without ethnicity

Are Britons just too angry?

2010-04-22T04:05:00.002-05:00

My family isn't the jet setting sort. I travel a great deal and spend a fair bit of time in the air. As does my uncle who is visiting me in Japan just now. But it's not common for 4 or 5 or more members of my extended family to have travel plans at the same time. So i think it is a bit funny when I think about the timing of the current, or recently ended ban on flying in Europe.

It is amazing that there could be an all out ban on flying, thinking how much money is involved in travelling. But personally I'd rather sleep at an airport a few days, or delay my vacation than fly into a cloud that has the potential to turn my plane engines into glass...I am one who lives by the philosophy of choose life.

I suppose that many Europeans don't live by that philosophy which is why they seem to be so angry about the trouble. I think it is absurd to get angry about the weather. Isn't it? Isn't it a little bit absurd to get angry about a volcanic eruption? I mean this is the first time every... every that a volcano has felt the need to erupt in commercial airspace... you think people would be a little bit tolerant of the fact that this has never happened before.

It's like if you were flying into somewhere that was at that moment having an earthquake... would you really want the plane to land? Or would you prefer it was rerouted or delayed... Is it really something to get angry about. Now I know that its hard when you are stranded and don't really have money for a hotel or have a friend in the area with a couch you can crash on, which is a good time to make some friends, and I think European hostels should have been making a move on airports advertising their cheap beds and busing people to and from to help them get through the problem.

But I read the news reports and there are words "infuriated" and "irate" and "angered" being used and it just makes me think, man I hope i never have to go to Europe and meet all these people who can't recognize that sometimes things that HAVE NEVER HAPPENED BEFORE happen and that when they do, we have no plans in place, and perhaps erring on the side of caution is nicer than allowing people to die and expensive equipment to be damaged, when a lot of patience and willingness to accept that when things that HAVE NEVER HAPPENED BEFORE happen, we don't always choose the best way to deal with them.

Rie

2010-04-09T04:46:00.002-05:00

I watched her come home and quietly put the medal in the trophy case. And I thought, she is finished with skiing, now. I have a marathon medal just like that. It says marathon on it, but I know it was only 5ks.

She said, "thanks for all your help with the trip. Everyone had a great experience." She looked at the case and then closed the glass door. "Uh," she started.

I've started biting my cheek, I thought. And wondered when the habit started.

I asked her to help me make a flyer for some new classes. She agreed and said she would come back a little later. I agreed that was best.

Later, her mother said she would send the flyers from Tokyo. I thought as much.

That evening my student said to me, "Why can you speak Japanese?" I said, because I like to tell stories. He didn't understand. But thinking about it now, I do like to tell stories.

Dancing on water

2009-10-20T22:14:00.002-05:00

the swan glides sleepily across the black lake
is watched
followed
a simple mystery

you ask, he tells you of all his dancing
of the feel of webbing against water
the beading rain on feathers

he tells you of the flight from Montana
of the nest he built
of the one he loved

if only you could hear his voice as more than a beautiful song
you would hear his wit
understand his smile
know the content, not just the intent of his mind

Tchaikovsky knew it.
the swan will glide. Silent,
in so many ways.

A strange sort of breeze

2009-10-14T09:25:00.002-05:00

It was a summer for falling in love. It was a breeze off the ocean in a land unimagined. You always imagine lands unimaginable. In dreams, day dreams and Friday midday naps. But they are usually like home when you imagine them. But not when you encounter them. They are like nothing you have ever imagined when you encounter them. And when you do, encounter them, you think why didn't I imagine this sooner, it is so unimaginable. And it dawns on me the reason this word has meaning.

But there was the breeze. The light and playful air. And a light on the water, as we slipped by. It was a light present. Unexpected. Gifted nonetheless. White light on silky black. and then gone.

as we slipped into the night.

I want to sing frabjuous

2009-05-27T01:53:00.001-05:00

want to scream it like
red bandanaed breasts
no rest for the weary
weary I am not. ever happy
but want to erase
this beat. Stop
the artificial heart and scream
frabjuous I am
frabbed call me
a cab i don't know
who's my dad
tonight this
morning this
happy day I cry and tell an old friend

you are beat feet stop
stepping stomp missing
the beat... the cut, could
the sound of sax just
stop. just cut and fall silent be forgot. but
linger longer like
the taste of it
remember the face of it

Q: What happened to all the trees?
A: They burst into flames
of flowers and set the whole town on fire
and we all sat doe-eyed in the sun's rising light

A quiet moment

2009-03-04T04:28:00.002-05:00

This is about a prayer.

was asleep. didn't want to be. It was boring. But did sleep.

And then in sleep said, Oh God...and in the moment that thought happened awoke and finished the thought...I am awake.

wasnt' sure if it was true, so looked inward and saw it was. And thought, I am alive. And awake. And exhaled deeply and smiled, my two favourite ways of being.

Thank you. Thank you.

Amen.

I don't believe in magic

2009-01-21T20:17:00.001-05:00

Mostly, I don’t believe in magicians. A comedian is an entertainer. But a comedian loves you. Wants you to laugh and makes jokes, awkwardly, when no one is looking. I think a magician must hate you.

Comedians love. That is why they joke. They want to laugh. Want to examine the world in you. They murmur, look at this problem. Let’s examine it. Let’s try it out. Test it in the world and find the humour. Find ways to understand why they love you. Why a ham sandwich is funny. Comedians love ham sandwiches.

A magician will look you in the eye and lie to you.

Magicians don’t love you. That is why they smoke. They want you to gasp for air. Want to create the world in you. They murmur, collude and scheme with their confederates. Let’s imagine a world not as it is. Let’s create it after our image. They want you to forget the real magic they cannot create and take their illusions as true. They want you to want deceptions.

I want magic like laughter. Magic like flowers and seeds in the winter. I want whispers of magic murmuring I’m about to giggle magic. Giggles don’t lie. I want a magician who loves me.

But they don’t, they wouldn’t lie if they did.

I want comedy not magic. I want a ham sandwich.

Pre medical

2009-01-21T11:04:00.000-05:00

and sometimes you realize you don’t remember activities you know you must have done (did I roll through a red light without noticing or was the light green and so I didn’t notice it?)
and so try to remember
is this just absent-mindedness

Then you get a quiet headache, like rain when you need milk
and let it go. I don’t need milk and I just do not remember.
and breathe
and sometimes breath makes the rain in your head melt
and roll down the back of your throat into your chest
to be swallowed by your stomach

and you realize that you have arrived already and think of the dreaded the getting there you do not even remember and you continue you continue about what you were intending to do and think about the absence in your memory, a green light you never saw and forget quickly the quiet headache, the breath and melting and keep only the strange taste in your throat and a vague sense that it feels about 9 o’clock

Before you knocked

2009-01-18T03:00:00.004-05:00

Before you knocked on my door
before we talked, before we laughed and knew
each other to be human
in the moment before our intersection
there was only me: a piece of crumpled paper.

I was filled with the crumpling of paper
incomplete and hopeless ideas aborted and abandoned
I was, everyday, choosing to abort myself

in the moments before that knock I was ready to quit.
I was ready to give up on my adventurous song
and fly to the security of people who know me, or knew me once.

After that knock.
After EG's tears. And the shaking of hands (not fists)
I went to sleep. I was sick and that knock was heavy
and tiring

And this is something that I know:
When I awoke I wasn't sick anymore. I breathed easily and had no soreness in my throat or chest. But that which is more there was no crumpling of bed sheets, there was no hopelessness in me.

I sat and ate dinner and said out loud to my home, "what now?" And I was still uncertain so I said, "forget it. Go back to sleep. You might still be convalescent and need more rest." But my heart felt round and said "if you do that then you have to quit your job on Monday and prepare to leave Japan" and I said, "I can't succeed in Japan. All there is for me here is loneliness, a friendless isolation. I have been here all this time and I still have nothing." And then my voice came loudly "You haven't tried." And then silently because I didn't dare think it, it embarrassed me so, if you do not try you are just a coward and these years of adventure were nothing but running for the fear that others might discover that cowardice.

What else choice was there but abortion I couldn't face...

and so I tried.

and then I saw Jupiter.

and then I met a man who could make a saxophone taste like honey.

And then I wrote. I wrote words and circles and lines. I wrote nothing about me I had so many things to write I couldn't rest my pen the floods of ink and paper filled me. And when I couldn't write I drew and when I couldn't draw I sang and when I couldn't sing I danced.

And then I danced and didn't look for mirrors.

and then I made two friends. two strangers.

And then, and it was so strange to hear and feel, I lay in bed and laughed out loud about something I couldn't remember. And then I dreamed in gold and purple. And in the colours I heard my brother laugh.

Before you knocked I had hopelessness.
now I have desire.
Before you knocked I had fear.
now I have dance.
Before you knocked I had excuses, explanations, justifications
and plans. Sorry I’m busy.
Now I have only life.

Before you knocked I thought I had nothing
but now I see I have the crumpled piece of paper

it may not be perfect or beautiful
it may not change lives or save lives or end lives or begin lives
it may not even be more than a crumpled piece of paper with a drawing on it of a ham sandwich
but it is something, and I have it.

