May 30, 2008 § Leave a comment

good for the economy

The slow man with the idling car and cleft palette, whose front tire sits on the curb as he turns up the stereo and drinks litres of doughnut-shop coffee, and how that is good for the economy.
The terminal cancer patient caught in a tough divorce, addicted to unsatisfying highs, and how that is good for the economy.
The woman who thinks there is something wrong, who buys books with pastel covers to ferret it out, who nods along to daytime television and cries when the music does sweet sad leaps, and how that is good for the economy.

May 23, 2008 § 2 Comments


The reason my
writing is polemical
is because I have
difficulty with moderation.

May 20, 2008 § Leave a comment

this post is best viewed in internet explorer, due to forces I don’t understand or control
 

In an empty warehouse, a woman sings.

Rescue workers search a room for survivors after hearing noises.

The pencil-pushing redneck, age 31, sweats as he watches from the safety of his desk.

May 20, 2008 § Leave a comment

f
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w
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k
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She’s all orange, like a new tan—”Did you go tanning?” She’s pulled off her shirt and her back is dark not pale and it takes us a few moments to realise it was the shirt she just pulled off. “Guess the point of that shirt is you take the Arizona sun even after you’ve gone,” but we never went. I squirt something into my hand and spread it on the wall and it tells a story about what I just said, in braille, when it dries. We run our hands over and remember the time we ran down the street and it was all dark outside, the houses were hushed and we held hands and ran and the little girls in the second floor window screamed and screamed because the fireworks were going off over our heads and the whole place rumbled with the sound and the flash and we saw it go off, wide over the fire-station clock tower before it all stopped.

“We’re missing it, we’re missing it,” and I said we better slow down and enjoy it now, we’d have plenty of time and then it all stopped because that was it.

 
 
Later she passes the door as I am spreading more on the wall and think for sure she is mad, I think that I’ve really done it now and she goes into the living room to sit down and she’s mad but I can’t be bothered and keep on with the wall, spreading it straight to the edge.

 
 
When we eat the apples and oatmeal hot and brown from the sugar the food tastes good and it slides down our throats. I ask her about how she was mad and she says I wasn’t what do you mean and I tell her about the time she walked past the door and didn’t say anything and must have had something on her mind because she didn’t talk or even turn to look and I just kept spreading the wall, pretending like nothing was wrong. She says she was just waiting for the dessert to cool and I say “Oh, it was that hot?” and we eat and afterwards it’s night and we lay down but I don’t remember anything except that I was still spreading, in my head.

May 16, 2008 § Leave a comment

 

s o m e t i m e s   i   l i k e   c o l o u r   m o r e   t h a n   w o r d s

I like colours more than words sometimes, and I wonder what kind of writer I am. There is something about narrative I need to learn. I am not really a poet and I need to learn to write narrative in a way that I like. I am conceptual in presentation. I think.

Coming through Slaughter is a model. It’s a model I’ve read once, I need to read it more times. Ondaatje started as a poet and playwright, didn’t he? Do you understand the progression best when you read through his collected works? I want to write fragments and weave them into larger things. I need help.

i, uh, i– ha ha ha

Earlier today I tried searching for “poetry blogs”. I know there are lots of art blogs on the internet but there aren’t many I know of which play with words. Is everyone interesting publishing? Most of what I found is pathetic. I joined a top 100 poetry blog list (just interested in seeing who was in) and the top result had 10 votes, the second had more but I guess less recent, and his link went to a private myspace account. I haven’t been to Myspace in so long I wondered briefly if it was all some kind of clever joke. It probably is, anyway.
It’s not that I think I need “help” even here, per se– I just want to know what’s going on. I want to be part of a community of excited people doing interesting things, that’s hard to find.

 

May 15, 2008 § Leave a comment

w
i
t
h

a
p
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g
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s

The Bricklayer returned from his home east in Kingston, where he married an administrator. We met for drinks and along the way he said I missed you. I told him Don’t you regret that I married David? And he laughed with that little tic of his, you could see something else, something sweet coming out of the soft rough whatever, his face hid a smile that came out of something, not his laugh. He grabbed me by the waist and pulled me in, said Don’t you know that’s how it is? And I said Yes and he let me go and later that night, in David’s home and on the way there, I cried but he didn’t know, but that was all.
i think of the man and how he is strong and i think of the power of love and i think of how it is all skewed and my life is skewered up into different men and i think of the power of love and lust and how my life changes and when i hold out my hand i can feel rain and i think of the power of love and i’m wet and outside and thinking of the men that i was, that i had. i think of the way it’s all so serious and inside i am alive, i am dead, inside my head races and the traffic comes up and i want to run in, i see the building up ahead, our lone piano tower, and i want to run up with with the Pianoman and his soft fingers, and make love, and i think of how nothing’s as good as in commercials and i cry at night when David doesn’t hear and i think of the way i gave up what i had and want to connect with one man, every day, every week different, i want to meet and love one new man, every week.

May 15, 2008 § Leave a comment

think of the thin insanity that spreads out from certain sorts of men, with rough thick fingers and wild clothes. who sit down next to you in the park or on the train, so you can smell their musk breath, the rotted food, the cigarettes. who tell you the story of their life, talk until you want to believe in the broken past that they sell.

you think of that insanity and you think of spreading it out, thin, and paper sheets put into stack and stapled, narrative of another man, one crazy enough to leave his poetry out on the ground, like trash. you think of leaving that narrative and you think of leaving a number to a dead end, a phone with an answering machine, thanking you for your call, thanking you, thanking you, thanking you.

“let me tell you from the beginning that i already love you, i must tell you first that i love you, i love you, you called and i love you, i love you, i love you.”

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