i miss the scent of summer
and the way you tell me to shut the fuck up.
show me the way to my redemption
to my unlacing.
in cicatrice-scars
i found
cicada.
cicada.
cicada.
cicada.
paint it pink.
paint me the colour of persuasion, perfection...or the poly-amorous lives of insects
Sunday, January 31, 2010
a monologue to speak
she said...
"You think that I don’t break? A Russian doll maybe? something for you to pet? You don’t know anything about me. I KNOW EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU! What year did your mother die? 1968. What’s your favorite fruit? oranges. What keeps you up at night? the smell of loneliness and the flutter of a moth. What year did my mother die? What do I take for granted? Who makes me shiver? How long is my breath? Oh, if it could be that simple…if you could make me into an acrostich…I….It’s fleshy you know, the inside of someone’s sex. the inside of mine. it reeks, it’s acrid. It’s dead X. Perfume me. Perfume me with sweet sweet oranges and sweet sweet tea. And don’t you dare say that referencing Stein makes me a lesbian. It’s not my fault that you cant write."
"You think that I don’t break? A Russian doll maybe? something for you to pet? You don’t know anything about me. I KNOW EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU! What year did your mother die? 1968. What’s your favorite fruit? oranges. What keeps you up at night? the smell of loneliness and the flutter of a moth. What year did my mother die? What do I take for granted? Who makes me shiver? How long is my breath? Oh, if it could be that simple…if you could make me into an acrostich…I….It’s fleshy you know, the inside of someone’s sex. the inside of mine. it reeks, it’s acrid. It’s dead X. Perfume me. Perfume me with sweet sweet oranges and sweet sweet tea. And don’t you dare say that referencing Stein makes me a lesbian. It’s not my fault that you cant write."
Sunday, January 24, 2010
do you?
“do you ever think about home?” the girl asked
i smoked heavily in those days, and i sat across from her chain-smoking and drinking sweet mint tea
i told her everything i missed about home
down to the shape of a Montréal snowflake
down the slush in my boots
down to the way people don’t smile at you in the streets
yes i said. i think about home all the time.
i miss the things i never had.
to speak only french….
i feel like i missed my rite of passage.
i smoked heavily in those days, and i sat across from her chain-smoking and drinking sweet mint tea
i told her everything i missed about home
down to the shape of a Montréal snowflake
down the slush in my boots
down to the way people don’t smile at you in the streets
yes i said. i think about home all the time.
i miss the things i never had.
to speak only french….
i feel like i missed my rite of passage.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
poplar trees and winegum; winegum trees and late book fees
pink poplars of people
purple frosting
porcelain, poking through
polar opposites
panic...
panic..
panic.
bi-...
bi-polar
oh how it sits so well on the tongue
in the mouth
in the mind
but not in theirs
not in theirs
damn poplars!
purple frosting
porcelain, poking through
polar opposites
panic...
panic..
panic.
bi-...
bi-polar
oh how it sits so well on the tongue
in the mouth
in the mind
but not in theirs
not in theirs
damn poplars!
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
whisper it
they told me not to orgasm
but i did
and i did not die
that was the saddest letter i ever read/wrote
is what she told me before blowing the smoke in my eyes and ruining my morning coffee
but i did
and i did not die
that was the saddest letter i ever read/wrote
is what she told me before blowing the smoke in my eyes and ruining my morning coffee
a place that's scary, a place that's paved
Over steaming noodles i told the 12 year old poet what i mistakenly now call ‘the manifesto’. We do not write plays and poems and screenplays and scripts and short story feats for the same reasons. I also tried to explain this to the blond poet, the one who bubbles over with observations and images that bloom like developing photos.
There is something pre-existent in poetry.
There is something that existentially fails.
(maybe i heard that somewhere)
(light a cigarette)
let me try to explain what i want to mean
what i mean to mean
let me try to tell you what IT is.
a story shares with me. a play tells me something about myself. about the way i draw lines between motifs and metaphors and trains of thought. I am the reader. You are the writer. You know. Look how well you know. Look how well (i wanted to say good but i stopped myself. she would have been proud of me) look at how well you write. I know your characters I know why you want to tell me about them. About their idiosyncrasies, about what they ate for dinner, about the anchovies they spat out, about the way they tie their shoes, about the length of a breath, or the constellation of a smattering of freckles on their back. about the difficulty with which they see him again and feel their hearts beating against their small sunken make believe chests
buh buu
buh buu
buh buu
buh buu
bu…buh-buh-buuuuukhhjskka….
show me the way to your conclusion. that i might feel better about my ‘I’. that i might learn to understand why and when and how. that i might imagine myself a moral, a message, a lasting metaphor to fuse life, love, and all the things i try to justify. give birth into my arms. cover me with it. let me believe in love refound, in the symbolism of a pie, in the joy of birthday streamers. and i get one. and i do. like that! i get one. even if it is dialectical. even if it is confused. even if it is and is not. i know it is there. i feel it in every articulation of my body.
then the change, the flicker, the reason.