Yes, the point i was making

2009-01-13T18:58:00.002-05:00

The point was about drinking. That it is an activity deeply loved by humans. We love to drink things almost as much as I love to read things. It is compulsive. I see a word or a shape and I just I have to know what it says. I can't leave it alone without reading it. Even here where all the word shapes are の　と　と　ろ金じゃ　or something like that...I just, I see them and I have to read. Lines like | and 二　and curves like めのね　lovely I think and ponder what they might mean...ham sandwiches over here maybe...and I try to log it away because maybe one day I will learn its true meaning and find the ham sandwiches...

But maybe you aren't quite compulsed to read things like this, but you do love to drink things. You see something, something that looks drinkable and you go and you drink it. You have to. You would feel funny leaving it. And we are all so terribly thirsty. This is why there are so many different things to drink: goat's milk; guava juice; Ovaltine; water; creme du menthe; nudies if you are in Australia; Moosehead if you are in Canada (or South Korea and looking for a Canadian beer); 600 different kinds of rices tea if you are in Japan; 6 million other kinds of tea from morning glory dew tea to baby knuckle juice tea if you are in China and coke in many flavours if you are in Texas...

It is shocking all the different things we drink, and the lengths we go to to drink them. and that is the point I was trying to make. I don't even notice that I am reading a word and already I have finished, and that is just how it is.

And I was thinking this and drinking cartons of milk and feeling a bit funny about it. I was drinking milk like wine from the carton thinking I would feel a bit funny drinking cartons of wine from a carton. Wine just feels more justified from a glass bottle. Maybe everything feels more justified from a glass bottle. I wonder if anyone here makes milk in glass bottles. They do in England.

I was drinking cartons of milk thinking who drinks cartons of milk. Usually if you drink cartons of milk then you buy milk by the jug and you are a whole family with 4 hockey playing sons. Or that engineer from Electal Hall who used to buy two jugs of milk at a time.

But I used to be lucky to drink one cup of milk over the course of two weeks. And there I was empty cartons piling up in the kitchen. The staff beginning to worry if i was ever going to order a drink.

When I ordered another cocoa. I told the woman I was talking with in another language (or two) that my tea bags have words on them, and so I had to read them. and they say: write us if you have any questions or concerns or if you are just lonely and crave some human contact. And I asked her: how do my tea bags know me so well? And she said she didn't know, maybe I should write and ask.

and that is the point i was making.

i like calendars opened to April, an essay on cliteracy

2009-01-06T05:09:00.003-05:00

This room has a great wealth of walls. And the reason for this is: In Japan there is a great wealth of calendars.

The clock on the shelf on the other side of the door is analogue. It has bendy arms that are hard to read and a floral pattern that doesn't help you tell the time. I have to choose to read it. And even when I read it I can't really know just what time it is, I only set it approximately. At that time I thought it was about 9...

I like the first of the month because sometimes the calendar hasn't caught up yet and for a brief moment I can approximate my recovery. I can think, is it really?

I like calendars in April. I like calendars turned to April. It's a good month. Month of promises. Month of poetry. An awkward month. The first round month of the year. The month of 30 days when we can sort of come in out of the cold. When we dress too warmly and have to tie bulky sweaters around our hips. As we walk. Or when we go to restaurants with gloves and toques and the waiter wants us to take the menu but our hands are full with clothes we don't want to wear but brought because it might be cold. because it is April. There are 30 days of this.

April is a month that invites you to picnics, but the weather is terrible. April is a month that takes you to a cafe for cocoa, but there is no whipped cream. it's a month where movies always have Leonardo Dicaprio. A month when the strawberries are expensive, and smell nice but taste sour. It's a month of taxes and funerals and if you aren't going to make it, April is the month that will break you. It is a month of fire in flowers and muddy clothes and romping and dry skin. It's a month awkwardly off, you can only laugh in April. And laugh again. It's April. Proportioned like a trombone player.

And better yet is when the calendar says April. Because you can catch it in your eye and think, "oh god, not again...not April. It's so, I can't..." and then you realize, no, it's May. I haven't changed the calendar. And laugh. With relief. And make plans to go to the park with a friend.

I am a recovering woman. As you can see. No clocks. No watches. There is something about seeing numbers. Even the clock on my computer screen wisely hides itself when I am not looking for the time, and even then it tells me the wrong time. Because there is something about numbers.　Something about recovering as a woman and seeing numbers that...just... I don't like calendars. I don't need to know exactly when it is. It is now. Isn't is? You know. I don't need to know exactly.

But in Japan, the calendars never say April. Except in April.

I love you

2009-01-02T05:01:00.003-05:00

because you joined facebook. we all did this, didn't we. We all joined facebook. and hated it. or hated that we silently enjoyed it.
because you send emails, everyday, sometimes twice. and still have nothing to say.
because you say, "punch yourself in the chest", and "come on!" and i do it. and feel better for it
because you never invite me anywhere.
because you never tell me to do anything.
because you never suggest that maybe i should think about it differently.
and yet i go out, play cards and invite Mormons into my home.
because you can't make coffee. and don't like it anyway.
because you can't play cribbage. and still join in.
because you make music, or poetry, or movies, or children. and they all make me cry.
because you can drive a car. and hang a teddy bear from the ceiling. and make wine from water and other ingredients. because you laugh when I am uncomfortable.
because you cry when the little boy with the sippy cup figures out how to dip his oreo in the milk.
because you know how before i say how i feel.
because you sit on the kitchen floor.
because you write and read and think about so many different things; medicines, tv listings, the changing colour of the silence.
because you appear in a dream on an anniversary.
because my fingers can make it so. I love you.

4. Will it rain again?

2008-06-20T08:11:00.008-05:00

I dreamed I was a piece of fruit and my partner was peeling my skin."
"Why would you dream something like that?"
I looked at my new friend and wondered why I would even tell her something like that. She was cute. Plain. Not the kind of girl you laden with your nocturnal musings. I smiled and thought about such musings, but she interrupted.
"You must watch too much."
I laughed, "Too much what?"
"Your wife. Either sex with your partner is for spectators. Or perhaps, you should help more. Rather than just watching."
I took another drink from my coffee. A fluffy, fruity, iced something altogether rotten. Whenever she speaks I feel like I am learning English all over again. Not that I can't understand her words. But somehow when she speaks I am always sure I don't understand what she means. She looked through me with a sudden edge of irritation. I turned to see what she was looking at, but there was nothing new. I was going to ask as she stooped and checked her phone.
"I don't see why I need one of these. I wish it wasn't ever useful, so I could justify leaving it at home."
"Why have a phone if you aren't going to use it."
"Maybe I will stop using it," she finished, dropping it back in her sack, like a lump of coal.
Jane was one of those women who carried a sack, rather than a purse. Just a well worn fabric thing that slung over her shoulder and hung on her hip. Clearly, it never was intended to coordinate with anything. She really was different from people here.
"James is about to arrive. He is just coming up the exit stairs," she said in a bored way. "Why would I need to know that? We have plans...we are to meet."
James was my connection to this woman. He worked with her, or had worked with her, or well I was never quite clear on their connection. I met James back in college. I was studying English in Canada, as was he. Although, it was the only language he spoke. We somehow became fast friends, and he'd often talked of this girl, Jane. It was strange when one day some years later and quite by accident, she turned up in my gallery. This girl, or woman rather, across from me.
I could tell Jane was unsure about seeing her friend again. I guess there is something in meeting a friend again in a foreign land. But I hardly had time to think about it when the young man entered the cafe.
"Okay?" She looked at him as if to say, so that's who you are. And I could see Jimmy really was James. Taking a full minute to stop blinking from the change in lighting in the cafe, and to think about how one says hello in English. Probably still the only language he can communicate at all in.
"Yes. Well..." James stumbled for a bit.
"Right," said Jane, standing and slinging her sack. "Let's be on the move."
"Good to see you, old friend." I patted him on the pack as we walked out.

Jane led the way to the gallery.
"She seems suddenly on fire," I muttered to James.
"Doesn't she always seem that way?" he looked shocked by my observation. James stopped walking and looked out into the street. Then back the way we had come.
"Is there a problem?"
"Hmm deja vu." James then took out his cell phone and examined it, "Hey, I think I must skip off. I'll meet you at the opening tonight. This guy wants to see me, and I should go."
Jane nodded and I shook hands with James.
"Or maybe you are growing." Jane said suddenly as he turned away.
"What?"
"Not you, see you later." She turned to me and said again, "Maybe you are growing and you need to shed your skin."

3. Is it spring...already

2008-03-12T20:57:00.001-05:00

The window was open even though it was barely past Valentine's Day. The heat was off but it was still hot in her studio apartment. The sun had let itself in through the east window earlier, and set fire to the place. Jane lay pressed against the wall trying to escape the heat, wishing she had chosen to take the west side apartment.

It was peaceful, the land of morning calm was once more living up to its name. Birds were singing as though it were late June, and everything else was quiet. No cars were out bumping around yet, children were still indoors finishing homework, even the church goers were still thinking about whether to shower first or get up for some tea. It was as though everything had been forgotten. The fog of the night before had been burned off with the morning sun, and all that remained was a blue sky. Jane sat up and leaned against the wall. She looked at the unfinished painting on the floor across from her. Her eyes were red and swollen, her face was stained with tears, and her head was buzzing. She had looked up into the night sky, at the half moon, and cried. And screamed. She had pounded her head and heart, the bed and walls. And now all way quiet. All was calm.

