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William Comparetto scrawled in a marbled composition book...

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Sunday, March 3rd, 2013
2:11 am
Reggie: Circa August 2004 - March 2, 2013
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Thursday, February 7th, 2013
3:09 am - The days get longer, and the years get shorter...

I find myself lately gazing into the black and white maw of old television shows - the ones I've never really watched like My Three Sons, and Donna Reed. Watching their prearranged domestic comedies unfold and resolve inside a tight 20 minute half hour. Their gee whiz clothes and issues. The paternal pipe. A motherly doting figure who does the dishes and irons, and parses sage advice framed in humble experiences from behind aprons. The kids: they doddle and clip in fast dialogue, and sidestep artifacts of mid century modern furniture, and traipse upstairs. An inlaid bookshelf might hold leather bound tomes in the father's "study". He may, or may not have read them. But, he smokes his pipe in thoughtful chuffs, pondering the day's lesson. We know it to be, as the music lulls.

Somewhere, in an idyllic realm exists streets where sidewalks unfurl with lawns and studies and two car garages open invitingly. A dad will impart lessons. A mothering figure will nurture, and embody that role with a keenness of irony. Laugh tracks may occur. Walking, perhaps, will beget an oboe, or the carefree trill of a flute.

The one thing that sticks in the craw is that few of these folks captured on that aging grey cellulite are still living.

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Wednesday, October 27th, 2010
6:29 pm
http://www.executiveedits.com/flash-fiction/

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Wednesday, June 2nd, 2010
5:16 pm

            He claimed cats could be mailed. “Overnight,” he said. “You know, those pet carriers.”

            Trauth didn’t believe him, but Jake swore up and down that he knew a guy in baggage at Tampa International who told it to him, and this one kid he sponsors who goes to the 10:30 candlelight meetings at the Tarpon Springs AA club handles boxes and freight for UPS (which, the kid had told Jake on numerous occasions: is like a meth addled game of Tetris – unloading those trucks – filled with sweat and lactic acid in the muscles, and god, oh god those yellowed pit stains, and hands so blackened and flecked with innumerable paper cuts and ragged hematomas by the end of a shift, it was no wonder he relapsed a few times a month) verified the claim.

            “Cats,” Jake said, “can be mailed. You just don’t hear about it too often because the postal service and other things like that would get bogged.”

            It was a farfetched idea. One Jake got while he was buying a chewtoy for the kennel bound dog that belonged to his Alanon wrought mom. He saw a sign for a free cat. Too a good home, the sign read. Being in Bradenton, on the southern, dreary, largely retired outpost of Greater Tampa, Jake didn’t see much need for a cat, but he remembered Trauth’s braying several weeks ago while on a spontaneous surfing trip to Bald Head Island, N.C., that his permaculture project at his house in Cold Spring, K.Y. was being overrun and ultimately threatened with field mice, and a strange breed of European (more than likely, Trauth surmised: German) rat introduced by the burgeoning population of New Money suburbanites carving out a vacuous maze of cul de sacs in the valley below Trauth’s increasingly feral and unkempt farmhouse perched on a sloped swath of land pocked with patches of bramble and chickweed, at least seventeen haphazard rows of tomatoes, and a gratuitous spray of cantaloupe. Trauth scored the house for a song, when his father, a senior partner in Raymond and Carver was representing the development firm of Lynard Construction. Trauth’s house was on a curious and untouched parcel of land, and the previous owner, a retired farmer, had had quite enough, and sold, and maybe died sometime after. The place was perfect for Trauth, who was working on his economics doctoral dissertation on the benefits of permaculture in a fringe class strata.

            This cat, a partial rescue by Jake, and a partial token of thanks for the use of Trauth’s Prius in the surfing excursion to N.C., was a notorious Hemingway six toe, and would therefore, Jake asserted, be more efficient at killing rodents.

            Trauth nodded silently into the cellphone, remembering a screed from Adam Smith’s The Wealth of Nations somehow echoing Jake’s thoughts. “Prolly true,” Trauth said into the mouth aperture of the second hand Motorola. He pinched off several chamomile buds from a patch just off his back porch, and panned, halfheartedly at the valley below. An inert backhoe sat near a half started foundation a couple of hundred feet below and to the south, and on the stark white grey of the sidewalk hugging the edge of the lot, Trauth watched two young moms pushing strollers wearing workout tights and blond ponytails sticking out of ballcaps. He adjusted his cargo shorts, picked a few more buds, went back inside and threw the clump of chamomile into a roiling pot of water on the ceramic glazed stove.

            The burner of the stove wanged in a lame red stare reminiscent of a traffic light, and for a brief faith like crisis, Trauth doubted the boil of the water, and waved his hand near the burner proffering “Yeah,” and “Uh huh,” and “That’s wack,” every three or four seconds, shifting the phone from hand to shoulder and neck to hand. This went on for several minutes, and Trauth, doffing the chamomile buds in the boiling pot with a flatware tablespoon bent and marred from the garbage disposal at this parents’ told Jake he’d pay the postage to send the cat, whatever that might be.

