tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53564622011-07-31T03:48:35.649-05:00Mark's-WordsJoin me in an appreciation of the absurd. Sometimes a heightened sense of reality is the ONLY way to get through the week.Mark Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17702153722760729365noreply@blogger.comBlogger191100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356462.post-1155321609449561162006-08-11T13:28:00.001-05:002010-12-07T01:04:28.601-06:00THE PASSION OF THE LATTE. I saw you looking at me from across the room. Don't deny it. Your lips may be tempted to say, "NO, NO, NO!" but the truth in your eyes says, "YES, YES, YES!" You are a saucy one, aren't you? So coy. So demure. So alluring. I cannot help but wonder if there is really anyone on the other end of that phone. Are you engaged in conversation or simply trying to torture me withMark Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17702153722760729365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356462.post-1109124402379147132005-02-22T20:05:00.001-06:002010-12-07T01:05:12.924-06:00Cold Hands. Yesterday was a day like any other, except that I made seemingly miraculous connections from bus to bus to train (with no waits). My breakfast smoothie had digested well and it was sweet morning bliss. Then, IT happened. As I made my way across the treacherous path (used to be a sidewalk) that runs from the 'el to Presidential Plaza, I found myself slipping out of control in front of Mark Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17702153722760729365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356462.post-1063652746316866302003-09-15T14:05:00.001-05:002010-12-07T01:05:48.534-06:00VITAMIN 'A': THE DATE RAPE DRUG. I tried to look away, but those ripe red tomatoes continued to mock me. They giggled with cruel delight in response to my growling stomach. Temptation came to visit in answered the call. I quietly descended the stairs, calculating my next move with every step. I looked around for sufficient cover. Once I realized that I would not be seen by the neighbors, I made aMark Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17702153722760729365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356462.post-1058239711164439722003-07-14T22:28:00.003-05:002010-12-07T01:06:21.142-06:00SOFTLY PERPLEXED. I awaken with a question. It does not pertain to my future greatness, the state of the economy, world peace or speculation about the state of Brad and Angelina's relationship. It does not relate to my curiosity about what sexual position the downstairs neighbor would have to be in to utter such sounds of primal ecstacy. It is not about my origin, which I have concluded cannot beMark Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17702153722760729365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356462.post-1057989104350606322003-07-12T00:51:00.001-05:002010-12-07T01:06:56.812-06:00SOFA SIGHS. I think the sofa is angry. I am certain that I heard it sigh as I made myself comfortable in my customary spot. Some might suggest that it was the air escaping from a yet undisclosed hole in the cushion; I beg to differ. That couch has tired of the presence of my ass and it is making it known. My first reaction was one of anger and resentment. I pictured myself chopping each piece of Mark Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17702153722760729365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356462.post-951779722003-06-01T23:51:00.001-05:002010-12-07T01:07:58.950-06:00PLIGHT OF THE INVISIBLE. I never wanted to be me. I always wanted to be another. This is a curious thing when you stop to consider that you have no perspective but your own from which to judge. I spent my childhood in fantasy, dreaming that I was the long lost sibling of the Brady Bunch or the brother that Will Robinson never had as he was lost in space. I would observe the other children, Mark Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17702153722760729365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356462.post-951111252003-05-31T00:40:00.001-05:002010-12-07T01:08:25.302-06:00WET DREAMS. A cliff, a sunrise and a being. She couldn't remember when she started having the dream, only that its memory was always with her. It was a comfortable part of her composition, like a birthmark. She hadn't asked for it, but was at ease with its consistency. The dream was repetitive, but vivid in image. She is standing at the edge of a cliff at sunrise talking to God. She is not quite Mark Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17702153722760729365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356462.post-951109152003-05-31T00:31:00.001-05:002010-12-07T01:08:53.987-06:00MIME LOVE. When I first saw her, she was performing in the Grand Avenue subway station. She felt at a wall that wasn't there and my heart leapt. I wanted to penetrate that wall. She was a quiet angel in black and white. At first, I thought that she was just pale, but, then I realized...A MIME. Who'd have thought? She didn't talk much, not at all really, but I loved her. We walked against Mark Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17702153722760729365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356462.post-951107122003-05-31T00:23:00.001-05:002010-12-07T01:09:19.719-06:00DREAM STATES.
I saw you walking in the rain last Tuesday from the car window.
You didn't have an umbrella, but you didn't rush;
You sauntered aimlessly (in my mind, I hummed to the splashes of your rhythms).
Your hair and the passion of the winter breeze teamed to obstruct your vision,
but you brushed it from your eyes with a gentle coolness.
I tapped on the car window...