Jane pulled herself out of bed and went to the sink for water. The tap water was warm and tinny, but the bottles were all empty. Jane looked at the plants all tipped on the floor, and the broken mug that lay near the window.

Could it be time to go home? she wondered. But where was that anyway?

Jane returned to her bed with the cup of water and looked again at the painting. What had possessed her to create it. The black and white scratched across the canvas. Harsh jagged lines that outlined a woman's body. She wished she had finished it in one fit. She didn't want to go back there, but she didn't want to leave it either. It was beautiful, wasn't it.

"It's no use," she finally said. And trumped off to have a shower.

2. Does it snow here?

2008-03-03T21:05:00.000-05:00

Jane was putting her socks on, trying to register a pero in her mental dictionary as "the other side", or "the other way." Or maybe it just means the other, she smiled to herself thinking about the appropriateness of Edward Said in Korea. She felt calmer, the class had been good, hard work, with challengin poses, but good ones. She felt relieved. And now she could go home for the evening with a clear conscience, she had done something other than sleep or work today.

"Janie," the instructor was trying to get her attention, "do you like ah, mashit-go" The woman paused trying to remember the English word.

"Drinking?" Jane offered.

"Ah, yes. Here. Will you come?" Jane looked at the duk in the woman's outstretched hand.

"Where are you going?" she asked, hopefully.

"Um Chinggu-wa to Beer Cabin. They are nice to meet you."

Jane, still feeling quite Jamesian, agreed to go along. She walked out of the health centre, and joined the group of students from the Yoga class with the instructor, to walk down the street to the Beer Cabin. She listened to them jibber and babbel merrily about probably clothes and boots, a few times she thought perhaps each trying to get another to have enough courage in her English to talk to the Weagook. They offered her drinks and food silently, gesturing and smiling. She figured she should break the ice.

"Mekju chuseyo," she said softly and nervously. The women laughed, and said something that Jane imagined was ooh, your Korean is very good. The started asking questions Jane caught a noun here and there and put together some broken responses in the polite form. Trying to explain she only knew the polite form.

The girls laughed and encouraged her, relieved they didn't have to put on the same specticle in broken English. After a couple dishes and some soju cocktails, it was time to turn in. Jane walked to the station with one of the other students.

"I didn't know you spoke Korean."

Jane smiled, "I didn't know you spoke English."

"I suppose we are even then."

Jane looked puzzled, "You speak very well," the girl blushed, and Jane rethought her words, "I don't mean to compliment, rather to ask, hmm."

"Ask what?" the girl prodded.

"It doesn't matter really. Where you learned, but Korea...probably, maybe with time in Canada or Hawaii or something like that."

The subway was just steps away, and Jane was mad at the girl for not speaking up.

"Will you still come when Uhn-hi returns?"

"Who, Nina? Yes. But next month I will work in the evenings, so I will go to the afternoon classes."

"Oh."

"Well, I take the subway from here."

"Yes, it was nice to walk with you Jane." And with the the girl continued off down the street. Jane watched her before descending into the station.

www.babelfruit.com

2008-01-25T06:29:00.000-05:00

Writing under the influence. I paused. And thought. Humph. And took another swig of Whiskey and Coke. I don't think they mean...because that would be...

I started to read, slumped in my chair, arm hung in the sling. Fucking shoulder. I was all but paralyzed in that arm when i stumbled on the link. Typing in a strange one-handed hybrid. Uncoordinated fingers dancing from qwerty to bnm,. Under what influence. It didn't cut into the pain at all. Diffused it, maybe so instead of the intense burn in my chest and shoulder, the burn spread. spearing creepingcrawling up and down my back and arms. Across my face. Into my bowel.

Fuck.

Cultural influence. I saw the beast rouse in the corner, and wished the shotgun was loaded.
"Go back to sleep," I grumbled, thinking i should try it. Sometime. Soon.

The story had been dissatisfying.
"So why don't you stop reading?"
"Go back to sleep!"

I closed the window. I didn't really care about cultural influence. I hated it anyway. "I have had too much and too little of it. My hodge-podge princess. Now, sleep.

"I won't. not now that you have started talking to me."
So i turned back to the screen. It wouldn't take long. Soon something equally insulting would slap me in the face. Humph. Under the influence, I thought. Taking another swig from the mug.

1. Here Comes February

2008-01-23T17:48:00.001-05:00

It wasn't so perfectly night time that night as Jane left work. The days would still be growing colder, but at least they were slowly getting longer. She wondered how long a long day was in this country. The enigma of the sunset had still yet to unravel itself, though she never missed a sunrise.

The offistel studio faced sunrise directly. And appropriate was for a lady like Jane to wake each day, rising with the sun as it crept of the old church, the only building in the vista. If you'd met her, you would think she was a bit like a sunrise. Enchanting, unwanted, wanted, unremarkable, often unremarked.

Jane quickened her pace against the bitter cold that night, on her way to the bus depot. Thinking about the orange-red glow of that morning. Like the sunsets she used to race against as she flew on her bike back home.

Academies had just let out for dinner break, and the street was full with children, thankful for the recess, even if there were no play gyms to spend their energy on. Instead they spent money in multitude of snack shops, buying duk, or kimbab rolls. She dodged several near collisions as kids with sticks of gooey treats weaved and bobbed up and down the sidewalk.

In a moment of clarity, Jane realized it was colder than she thought, wondered if she should double back for a sweater and miss the express bus and the early class. No, I have made up my mind to go straight to Yoga.

The instructor was terrible, and something about the bus--its smell or the way it weaved and bobbed like a small child with gooey treats--always upset her stomach. She still went to the class out of a cursory politeness. She was pulling a James, rather inconvenience herself than offend anyone. Even if she wasn't going to see that person again. She thought about James, wondered where he had got off to these days. It had been a long 8 months, he could be in Afgahnistan by now.

The light changed to cross the busy highway. And the day is longer, she thought, it is a good day to do something after work.

Jane arrived at the bus depot as the sky took on that truly night time grey. It only ever got dark in the city around 4. A long way off, she thought, as she waited for the bus.

no.

2007-11-08T03:19:00.003-05:00

or was it the door lurching open. steel and the tree. the fabric tree. through the sliding door. burning. the park through the lurching door. there a bench, a park, a smoke tree of cloth. there a child grins at a girl paused in blue. in the cricket sky. there, it happened. she hung, from the burning tree. a cold metal slip slid through the butter of her belly, through and through a double-bind; his septic smile; her flat-land flank; black mouth a gurgling, grinning, gagging drip of a mouth and cloth and cocktail. a molotov clown of cloth for a running nose. tossed in the river past the bench. in the park. through the lurching steel town door. through the lurching door, the tree, it happened. a lynching grin, happened. the hand on fire held tight and slid the slip of cold through the butter of her lips, her popcorn hips, her corncob teeth, her cupcake hands. let slip the grip of cold blue and grey stone to stick. her mouth. her hole. her sanguine without cotton etiquette, unwrapped. how did it happen. a hand grips this stone before, this tree before, this lip before black with heat before, this fireless light before has crushed the blushing mirror of this fun house lurching stairs and carpet floors. like blind or eyes grinning before.

Do you remember the sound of this morning?

2007-10-02T05:28:00.000-05:00

It was all construction cars and horns
all children bikes and flourescent lights
it was grey clouds settling over a red sky.

do you remember the sound

her engine cheering, her eyes--grey
the cloth of her gloves on the plastic wheel, her belt
the wind, that held her in
the sound of saliva on her tongue, wet lips

do you remember that display

It was yesterday, a year zapped passed
from that morning on the poarch
watching the sky turn red from grey then grey again
watching her eyes turn red from grey then grey again

sitting, i was, on that sunrise poarch
when i heard the crunch
the silence
the news.

A year hense and look where she is now. In another country. On another hill. Up again.

Transcontinental Breakfast

2007-08-22T20:07:00.001-05:00

And we will remember the luxury
of staying in starless hotels
watching 2 star movies on starry nights.

From the roof top
full moon lovers generate enough heat with sloppy slappying
to cause a heat wave, to boil this ever falling ach two oh
like a pressure cooker

We will remember to wave
misdirecting traffic as the steam of this engine
drives us across this continent.
circumnavigate her. Here.

Here she comes. Aurora,
kissed on the cheek by the North Wind, wondering
how did we get here?
We started out in luxury
eating peanutbutter and bananas on bread
to break the fast.

Do you hear that?

2007-07-06T07:22:00.001-05:00

The drumbeat morning
fitful sleep preping for flight or fright
no beats of regret, my heartbeat
hears the song and rejoices

The drumbeat morning
the cusp of the weekend coming up to greet me
with g-force jetset
so long Canada

The drumbeat morning
my love building the strength to walk
to walk down this scream fest
so long a letter

the drumbeat decible
building up my journey, for this festival
of life, my laughter is here saying
see you soon.