 

Billy Comparetto

© 2010


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Wednesday, May 5th, 2010
5:54 pm

Hamilton in a Dream

 

riding my old hunkered
white toyota:
the corona
from so long ago

through rutted
and sluiced 
wet streets
dowtown
hamilton
my windshieldwipers
whine and throb
slashes in arcs

And all was shambled
sad, save
gawdy and
tech laden 
redlight cameras
bulbous and
swiveling panoptic 
over the mired ruin

 

 

Billy Comparetto

© 2010


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Monday, March 29th, 2010
3:57 pm

Nightgasps

 

And every once in a while

I (still) awake

Mouth gasped to a start

|Night wise|

To feel

Dad’s waning times

So sharp: (adrenal gland pangs)

When we all knew

There was nothing

We could do

And his self

Cleaved from mountain to rubble

 

Prolly because:

 

It’s easy

To forget

In some waking moments

Strung together placid

Uninterrupted times

[Gaudy] and good;

Those pallid limp hours

When dearth seemed

Like an improvement.

 

Billy Comparetto

© 2010


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Wednesday, March 10th, 2010
5:41 pm

Breeze

 

spring comes active

soar breeze through top floor windows

something of a windchamber:

whistles, dust from ago: it smears to elsewhere

birds, you know they chirp again, they chirp songs timeless

wordless (non Phaedrus)

airdriven from tinylungs

that may

someday

be part of yet another breeze

some spring hence

 

 

Billy Comparetto

© 2010


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Friday, January 8th, 2010
4:09 am

rudders

 

skiffed up, so whence

nebula npr rap

reductionism: the victimhood place

oh, god(…?), lemme

lemme get a library card

and work should[er] by shoulder with the they

and eat ramen

and talk reams about tomorrow.

 

Billy Comparetto

© 2010


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Wednesday, January 6th, 2010
3:47 am

ice flown

 

grown:

the ice seethes

in drainish amber pools

under lights

on blacktop flumes ran still

prepositionlessness: that ice

called arcane: floe

carved and culled eons wrought to flotsam

it creaks

lulled and ripped beds from naught

and sheets strewn

to nether sends

she known

and january

girds

 

Billy Comparetto

© 2010


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Thursday, December 31st, 2009
6:22 am

some eyes

 

it was like, so, eeyoreic

how she sat, on the cementbench

slunched and smoking

when my headlights panned her face

and all i did was say, you know, goodbye

and there was something of a frown cast

in those headlights

with a blur to the black

as i whirred the culdesac

with her smoking outfront

palled like never to be seen again.

 

Billy Comparetto

© 2009

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Saturday, December 19th, 2009
4:05 am

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Thursday, December 17th, 2009
9:34 pm
For those who do not know: or for those whose friendships and own writings revolve around self absorbed drivel: speaker and writer are non-synonymous.

current mood: curious

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Tuesday, July 7th, 2009
6:55 pm - Facebook as Panopticism


 

Foucault and the Facebook



Friends, Facebookers, Foucauldians,
 
Check out this email exchange - I had a minor issue I was trying to have resolved - attempted to go through the proper channels to resolve it (which was a labyrinth of unanswered question forums, no overt and accessible help email prompt - finally found a query window) - and this is the response I got. Instead of dealing with my issue, they decided to disable my account. Facebook, it seems, though touting itself as a cleaner more safe Myspace, as a methodology of social networking, is actually a panoptic tool. A place where you already know the people you are connected with should not need such sensitive information. Knowing things such as date of birth, or "real full name" (whatever arcane notion that entails) are irrelevant to a social networking program which proports, in esteemed and elevated contrast to something as crass as myspace, to be an algorithmic representation of people one already knows in real life. Foucault and Lyotard and Orwell must be smiling somewhere.
 
So for now, my account is suspended. Meanwhile, I'm back on Myspace. I think Facebook is proving to be a problem. I did a google search related to my issue, and this suspension of my account, and it seems this is a theme with Facebook. Draconian control of information. Intentionally vague "Terms of Use" language. Swift and immediate disabling of accounts. And for what reason?....

 
On Mon, Jul 6, 2009 at 9:29 PM, The Facebook Team <privacy+nygaang@facebook.com> wrote:

Hi Billy,

We can assist you with this matter, but will first need you to provide your real date of birth. Your account has been temporarily suspended because it lists a fake date of birth. Providing false information to create an account is  violation of Facebook's Terms of Use. Please respond to this message with your full real name and date of birth (month/day/year) and we will proceed with your original inquiry.