From across theMark Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17702153722760729365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356462.post-950687202003-05-30T00:59:00.001-05:002010-12-07T01:09:43.970-06:00BURN THE FAT AWAY. The Pizza was angry with me. It threw itself from the foil pan that I had lovingly created and made its escape. GO LIMP! The pepperoni, mushroom and extra cheese split from the security of its crusty foundation and embedded itself in the crevice just north of the broiler. It was like dirty animal sex without apology. In my shock and awe (some wars must be fought on the home Mark Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17702153722760729365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356462.post-950655862003-05-29T23:21:00.001-05:002010-12-07T01:10:14.001-06:00I am myself, alone. I can hear myself breathing to the rhythms of a heart that refuses to stop. When my head has surrendered, when it refuses to invest in more dreams, my heart beats quietly through the doubt and the harsh voice of logic. I can no longer make sense of it. I will no longer try. I will wade through the tears of uncertainty and wage battle with the fear of the unknown. I am the Mark Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17702153722760729365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356462.post-944874222003-05-17T00:38:00.001-05:002010-12-07T01:10:47.274-06:00small PARTS, small ACTORS. I live quietly in resentment. This is NOT the contract that I signed. I was not made to blend. I don't know how to blend. I don't want to blend. What does the actor do when he misses his cue? Does he rewrite the script and dishonor the playwright by creating his own entrance? Can his own honor be held in higher regard than the integrity of the play? What if his inner Mark Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17702153722760729365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356462.post-944864372003-05-17T00:06:00.001-05:002010-12-07T01:11:24.001-06:00BOOGEY BAGELS. It is Vienna, sometime this side of the twentieth century (not the one in Austria, but the one in my mind; they eat pizza there). I walk in rhythm to the memory of yesterday's rain. My face is not mine, but another's. I am wearing a brushed tweed jacket, pleated gabardine slacks and polished brown wing-tipped shoes. The oversized sweater against my chest reflects the color my eyes Mark Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17702153722760729365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356462.post-944854752003-05-16T23:37:00.001-05:002010-12-07T01:11:55.240-06:00CONVICTION OF THE ENLIGHTENED. I am awakened at the very disgust of what I had hoped was a dream. The alluring elements of alcohol are not nearly as intriguing as those following it. Hangover Incarnate, God of the Cocktail set. I once saw Jesus sipping a dry martini. He only ordered it for the olive, or so He said, but I trusted in another motive. He asked me for a ride home, at which I felt the Mark Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17702153722760729365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356462.post-944851222003-05-16T23:26:00.001-05:002010-12-07T01:12:33.647-06:00SOMEONE'S IN THE KITCHEN WITH DINAH. I caught myself in the fridge again, conversing with the cheese. It speaks with a gentle kindness while the leftover Chinese food looks on with resentment. There is nothing more angry than a day old, ignored Asian Chicken. It is definitely more sour than sweet. I could swear that I heard the apples gasp when I selected an orange to accompany the cheese on the Mark Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17702153722760729365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356462.post-941588452003-05-11T13:43:00.001-05:002010-12-07T01:13:10.929-06:00LITTLE BOY FOUND. Today I saw a lonely red headed boy sitting on a stoop. There was a look of longing cleverly hidden behind the innocent façade of the child. He is smart—this one. He knows more than those around him do and he knows it. The child mind does not permit him to process the information in a way that he can communicate his differences to those around him who have not felt his pain or Mark Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17702153722760729365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356462.post-941359342003-05-11T00:22:00.001-05:002010-12-07T01:13:41.661-06:00REALITY REJECTED BY THE NETWORKS. I heard myself think in the silence and was uncomfortable with the dialogue. I know that I am living small and I will not pretend to know why. I could conclude that fear is underfoot, but that is so trite that I reject the possibility. To accept that which is attributed to the masses would trivialize my very existence. I must be more than that (but, if I am, Mark Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17702153722760729365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356462.post-937617952003-05-04T16:17:00.001-05:002010-12-07T01:14:11.848-06:00HERE WE GO...I am so happy that you dropped by. Take your shoes off; pour yourself a drink and prepare for lift-off. I am never short on opinions and guarantee that if you didn't consider yourself opinionated before, I will exorcise the critic within. I am a provocateur by profession. What can I say? It is indeed a gift (though many would argue that it is a curse). You be the judge (realizing, ofMark Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17702153722760729365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356462.post-937609832003-05-04T15:58:00.001-05:002010-12-07T01:14:38.169-06:00BETTER LEFT UNSAID. There is something innately sacred about the blank page that makes me wince. I step away. Is that fear paying an unwelcome visit? Is it my intuition signaling that there is nothing to say? Perhaps it is better left for the reader to decide.
You are the jury. My heart skips a beat. Did I just invite judgment into my house? Again, I step away.
I once told a writer friend of Mark Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17702153722760729365noreply@blogger.com0