Let us sing to help with this fatigue

2006-10-02T18:58:00.000-05:00

stone. cold grey. see rock
piles with birds crying.
tree. cool green. rocks gather
close and sign or sing
wind, in leaves, breeze
moves a spirit dance

look. a song climbs as
a fire ant, cleans the leaves
of all disease with ease
descends clears the earth
and there defends
home. the tree
the song protects enlivens feeds
follow cadence and colleague into
the battle against fatigue

building speed. momentum now
cracks the concerete, jacked up
at the corners and attacked
crack. again breaking
that solid path into pieces
smaller pieces of corners torn
off and digested down the gluee
and stone to sand. grit.
we can sit and mourn
and remember before we heard the news
the sky was grey then red then grey
we remember the drum. tanned
by the circle. palms and hands warmed
on skin. for song. see the notes
help with this fatigue

walking to and from

2006-08-11T08:46:00.000-05:00

etymologies are something
looking at the thing that was
to see.explain.know the thing that is

but does it ever help to know what was
isn't the was a novelty. what a lark!
what a plunge! isn't that something
she used to be a stripper

Tell me about your tomato plants, when I can’t sleep (excerpt)

2006-07-18T12:54:00.000-05:00

The best thing in the world is the sound of piano. And the best way to hear piano is as it wafts through the floors and ceilings of a house to parts that never see the instrument, at work or otherwise. The house would wonder at those smooth vibrations if it was unwise. But houses with hidden instruments are always wise. You can really breathe piano in when you are ease-dropping it. When it doesn’t know you are listening. When it thinks no one hears the errors, the slips in tuning, the shifts in tempo with the rise and falling of crescendo.

When it happens, when the piano wafts up here like fresh frosted apple pie, you might slip out of that armchair and lay down on the linoleum. Listen, and hear mostly the dump truck in the lane, but still listen. A little more of the old instrument’s nuance.

Sometimes the woman downstairs plays the piano when she thinks she is home alone. She plays it well. She’s a stripper. Beautiful, huh? She makes terrible cake, but plays, so I forgive her, want to know more. Want to be her friend. Fall in love with the piano playing of a stripper and forget why I love up here and she lives down there. And ease-drop on a thunderstorm is blissful. Pressing a cheek to a glass pane like you would to this linoleum. Then the song is done, water’s gone. But I can slip back into the armchair and chuckle, that I just stole the best thing in the world.

2

...

7

The woman who plays piano can’t make her tomatoes grow. I watch her sometimes, standing over them, trowel in hand, with a look of utter consternation. She adds water, more soil, more sand, nitrates and no end of other fertilizers, but the puny pale green stalks just sprout leaves and no flowers. Flowers that do happen are plucked off by birds. Flowers that manage to bud are et by greedy rodents and slugs. Three years and this afternoon I have watched her, trowel in hand, lording over her tomatoes that won’t tomato when the piano begins to play.

from It's Thursday Act 2; scene 3

2006-06-21T17:32:00.000-05:00

Onyx's Monolgue

So now there’s
Static energy building into
Thunder clouds growling
Electricity compounding polls
Shocking the system into motion.

Action
Lingual movement
Language tricks
The alphabet back-flips into soundboards
Exciting the lips
Oh, stand anywhere
And have a drop to drink,
I think this moment tests,
this drop, one mixed and blessed as it passes lips
hung dry for soft lips
try to kiss lips
Don’t you hate to taste lips
A kiss missed
Slipped and tripped on lips
Tasting this
The mixed Sicilian kiss
Gone in one sip
Like this trip
Nesting, in places comfortable,
Testing, the mother swan,
Resting in reduced marshland
She wants her comfortable
oh so comfortable marshland home.
She wants comfort, sees not danger
Is swept up in passion,
Is run down by fashion
Has no choice but to follow the course
And step into comfort

I thought I’d watch
and want to purify and simplify
but life ain’t like that.
It’s complexity
come flex with me,
just dance with me
and let me be the girl
with one hand in her pocket and the other one writing the next rhyme.

And here come shadows
Creeping in at windows
Peering at the scars on my sun burned skin
And there go nightmares
Tripping down the front stairs
Calling out for anyone to take them in
here comes the next thing
Dressed as self reflection
Troubling the rhyme to start the advice.

Don’t lose!
the race is off
and down the back

s t r e t c h
in your mind the net
loss is effect
of this
And that is
cause of dress clothes,
and tomato soup

Oat. eaten now.
is thought. produced later.
Red light, lunar glow
open shadow’s shows
of strength and brawn, but nothing lost
is nothing gone to dust
and dusk is still

those maverick roam en abîme
and stare at bare water, where water
was not roaming

the rat race is leaving
you behind

you’re underweight and oversexed
and goaded on to gambol
and lapse into thought
start the course
and bound to be trapped
in the room
graded back
and graded back and
graded back
from knowledge
gained but never passed
as you run down mud tracks

not you.
sit and watch, dab a brow
take a number to wait in line
for a bus
and trust, there comes a second time,
the story again, a second time

The race is lost
Exasperations moved this nation
To step up or away
From a man
Or a woman
Or another
And another
And an other
cuz

the worst feeling in life
is the feeling
this race is going nowhere

filth

2006-03-14T10:28:00.000-05:00

fricture

stands to ground itself
in image of self
loath to see

grounds a picture of
snip snip slice
in moving reverie

shifts and grows to this
steps sweetly round the point
to prick a picture
flesh a fricture
mix my mixer
please

fracture

stand bridge over mix of air and fluid air
liquid glass panes stand and melt
run coolly down

broken glass cuts and scabs and cuts again
like a border contended

i

broader contender fear all things
equally
and pound out snow
and turn out snow
and move on slow

super cool liquid shows an image
slides as glass
solid fractures

composition

2006-03-09T22:24:00.000-05:00

i wish that frank was water proof
i write the bst lines in the shower
and then promptly forget them
but if frank could join me
somehow i would have beautiful things to post

about the rain

---

dont you think that all you write in the shower are reflections on rain...well artificial rain. i would write them on the wall...but the shower is so close

From Onyx's monologue act 2 scene 2

2006-02-27T22:44:00.000-05:00

(dangerously) interrupt me boy, don’t hang by the door
Wanting me to explore my sunny disposition.
My position is still beside the young knight
Ready to leap into action and reaction
I’m undone in lost thought, no longer broken
So, Captain, my captain, no
Onyx, my onyx is everywhere without a drop to drink,
I would think this moment tests,
this drop, one mixed and blessed as it passes lips
hung dry to kiss lips
I try to kiss lips
I hate to kiss like
Something… (forgetting) oh.
But forget that thought, and think of nesting
in places comfortable, like the mother swan on the 401,
reduced marshland makes us think that anywhere is our comfortable
oh so comfortable marshland home.
Wanting comfort, forgetting or not seeing danger
Danger is everywhere and women don’t think
That danger would come their way
So they watch and want to purify and simplify
but life ain’t like that.
Its complexity
come flex with me,
just dance with me and let me be the girl with one hand in her pocket and the other one writing the next rhyme.
And next time you think that I’m not happy, drop me.
Realize the projection ain’t the problem. Interest protection ain’t so troubling
As the self reflection that starts you on this course

illusion

2006-01-17T06:38:00.000-05:00

he says write about being the illusionists assistant. about how all things become black and smoke and mirrors. he doesn't know the effect of mirrors from the side, only the front. only the front is what you see. but where i stand i see nick, headset and black gloves sliding open trap doors in the "see completely whole stage."

all stages are built with a trap. even the highschool gym stage built 4 years ago. they dont realize why, those archetechs, they just have the traps included.

i know why with a six foot length ill be suspended over snakes. always snakes. why can't i be the one to appear on the chandiler.

and sometimes i stand, smiling petroleum jelly, wondering if the bid i made on black corset gothic is going to come through, or if some jelly-mold from Ohio will check just in time to out bid, or well maybe i should have bought it one time. she'd only wear it for her mirror. I'd reflect it in the side of this mirror.

he says i should write a short bit about sliding mirrors silently across the dark lit stage, about black lights and black suits, about black silk and his pillow. like miltons ligh that doesn't illuminate, i should illude to the traps waiting to drop me to the substage, to sub dimentions, to sprinted runs and harnesses dropping me again from the chandelier, to my likeness - she'd never wear bunny ears though - so i guess i won't either.

the mirrors inerest me. nick pushes three stage hands through the curtains to dish and receive props and i flash flash petroleum jelly at grandpa and his escort in aisle f. She's wearing bunny ears, and would never look inside the mirror. at its green glass or silver halide skin. she would check her lips and tits and be off again. always gone again. an illusion of 21.

he is an illusions trick, turning mirrorred chop box. no tricks. just illusions.

it means another day, without

2006-01-14T21:41:00.001-05:00

and she chuckles and spins off to another dance, flashing glances longer than looking, longer enough to doubt and redoubt. andd he'd wonder if he was talking to the right woman. and she chuckles softly. a shadow of pain faulters a step and she is gone.

a ray of the sun creates a moment in activation. and then what. she looses herself at oblique angles. the very ones that once dressed a grade school cash book. the very ones she used to score pefect on. and she flashes flashes acute angles in reflecive surfaces.

a ray of the sun creates.

what are you fucking?