Thanks for contacting Facebook,

Homer
User Operations
Facebook

 

-----Original Message to Facebook-----
From: comparwj@muohio.edu
To: info@facebook.com
Subject: I Can't Block Someone

Name of person to block: *******
The person's network: more than likely, Cincinnati
The person's email: unknown
Steps to reproduce the problem: *** is friends with several of my mutual friends including: ******, ******, ******. I had sent a query recently, and it was said to have been responded to; however, I am still unable to block him, nor does he appear on my "blocked" list. What do I need to do to block this person?

-----End Original Message to Facebook-----

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Saturday, July 4th, 2009
5:18 pm

Follow the fizzing fuse.

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Sunday, June 28th, 2009
12:23 am

 

     He drove in his late model Subaru, scouring enclaves of halfway houses and rehab centers for newcomers to cart to a dead meeting. I sat shotgun noticing things, and we darted around a loop of the past ten years or so. Hovels I had lived in, old time places haunted now only by memories personal and distant.
     Powerless Patty got punted from her place: some godaweful flophouse in Northside with a big yawning porch donned in meticulous gingerbread paint. She said it was a conspiracy. The other tenants chief crackpipes regularly, and they hate her. This was told in an intermittent sine wave of laughter and sobs, and he, driving, in a twisting, fingerpointing lurch told her to shut the fuck up, or he was going to have her committed as non compos mentis, and for tonight she was to stay at the apartment of Taser Brian, which he had arranged by proffering him two packs of cigarettes and bus fare.
     These fucking twits in Clifton and Hyde Park wont have anything to do with this chick, he told me, and I nodded and he spat a slow brown spittle of tobacco shards into the empty of a coffee mug from the center console.
     Taser Brian was waiting for our arrival; this motley carnival, in the parkinglot of his apartment building at the foothills of Mt. Airy. Brian’s hair was sculpted into a frizzy bouffant, and against the gaunt of his body, it appeared huge and wizened. He greeted us affably, and accepted the cigarettes and bus fare, and welcomed Patty as his guest. Myself and a millwright named Wade who had been quiet in the backseat unloaded Patty’s sparse trappings of bags and a laundry basket filled with clothes and papers, and Patty and Brian climbed the stairs and switchbacks to the building, and we all waved bye.

 

Billy Comparetto

© 2009

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Sunday, May 10th, 2009
10:08 pm

bill murray is in xavier’s closet

 

bill murray is a
xavier fan.
that is a fact.

he's been sighted
midrange centercourt
at tournament games.
in, you know, the [big] dance

his face now, wry
still, but aged
(he's taken on more serious roles, you know)
and him, at the xavier games
islandlike, midcourt
up about fifteen rows (he's not haughty)
him in a hoodie
and looking so pained
that the camera panned him.

 

© 2009

Billy Comparetto

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Wednesday, February 25th, 2009
2:38 pm

Fingers, mouth laden with her scent:

That hummus twinge. The churl oxidized fruit lorn.

She moans.

Her haspring clicks and clatters tonguewise

Sopping writhe.

“You’re good at this,” she heaves.

You tell her sex poetry is trite.

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Thursday, February 19th, 2009
5:52 pm

Electronic Palimpsest

 

The Kroger Rewards card left an electronic palimpsest as to what she was doing now. You knew that, you knew every time you used the card to cleave seventy three cents off five frozen burritos there would be some thread of discourse between you and her. You fold it up and wad it into your jeans pocket.

It had been what, two years and some change?

You ran into her one time outside Bellarmine Chapel, the one over at Xavier, where she liked to attend mass on Sunday evenings. You made an approach to her because you were trying to amend your past as a means to appease the whims of a Borderline you had been dating for a year.

The Borderline never sank into your marrow the way she did.

You look at the receipt, heat imprinted, an encoded fingerprint separated with asterisks and reported fuel savings. You wonder, briefly, who will retrieve the fuel savings this month. This little game of back and forth. She’s the one, who so long ago insisted you take one of the cards. So you could save at Kroger too.

 

Billy Comparetto

© 2009

 

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Friday, January 16th, 2009
11:03 pm

Minus Two Fahrenheit

 

Tine bleak, rusted pike throng

Up jutting to crisps

Radio jangle dry vacuous sky, come winter night

More clear then, the vivid verve, the less static hiss.

And the Rubik’s Cube shifts and clacks in chattered palls

Up forward, regress to patterns bald

Bold squares jostle, to some underlying

Some notion

Made plain in the bland moonscape

Where nosehairs freeze, and sneakers worn crunch lawns

History comes together

 

Billy Comparetto

© 2009


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Thursday, January 15th, 2009
8:04 pm

Some Isle

 

Books curled curious: all jetty wise

Hewn wordy crags from buttock dunes

Sewn water ripped crevasses

In torrents curled to a slippery noodle

 

The water wobbled

Curl toes

And spinally oxygenated seabirds wane

Wheel wise

Toward the scary side of Indianapolis

Undulating in sine wave pulse

They, the self help gait

They, disguised omniscient

But, they have buttocks too

And slippery noodle throes

 

Billy Comparetto

© 2009

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