woman pleads into a phone in Italian. Drums, a tattoo, and then children push brochures into hands while four teenage boys, one bass and three snares, drum up business in the original sense. Then they are gone and one violin from somewhere plays folk songs and pieces of Bach, hymns, Amazing Grace. Smoke and pigeon down.

Friday, June 24, 2005

Dear Patrons of the Internet

It has been brought to my attention that some of you are a little worried about Mr. EP himself. After a great deal of effort I managed to track him down, in Poland, obviously.

He is alive and well and all rumours of his death are greatly exaggerated. He has been spending his time filling his backpack with wads of paper and scribbles and has had a terrible accident that means he will have to learn how to type again.

Dearest Readers, don't be alarmed! Malcolm simply needs more of something. I'm not sure what, but you're so very clever I'm sure you'll figure something out. So I urge you to send salutations to his inbox in the hope that once he's been bombarded he might actually post something, or... reply to an email.

He apologises for being an ass, but says it's hard to stop. Don't we know it.

Kind Regards,

Ms. nostartingpoint

(contactable at elbowsonthetable at gmail dot com)