2006-01-10T03:02:00.000-05:00

do you even look at the other pages?
wtf.

im not writing any more shit for a while, just indulging myself in my head. so have fun with that

zone alarm

2005-12-31T19:14:00.000-05:00

pre law. pre med. pre life. pro life. got choice expressed repressed. projected on moments of indecision. memories of indecision. express identify this fully. understand you fully. want you fully. shaded in age. experience a life missed. blessed, messed by this mess express. but where have you been. a tour? Im obsessed. and repressed blest with this smell. you. your breathing in me not my smell but me. the air i hold close to my skin. where only the cold gets in. where young men see what it is to see me.

couldn't you imagine the gem of a woman just leaping up and walking out on this stout moment of full silence lost and silence found and founded on silence. gasps for air in air in error point reflects. Fuck. THis isn't going to work.

don't censor this thought. help a friend and look left. it's easy, just look left and move on. move out into oblivion. move out into freedom to or freedom from. fuck tweedle dee fuck tweedle dum. just move. dance fancy pants and lead. lead the way away sister. off you go.

bless

onyx

2005-12-27T13:17:00.000-05:00

child, sing it out
boy come calm cry

child, wait a moment
play here try
to child yourself to a new
game played in
trained in this
room
there is room for you too
child
there is always room

Bronwen Wallace can eat shit and die

2005-12-19T21:26:00.000-05:00

i do not hate the woman in this poem
with her lover hiding in a letter
a scrawled word

with her pot roast burning
and kids drilling holes in their teeth
this woman is just fine
and can be not me
and im fine with that
so bronwen and your visions of domesticity
and identity need to take a shot of my fluidity and
piss off

i have anger for canadian poets.

here is to

2005-12-14T19:53:00.000-05:00

the untrainable teacher
prophetic preacher
stop watch keeper
ding ding ding

the upside stealer
and right side sleeper
slide step sneaker
ding ding ding

reach out and kiss him
slip step or miss him
cus he’s got rhythem
going ding ding ding

his eyes shining brightly
and feet dancing lightly
this boy taps you slightly
in the ding ding ding

cyc

2005-12-09T09:46:00.000-05:00

cycling in the snow, never quite as romantic as fallin in love

but falling off a bike in to snow always worth the trip

briefly

2005-12-08T20:39:00.000-05:00

living in the moment
facing the opponent
life lost before blood rocked
the senseshock

he's playing the dog
running circle
ringing hands high
elbows lost
on thought

misthought

fuck, this doesn't work. sorry.

I’m a terrible Muslim

2005-12-06T14:23:00.001-05:00

i

legal to drunk everywhere
I, Libra, with senseless balance,
swing past Jason, or Torrance,
and wonder if it goes both ways

what does Jesus mean to me
nothing I want to know
where all these penguins came from

and where are the motor
boats in the bath tub
mote in the river bed
dredged for speedsize

cause we have the technology

but back to Jason, or forgotten Torrance,
at the black tie event
I, still legal,
with blood alcohol surpassing sophomore GPA
dean’s list baccalaureate discussing
racism and ghettoism as a way of the past present and future
dance up to the bar
flash pearly whites
and hear the chorus sigh
bend a knee and never hide hair
and have been expelled from mosque
more times than…
well, let’s just say I’m a terrible Muslim

ii

as she wanes invisible
to telescopic tracking from Barak
they announce
silence fast
and she treads her course
of pearly black, like Jack Sparrow’s ship,
charting a history misspelled

wartime declaration
at the 9th new moon we shall move fast
from sun up to sundown
passing fieldwater in our mouths
until we arrive, eid mubarak

iib

and I can say it with all
authority because
well, let’s just say
I’m a terrible Muslim

iii

batting one for five
pillars stand tall and watch
i pull up a bra
around heavy breasts
tighten scarf around
heavy hair

smile graciously for charity
still batting only one for five
I, terrible Muslim, sip
daiquiri from a bucket mix

iv

two for five now
as i dump daiquiri
down his pants
to cool him off

let’s just say there are more
terrible Muslims than me

the drought is over

2005-10-23T18:02:00.000-05:00

she leans out the window and yells

vagina

and tourists look befuddled
they don’t get the joke.

or

she leans out the open window of
the white 88 Pontiac sunbird with
the rusted out floor and
long scentless Scooby
handing from the rear-viewer and yells

vagina

and nobody understands her struggle
against the erect force of strong men
they cant comprehend her
vagina.
puzzled
by the outburst.
who is this drunk-slut?
but her
vagina
is so easy
simply reclaimed her own
to scream at
and announce
her vagin
her vagana
her vulge

and there she goes across a strong bridge
and why not lean out the window
and yell vagin like a game.

b.

and another thing
as she strips to her suit
and plashes in the calm
water.
it’s hers anyway.

Let's consider

2005-10-06T16:47:00.000-05:00

a serious scrutiny of this point
a reconstruction
surgery to restate how you will use, how you will move
to most this isn't important
but to you its pivotol, classical mythical redirection of yourself.

how does one reconstruct an identity? I've spent the past year or two constructing myself, trying whining and buying my way into who i am, my voice, my space. where does a girl belong. and i had it. but since the unfortunate happenings earlier this year I've been in crisis.

i only just realized why, and its shocks me that it didn't occur sooner. That moment of pain, twisting a tearing out my knee tore a whole in my identity.

of course your in crisis, she announces, how can you not be when your foundation has been deconstructed like that. its like derrida came with his meaningless chainsaw and, with the help of barth, chopped you in two, or three or seven.

But it didn't stop with that simple little ligament, they attacked everything, my hands, my bbrothers even my cat...she's suddenly friendly...so how can i even be the girl with the homosidal psycho jungle cat when my jungle cat is as friendly as a french lamb (and what does that mean anyway)

-break-

21st birthday-rough notes

2005-10-03T08:15:00.000-05:00

maybe when im drunk im talking crazy, but just because im drunk doesn't mean i speak crazy!

i always do what? write at the bar? so? im the one with the pen!
And is there some significance to their expression of a violet moment! what does that mean? I dunno jibberish boy.

THE WORST GAME OF POOL I EVER PLAYED
1 mixed drink minus a fly
2 mint things
2 malibu and oj
2 mixed drinks
4 carbombs
5 tequilla Rose (i think it may have been more)
2 doctor peppers
1 flamming samabuca
1 french whore
1 lemon drop
1 rugby song ended = down in 2
1 glass of H2O down my skirt

4 missed shots in a row

"ice caked heads in my mouth..."
My blood alcohol is higher than my GPA

"Roo's legal to drunk everywhere" - monique
Questions not to ask:
are you an alien?

I remember spinning in circles and shooting the moon, Fuck them i say, they never take me seriously!

I love Corona hat, he's a jerk. Doesn't believe in my name! He smoke du Maurier and thinks he's cool but thats fine cause i watch people leave and i still fall for the jerk in the corona hat. What did i sit for. i dunno. sailing i think. its not that ive lost me jacket, i just think dear dirty that he's magnificent.

still this is weird.
"I think you am an alcoholic"

--- and its only 9:15 in the morning...class time :)

they knock your legs right out

2005-09-29T14:17:00.000-05:00

two broken legs stand
in a box

no light penetrates the walls, no sound vibrates the joints
where no communication spreads, no helping hands can reach

words fail to tell a tale, too exotic to be told

2005-09-03T17:28:00.000-05:00

each wonderful night in darkness, she would blink up at the inky sky and listen for distant thunder. Its not so distant these days. these exotic days in this world turned to blackness. one hundred years in one hundred dread days as thunder closes all around. And closes closer.

She runs to a place of refuge, a place a prayer, surrounded by black cowering eyes; blinking at inky walls in pews on a sandy floor. Shhh. and thunder cowers in shouts of angry men, men angry at a death from within. they cry and she hides under the alter. quietly cowering in darkness.

Sickening cracks, like ice crunching in too sensitive teeth, like chicken bones being pulled from a carcus. She closes her eyes as the walls crack and crumble. Cries arise from the 1000 other inhabitants, other refugees. Some try to get out, some try to get down, some are crushed before her eyes by falling crosses, and beams. The church comes down arond her.

She tries to get out from under the alter, to get out, to get away from this madness.

"Its easier," a woman holds her hand to stop her, " come it will be easier to come down here and die. Its not for us anymore. Its just easier to die"

She pulled away, terrified by the woman. this stranger. her mother.

a piece of ceiling lands just feet from her and she dives back under the table.
"Come I'll hold you while we die"

She lay in the arms of the woman and promised herself to stay until it was quiet, until the rest were dead. But she would not lay down and die into ease.

"Isn't that what they want from us"

how could it have been so ease?

euther

2005-08-01T10:29:00.000-05:00

Gender class and race
Your terms for hate
My terms for change
Waste words spelling things that still stay the same.

Promise change, revolution “Fight it out” you dog
Gender class and race
How genteel, yet abrupt
We hate, don’t limit yourself, don’t think that by
Identifying, codifying
i deny
Euth.

Unidentified, trapped
Unidentified punk, probably black
Causes of misery on the 4 5 6 7 o’clock
News with a reprise at eleven
Named Jane for the dough stolen
Named John for the dough stolen
Unidentified by distinguishing marks
Except he’s black, male and probably an urban gangster

The new race is
Mixed
Unidentified, trapped
Unidentified monster, probably white
Causes of misery on the 4 5 6 7 o’clock
News with a reprise at eleven
Named Paul for the harm done
Named Pat for the harm done
Unidentified by distinguishing marks
Except he’s white, male and probably a monster

The race is mixed.

Unidentified, trapped
Unidentified extremist, probably Muslim
What’s a Muslim, I don’t know probably Brown
Causes havoc on the 4 5 6 7 o’clock
News with a reprise at eleven

Unidentified, trapped
Unidentified fear, probably unfounded
Causes havoc on those who watch the 4 5 6 7 o’clock
News and the reprise at 11

Race, Gender, Caste, Faith
All laid to waste.

old unfriendly

2005-07-22T15:12:00.000-05:00

And she's back to sitting listening to Bobby Mc Ferrin with a crocked leg thinking about an old nemesis and wishing she was at home. Jordinal, the new student from Deutschland was not an old friend, however she may have construe the facts to Mack. Once in the fifth grade Jane, being her athletic self, and finding herself in need of some more white paint to finish her "cardinal on a frozen branch #3" jumped over Jordinal, who was painting on the floor between Jane and the paint. Only Jane knocked Jordinal's brush. She apologized, but never saw the damage. Sadly, when Jane returned from recess to find black paint accidentially spilt all over "Cardinal on a frozen branch #3" she knew in that moment how the Germans could hold a grudge, and said a short prayer to thank the lord she wasn't a Jew.

Jesus christ i'm only joking, jesus Christ im only joking, Jesus Christ im only joking, It was just a friendly knock between the eyes. (to the theme of "The Battle Hymn of the Republic")

consider

2005-05-15T14:13:00.000-05:00

consider what it is to be racialize. idealized methodologised in such and such ways. to consider the observer. the outside eye in on a wall of brick. be the brinks man standing with is bulleted vest. consider what it is to be outside of the outsider experience. to ....oo oo

consider learning
consider learning when it comes from laguage
consider what learning must come from language and what happens when language shifts. a paradigm shift brings language to the android and learning to what? where is knowledge when all language is bable. bable in you eyes and mind eyes. and news

not locking you out

2005-05-09T08:16:00.000-05:00

likes having the door locked
likes sleeping in the bed
likes moving and grooving

time for a new song

drempt about raining men
singing to strangers who were my friends
once.

time for a new song.

missed the reunion.
didn't know it was happening.

this is a teen angst poem, written at age 20.

ode to the code

2005-04-08T09:10:00.000-05:00

code switching, the new play
for words play in difference
je ne comprend pas in words

and in words ne comprend the ligh

i am freeing fall from this switch back code

a play on codes...

the argentinian cried out to the young woman as the tango deepened, ba dum da dum dum ba dum. she cried and ran from his pursuit "you don't have to put on that red light! ROXANNE!" she was met by a wall of men, neetly clad in suits and bowler hats. and she turned back to face

coded words symbols make up the text of hypertext of hypermeaning in this coded page. i could read it if i tried, but i stand with the crutch of other peoples reading to know what is going on.

didn't you hear? <ο παπάς πέθανε>
i know that shit eh.
it had to happen
i will produisez-vous, you know.

ass hole.

The argentinian grabbed the girl by the arm and turned her away from the men, she stepped past him and towards them again. "you don't have to sell your body to the night:você não tem que vender seu corpo à noite". she looked helplessly at the men approaching her, and fell back into his, the argentinians arms. ":Roxanne"

I don't buy it
why
argentinians don't just run down thte street singing
how would you know
i just do
you've never been there
ive seen it in magazines
yeah?
yeah!
yeah?
yeah!
what about evita?

John watched, dumbfounded, and mildly irratated that the bus was late. but there was a great show, a real life musical. He lit up a cigarette as the argentinian hoisted the girl over his shoulder and struck out down the empty street. The army of men followed in suits and bowler caps and the street was empty again. John was near finished his pack and wondered if he should go buy another. but if he left the stop surely the bus would come and go without him. like that episod when the yellow spounge goes over the edge and just wants to get home

dn't we all just want to freeplay in the
working in languages in free flux
never understood or misunderstood
just
free to code

To Begin

2005-04-02T18:43:00.001-05:00

to be mixed
is like being a mango
in a world of apples and oranges

Euth

2005-04-02T18:43:00.000-05:00

eu, goodness, to the nth degree

a new euth.

blag

2005-03-27T14:36:00.000-05:00

blah blah blah...chihuahua
yik
yik yik yikkety yat, yak
blahblahblah
bop, boop booper stump stomp, blahblahblah
yikety rant damn spot stop spot stop spot bot pot stop spot bot pot stop spot stop bot pot blahblahblah
yappy yappy pappy yappy yapyapyap yappety yak yikky yak yakka yak
blah blah blah

rumble bumble bumble blot
dag
stab blab blabbity blop blah blah blah
blag, blather blather blather on penis blahblahblah
blah
blah
blah
yawn
bored
tired yawn
blah
blah blah
rant
blah

blah

blah

Rain

2005-02-19T21:53:00.000-05:00

Days usually end with this sound. If I cover my ears with my hands I almost hear rain, and smile. But—
“Erika!” both relieved and horrified, “I’ve found —”
A shower means so differently with time. They hide me under marine drops. Clean me. Wet in this shower is far from a retreat. This cold shower where naked women, or are we children, huddle close together; each think I will not be chosen. Is everyone here? I have no interest in naked women, except one, though we never speak.
“is this spot taken”
“no”
She is next to me on the bunk and sleeping, or is she dreaming. I watch her eyes through their lids. There will be a time for those eyes to rest. And I am comforted by the warm electric air. It was a clap of thunder, the bunk house is lit for a moment and she is watching me. Her eyes smile.
“come on”
Closely I follow her, my coat drenched already, across the yard to the place where only a chain fence bars our exit.
“under,” she whispers softly and I paw at the muddy ground.
The soil melts away through my fingers. Little mountains begin to grow at my sides. My skirt is hung with mud, even though the rain washes it off. Then footsteps in the yard, or are they in the hall, I turn to look. Has she planned this? She stands naked before me; the rain runs from the ends of her hair, drips from her breasts, down her arms and off her fingertips. She is covered in goose bumps. Lightning flashes in her eyes and she turns, and walks round the corner of the building. I don’t watch a second longer, but dive into the mud and swim, slide, pull my way under the fence. I hear her moan as I run into the night, as I run free.
But the war ends, and I live in France, and drink wine cheaper than water, and paint portraits of women, and write to myself. In my studio a cat sleeps on the faded red cushion that sits in the sun. I laugh with friends, speak of ideas. I have a hot shower. I watch the rain from my window. And I drink, and I paint, and I laugh, and I paint, and I run, and I laugh, and I write.
And the stroke comes in the night and they take me away from my studio and my light and my water-wine. And they give me a chair, and they give me their clarity and they leave me alone in my cell, or is it a room. I hide in the shower, with my hands over my ears. I wait for her to speak. And all I hear is my guards, or are the nurses.
“She is confused”
I still stand naked in the shower.

Lapsy-turvy Tale

2005-02-19T20:53:00.000-05:00

I

Don’t lose!
the race is off
and down the back

s t r e t c h
in your mind the net
loss is effect
of this
And that is
cause of dress clothes,
and tomato soup

Oat. eaten now.
is thought. produced later.
blue night, lunar glow
open shadow’s shows
of strength and brawn, but nothing lost
is nothing gone to dust
and dusk is still

maverick roam en abîme
you stare at bare water, where water
was
not roaming

the rat race is leaving
you behind

overweight undersexed
and goaded on to gambol
and lapse into thought
two by two rocks
twelve to seven,
start the course
and bound to be trapped
in the room
graded back
and graded back and
graded back
from knowledge
gained but never passed
as you run down mud tracks

not you.
sit and watch, and dab a brow
and take a number and wait in line
for a bus
and trust, there comes a second time,
the story again, a second time

the race is lost
accident adapted
and gripped, but snares set hares coursing veins
for a man
for a woman
for another
and another and an other.
cuz

the worst feeling in life
is the feeling
that your race is going nowhere

II

Isn’t she
marvel and virgil
lost in blue clouds
‘thaz ahight’
she dabs dabs right, though the calls the
thak the thak
the thak, not pulsed
irregular
no worry, no doctor
no practitioner here
only methodic,
chaotic thak
the thak

proactive life,
of crossed nation
but still pure. as pure as one drop there. as pure as all the heart here

and she
marvel and virgil love
lost in her rainbow
lost in a classic, a mythic venture

and charity breeds charity,
and ignorance breeds bliss,
and dab and thak breed
to no end an end, night cap.

III

If ever you are passed
around
you learn stops are strange places
you never make it
back the crowd
go on, try
And if dry
then perhaps your ears
are broken,
you need to be taken
around,
to strange places.

Continue on your way,
past strapledge people
in turicut metsos
not moam or roam the streagaled maze
the wabe you’ve goan
ventura steeple

you’ll pause [they forget]
and you meet and greet
with minds and dollars
with bills and buds.

And pause, a call and call
dialogue withdrawn

Do you get it?
pass around / and pause / a thought / of time,
and pause
‘be in it, not of it’

and continue on your way to the back
though. you won’t make it.

jaa

2005-02-06T15:22:00.000-05:00

Hello java, does anyone know jave script. i wish i did, i have a plot but it needs knowledge i don't have and im told java is the answer? any takers?

untitle

2005-01-24T13:09:00.001-05:00

pete stooped down to whipe a smudge off his dark green pant cuff. when he stood again, he saw off down the distant road the shape of a man trudging towards him. the man kept looking up towards the sun as if trying to get his baring but never seemed to vary his direction. pete thought he looked out of place, but he figured he'd seen all sorts down this way and it didn't matter none anyway.

the sky was perfectly clear that day, as pete was standing there leaned up against the post he thought the sun was down right intoxicating with its rays. he watched the man a spell but he was still at least a mile off so he sat sown on the fresh white ground and looked absently thought his notebook. he'd just been having a thought about something when he'd been interrupted and was trying to regain himself. he read.

presently pete looked up, but the man still seemed a ways off, so pete figured he go on out and meet him on the road. he'd just stood and brushed himself when a small girl happened up the lane.
"scuse me, mister--"
but pete cut her off with a startled "oh dear me," he paused a minute, "eliza."
she looked at him crooked a minute and then said she was looking for a friend of her's and asked had she seen him. pete looked up down the road, the man wasn't a hundred yard off.
"i reckon," pete said looking back ad the girl, "i ain't seen anybody these parts, but two days. but why don't you head up that path to the house and ask about there."

as the girl slipped through the gate and went lauging up the hill the man arrived by pete's side.
"how do?" pete greeted him, giving him a sideways glance, "are you lost?"
pete felt some uneasy about this man so he leaned up on the post to settle himself. the man was puffing a little from all the walking through deep white powder, and took off his cap.
"don't reckon so. i just need to catch my breath, you look civil enough to chat a bit. i'll be on my way again short enough."
the man sat on the ground near pete.
"glorious day ain't it. you just out for a walk?"
"something like that."
"where ya headed?
the man looked up at pete, he was a bit foolhardy looking, young. pete turned to the side, the man's gaze was a bit unsettling.
"where to," the man meditated a minute, " oh maybe down to that river, watch the flows go by."

pete looked down the road towards where it bent to the left.
"what you wanna do that for?"

words and sword and dswor and rdswo and ordsw and words

2005-01-16T16:32:00.000-05:00

book
thok
look
thok
book for a thok, look thok, stop by and by thok and think a little trinket of a stump thok.
tick tock
stick stuck in a trick lake thok. and funny, bunny, funny hunny how a look like that thok and spook like this fink and trip to a nonstop drop of drivel mop, by stop by and say its why i watch the clock, by the wall and why i try to say goodbye and say goodbye to this missed thought.

thok.

in process

2005-01-04T15:52:00.000-05:00

old wine. why are you laughing at the dead man with the pearls in his eyes?
Truth who are you, the boondock saint of my ear-mind, attacking with these soulful words?
. and lies. me? cuz of lies balanaced on a swivel stool and vinyl plush seat told to the false face of the dog trucks streaming down the anti-superhighway? don't you see this philomel? when did i board this thought and loose my faith? was it while i sang? tu ra lu ra tu ra lu ra still, are you laughing at your own ignorance?

if i spent the last 15 years on honour rolls, and the next 13 on death row, would that be a life well spent? and what if i jump? what if i bump my head on the passing light of a day wasted tasting sugar water and hydrochloric acid? why do you pretend to care and hold my hair? and drink fresh wine? and water the concrete garden outside the unicorn and tango upstairs to see a shadow pass across the room?

if you buy me a drink, perhaps i'll talk in lies and you can ask why i never drink old wine.

boondoch

2005-01-03T22:29:00.000-05:00

a step to a theme immoral, is he the one or thee which chooses. can i choose to step, step left. or right a wrong.

lemme elab: theres a problem, living in too many lies makes it impossible to have family. because i can't lie to them. this is an immoral dilemma. or i dunno. i dunno. torn torn by bordom i think. i think.

think in thoks of what and which ways i step to look at the truth of old wine. old wine takes time. and lies come quick. they come with lightning speed and flow with shifts of ocean need to respond to imput of liars to me. the truth takes time. and hurts and no one drinks old wine. no one drinks it so why should i make it. why not lie.

old wine.

fragment

2004-12-31T08:09:00.000-05:00

taken on a hand of glass
a lamb

fragile, with his strength the lion watches

time placates: sleep babe, it will be easier in the morning
if you have learnt
i may remove my hand
and lamb will exist
in

fragments of glass

without

2004-12-27T07:54:00.000-05:00

contemplating this identity issue. to be without ethnicity is dangerously close to loosing all identity, it is to become gonzo...hmm. to be gonzoed is to loose i dentity. mmm mmmm i like that. word of the day for things loosing their thingness, as gerald manely hopkins would put it , things ungoding in roundy wells - gonzoed, to gonzo, gonzoing etc he she it but lets not forget rizzo...perhaps to re i dentify a, a what a rat. not to romantic to be a rat, perhaps one should be gonzoed, he most interesting and spends far less time being flung from windows.

mmm blue sky, white grey snow, things going thinging, roundy about the middle.
gonzoed people roam
in places known to great novelists and suicide dogs
via ducts & empires

mmm rat still , rat on my little man
keep going in ratly ways from door frames
and glut your way into the ground, and roundy barrels
of frozone water, wasted on fur cuffs

mmm speak rat to the un ideed in this verse
if occation grants that there be a second guess
the door will still fly
open youur mind-heart

to get fit

2004-12-26T08:14:00.000-05:00

why then
he says or aims to fit you
with a, with a gift set
fit to your dimentions and pecifications as you stated when you sat
or lap dogs are not as alive
anymore.

a gift is fit
for a friends mix
nips of this gift of thought
is best served with verbs
moving forward in logic time
complacent steps to the beat
of my toungue between
feet of others skill
and my life of gifts
is full to the fill

***
foods feed is being taken
by a furtive feed fooder
i hate the orange games

Important places in my life

2004-12-22T09:03:00.000-05:00

http://www.livejournal.com/~jaxdsn/

http://www.albinoblacksheep.com/flash/llama.php

standing in motion

2004-12-22T08:56:00.000-05:00

in the locomotion station where my cousin is lost
if you are don't have an appointment with life
there is a book by the door. and besure to make one for the lady in black
her hand hurts too dearly to write herself
just sign for her

step up to the line, but not to close
don't break the invisible world in
visible pieces
and delay the city. that doesn't wait. wait
lemme thing of a time of kings
when i spoke not a word and works every hour
of every moment

wait, let em think of a time
of kings and rats running in alleys where theres a place to breath
and bread
like a drunk woman
or man
on a car
in the car. they make me sick
and drunk
but i wasn't would i be?
let me guess
okay if we start early and then stay late and talk of
of of talk of the worlds between
my thighs, between my ears and listen to what i say
little kite is calling now
calling now
calling cow
move the laurie let it out
from under the bus.

news,d

2004-12-11T21:26:00.000-05:00

ten million individuals descended in groups onmy roof and the grass and on the street, though they did stay long. they couldn't you know.

if i went to lakehead and spent a year in isolation would i be happy? there would be millions of individuals even october and even now and even later in the cruel month. but i don't think there would be much light. maybe. i dunno. i guess i have some time still.

d got a grant to learn, apparently some thoks are too rich for all that. oh well. shes looking at her apps to crim. i hope she gets it. i would be a dream.

there is the most beautiful foxy thok beside me. prolly watching a film i dunno. i wish there were more old people in the world and more children and less people with gossip to worry about.

ts im with you

2004-12-09T22:54:00.001-05:00

i know why april is so cruel
its because of
what april comes to do in her growth change ditch pitch rumble of thaw and crack
movement of new roots and breaking of bondage and breaking of strength of arms and minds and i know the cruelty that april will bring

2004-12-07T13:52:00.000-05:00

so closing in on the end of term. good thing to. tc get healthy, a thok does no good lying empty all day. no more of n and now we prepare to write. this short holiday to write or read.

fuddle,b

2004-12-02T14:27:00.000-05:00

thok wouldn't right when flying elephants scene, misseen taken aback not so early one spare.

only thok could see this for what it is and even thok would be mistaken

without writing any sentance in complete thoughts it becomes more impossible to express and knowledges indigenoue or not. but if i can find the word to mean the right thing and work with the cravat, or is it your belt, egg to make meaning mean then maybe full sentances won't even matter

:._
can you fight
as if words matter

i know the end of the story
itisnotgood

and i can stand tall with my brothers
and let them show you
how truely brutal they can be
_.:

News

2004-11-26T11:14:00.000-05:00

http://72.3.131.10/

fuddle, a

2004-11-24T15:17:00.000-05:00

okay, there is a narrator and a character, or two or three or more. and athok loves cthok, but that can't be, they exist on different planes. they are not compatable. and why would she want to have sex with him anyway he hasn't a thought in my head. but make them the same, because, you have to if you ever want to move anywhere. its the only way the only. way. to move is to use it differently. stop reagrrange the words, they have already been used 48 times in buttons, which is a lot so stop and do something different.

desperately frustrated. stuck, bursting needing to want change. chagne change for crying out loud stop complaining about the same mundane things. and just be plosive. again.

fuddle

2004-11-24T15:06:00.000-05:00

if stuck go in a circle. okay, here goes. muddle. why be base, why wash your dirty laudry in public, why think about mundane things and then bore every one with it. i am done with it.

truly value virtue, don't just love it and hold it dear to your heart and mundane it into little ideas and actions and qaint emotions. don't read it on the radio. be plosive. exact and unsustained. okay. how. here. plosive like pee, it has a beginning and an ending and it doesn't bother with trying to be more or less. it just is when it is then stops. its doesn't reminice or nostage itself to death (of thought, opinion or moment). so lesson. be plosive. have a point.

i had a friend who had a problem. he had a gift (or money or power) and a friend wanted some, and also an enemy wanted some and he had eve's power. and he said to me what should i do. and i said your enemy is more qualified. and regardless he is moore's well. but my friend didn't like that. my friend thought he should pay back his friend with the gift (or money or power).

that is immoral. it doesn't matter what your friend or enemy think it is. and if i am immoral then i have no right to complain anymore, because i am as much the problem as anything. i can't tell you. only i and i.

and a thok once said there was a problem with the protectors of life incase of emergence. this is absurd to me. if there was no police you tell me you wouldn't be a young drinker anymore, and you wouldn't have sex with women who you don't care about, and you wouldn't smoke any more marajuana, and you wouldn't try to better yourself at my expence, and you wouldn't be angry any more and you wouldn't be frustrated and no one would try to hurt you or harm you or take you children away from you... just because the p-o-l-i-c-e are no more. no. if all these were no more than nothing there wouldn't be police, but we make them more and so we pay them to protect us from ourselves.

another thok once wrote, shame. you have no prode, shame. this thoks would be better only if only if only if green carpets covered the world. move out into a tree and stop complaining. i cannot have both. if i ever ride in a car i am not a part of nature. i am a destructor, i help her.

this thok is lost. she has no role here. she is not welcome to think and debate or be. conform commisserate come here.
because

opportunityisnowhere

d, post

2004-11-20T22:42:00.000-05:00

a drip of water hit marx between the eyes. he dropped his head a shook it suddenly. it was dark here. he was standing, in a bus shelter perhaps. she was there. that woman. who. he rubbed his eyes and sighed.

"you're awake?"
"yes."

he turned to the voice. there was music. russian, something russian or french with a strong beat. the woman was moving away he reached and caught her coat tail and followed her lead down the slick street.

"we have to get to the safe house, then you have work to do."

marx was already running through the dome plans, reworking possible exit points for the natti.

"did nod come?"
"no."

marx had the woman by the arm and was walking at a good pace. he watched the shadows around him thinking this was not the usual way home.

"x, are we not going to diagony?"

she quickened her pace and marx could hear her take something from a purse with a metal clasp. he dropped his head a little to the side and quited himself as much as possible. they walked nearly 20 minutes in silence, turning down numerous streets; doubling back at least twice, marx thought.

marx looked at the sign on the wall across from the cot. it was glowing something, something glowing. if something came after he wouldn't be sure, but the light was glowing and invitiation a message from the captian. marx stood at once and followed the cot to the wall, and the wall up the stairs.

"wheres he off to?"

marx walked down the street watching the ground stepping directly foot in front of foot. he counted directly each step then turned and continued down another alley. he knew the root, if he footsteps were trustworthy. he continued, in the darkness.

mentally ill

2004-11-17T21:24:00.000-05:00

it must be that i'm prone to wandering that has led me to this place. i'm losing grip on my mind and i don't mind but i do but my mind is fine but this world is not fine for me. she thinks i'm screaming at the squirrals for fun

news

2004-11-16T00:27:00.000-05:00

they always tell me, lecture me, instruct me, teach me
everything they have failed at. what gall! have you earned the right to write the fat one asked today, had he earned the right to teach? no he has just been given medals by his friends

grrr

i've had enough of this pro-submissive malarky, i quit.

c, post

2004-11-14T19:21:00.000-05:00

he moved along the bench seat to avoid the draft of air that tore his attention from the woman across from him. he shifted again, there was a spring under him. he pulled up a leg and wrapped his arms around it.

"sorry."

she sipped from the liquid in the mug and smiled softly, though marx didn't see; he was watching the light again.

"its most oppressive, these --"

she turned to look at the light, and placed the mug down in front of her. a sigh rang with the buzz and click of the cafe so she packed her sack.

"i'll be in touch, mir will be along for you"

and was gone. marx tapped a beat on the table, as his eyes dodged blankly around the cafe.

thank you for keeping this train flu-free

2004-11-13T22:02:00.000-05:00

no problem!

but on this note
i have taken the liberty to also keep this train drug free
thug free
bug free knowledge
free
free of lsd and pcp free of all the harmful letters and these three latinas
free from thought
and cost
free of nature
free of abuse
free of overuse

i have freed this train of
pornography
propeganda
physigonomy and metaposcopy

freed it from lust
and tyranny
freed it of bordom
and grace
i have freed this train of frustration and delays and
above all this i will keep it free of dollars overspent by you to thank me
for keeping this train flu-free

b, post

2004-11-12T12:22:00.000-05:00

the cafe buzzed with electronic outputs and caffeine junkies. there was a booth where one woman sat. her white fingers tapping impatiently the ceramic table surface. she watched as thoks came and went to the station across the road. a note book lay open before her.

marx rubbed his eyes as he stummbled after the woman. there was a distinct glow that was nagging at his attention. she wouldn't see it. they passed the phog and tsura plag but nobody noticed.

"how much further?"

there was something rubbing his leg as he followed, he wanted to know what. his shoes felt like prisons, with each step enforcing their restricted space on his tired feet.

tap tap tap

marx turned his head sharply as the door slid open with a rattle. he couldn't make out who had come in. he sat in the booth with her, the cold of the vinyl pricked his back, and rubbed his hands over the soft ceramic surface.

"i'm not sure"
"well, if there is a way through we need--"
"i know"

he blinked and turned his face to the flourecent light, it glowed blue but not quite, blue.

"has nod been through"

she closed the notebook and wrapped her hands around the white mug infront of her.

a, post

2004-11-10T20:48:00.000-05:00

he took two steps to the left and squatted down again. his eyes were yellow, worn out by the stress of the air.

there wasn't enough people to spread to serum to, so instead they just flushed it down the drain and let the fish and the sewer chickens have it. he knew it at the time, but decided that he needed to rest against the wall. the wall was bright, white, blue. i'm not sure. but the wall was where he rested with his yellow eyes.

"marx," a pause and then, "com'on, we godda go"

he followed her down the alley to the street where cars zipped by on their way to dinners at 7:00 and movies after. she took his hand and pulled him along to the cafe. blink was waiting.

news

2004-11-10T17:50:00.000-05:00

okay, cause i dont do this (yet) but its part of the culture:

m wants me to read without ethnicity on the CBC.
time to start editing. also i wonder if m would publish me, if i had something worth it. and also d doesn't get on with the mean cat. shame.

ps. Dec 5, 2004 at Phog, 7:00 pm

Men in moonphaseOne

2004-11-09T11:16:00.000-05:00

got drugs>
no, i don't

im wondering if it is possible to think anymore

: i want to think
: thinking takes time
: time is limited [constricted by resricting interia]
: limited time illimated possiblity of truth which reveals itself with time
: illimanated truth mean no beauty

my think means beauty is in the world

elim a nate the neg a tive

: i will think
: time restricted
: truth is old wine
: devalued
: speed is my new worst fiend

do you have an aversion to capitals...

washington is out then, ottawa too

if i wrote this poem of words or replaced words you want to
words i want if i wrote in riddles or aphorisms or moved to
the left & ease was my middle world would you read on in
this

okay tell me something, because i debated at length with a thok on this one. i said that i hate science because its zero point is arbitrary, but science-thoks insist that they
are percise. how can something with an arbitrary zero be
percise\ and then the thok i was arguing with asked me who i thought the trivium was any more precise so i said it was because it used an arbitrary zero as well, but it acknowledges that the zero is arbitrary and accounts for it. i told the thok that is wasn't more accurate just more
agreeable, but the thok couldn't accept that, because it was inpercise. i suppose thats how being a thok goes
though.

Post lapenderian

2004-11-09T03:27:00.000-05:00

okay, this is interesting...
tell my child, don't fight or bully (un o riginal thought..what us is doing) but even as unoriginal it is still thok killing thok and still dont!

im in love sometimes with whisps of smoke (the space bars broke) so my words run together.
i have a streamof consciousness that eludes the pedantive state, i want i to

okay concrete

in equals or shoes

mode of trasnport
as if to say, little prisons the size
a foot, metre of his other feet, stolen line, step or line
or the door, closed window shade
no snow yet
but still a start to a good foot
or
the wood door
pile of shit

of luck, of shit protecter
of prisons on the seventh story
of pigeons and poems
of little women with little minds
or little men with little men
of the contents of my shoebox

a, la liama

2004-11-05T18:20:00.000-05:00

a present state of
min d
centred in exploit
point taken

toys for me

la liama

2004-11-05T16:30:00.000-05:00

when
i n states
of disetera change
i play

with my w ords