the poem offers you nothing. the poet gives you nothing. he writes because he must. he writes because he needs searches to come to terms with what? he does not know. always searching, yearning, aching for the perfect word, he never finds it. herein lies the birth of the anthology, the collected works, the life. none of his words ever come close to what he needs, what he seeks to find to eventually dissolve into peace. nothing satisfies him. each poem in its inadequacy burns him and he must try again, and again and again. and never will he find the word, the turn, or the taste of the vowel. he is stuck in the penultimate, the shirt with no collar. if he buttons it, he need only ever write One Poem, and in that wondrous collection of nouns and symbols, antithesis and prose, he would strike gold into the heart of truth, of the human experience, he would pierce us and we would fall. so clear and resonant would be those words (2, 4 ,6 , 8 ,10) that we could no longer live as we now understand it. we would all fall. we would all drop dead (except not dead) and remain there, perhaps half living, but never moving, paralyzed by the exactitude of the articulation of ourselves. with this in front of us, we could never complete another thing. the poet has written it all. it is the bible, it is the apocalypse, it is the big bang, it is birth and existence and finality, redemption and condemnation. he has killed the future, he has killed the past. and without them we cannot walk nor speak nor breath nor die nor live but rather stay and wait for his words to lose their accuracy. but they cannot by nature. thus, the perfect poem freezes us all, it penetrates us and describes us and re-appropriates us as part of its description, of its account. The poet too dies (but actually). peacefully, leaving behind what had provoked him to leave us with this legacy of temporal amputation. he has met his terms. in this glacial world, grammar itself disintegrates. the question mark dies, the colon dies, vocabulary breaks down. how many words in the English dictionary exist? they’ll ask. kill them all, except the (2, 4, 6, 8, 10) of The Poem. black holes, voids, comets, astronauts: pioneers of tomorrow all die. It is the moment of absolute present, of absolute certainty, of finality, of completeness, of understanding, and it kills in us any desire for art or creation or even life.
a poem could reshape the world
The Poem could reshape the world
and bring us to a place that’s scary
and bring us to a place that’s paved
There is something pre-existent in poetry.
There is something that existentially fails.
(maybe i heard that somewhere)
(light a cigarette)
let me try to explain what i want to mean
what i mean to mean
let me try to tell you what IT is.
a story shares with me. a play tells me something about myself. about the way i draw lines between motifs and metaphors and trains of thought. I am the reader. You are the writer. You know. Look how well you know. Look how well (i wanted to say good but i stopped myself. she would have been proud of me) look at how well you write. I know your characters I know why you want to tell me about them. About their idiosyncrasies, about what they ate for dinner, about the anchovies they spat out, about the way they tie their shoes, about the length of a breath, or the constellation of a smattering of freckles on their back. about the difficulty with which they see him again and feel their hearts beating against their small sunken make believe chests
buh buu
buh buu
buh buu
buh buu
bu…buh-buh-buuuuukhhjskka….
show me the way to your conclusion. that i might feel better about my ‘I’. that i might learn to understand why and when and how. that i might imagine myself a moral, a message, a lasting metaphor to fuse life, love, and all the things i try to justify. give birth into my arms. cover me with it. let me believe in love refound, in the symbolism of a pie, in the joy of birthday streamers. and i get one. and i do. like that! i get one. even if it is dialectical. even if it is confused. even if it is and is not. i know it is there. i feel it in every articulation of my body.
then the change, the flicker, the reason.
the poem offers you nothing. the poet gives you nothing. he writes because he must. he writes because he needs searches to come to terms with what? he does not know. always searching, yearning, aching for the perfect word, he never finds it. herein lies the birth of the anthology, the collected works, the life. none of his words ever come close to what he needs, what he seeks to find to eventually dissolve into peace. nothing satisfies him. each poem in its inadequacy burns him and he must try again, and again and again. and never will he find the word, the turn, or the taste of the vowel. he is stuck in the penultimate, the shirt with no collar. if he buttons it, he need only ever write One Poem, and in that wondrous collection of nouns and symbols, antithesis and prose, he would strike gold into the heart of truth, of the human experience, he would pierce us and we would fall. so clear and resonant would be those words (2, 4 ,6 , 8 ,10) that we could no longer live as we now understand it. we would all fall. we would all drop dead (except not dead) and remain there, perhaps half living, but never moving, paralyzed by the exactitude of the articulation of ourselves. with this in front of us, we could never complete another thing. the poet has written it all. it is the bible, it is the apocalypse, it is the big bang, it is birth and existence and finality, redemption and condemnation. he has killed the future, he has killed the past. and without them we cannot walk nor speak nor breath nor die nor live but rather stay and wait for his words to lose their accuracy. but they cannot by nature. thus, the perfect poem freezes us all, it penetrates us and describes us and re-appropriates us as part of its description, of its account. The poet too dies (but actually). peacefully, leaving behind what had provoked him to leave us with this legacy of temporal amputation. he has met his terms. in this glacial world, grammar itself disintegrates. the question mark dies, the colon dies, vocabulary breaks down. how many words in the English dictionary exist? they’ll ask. kill them all, except the (2, 4, 6, 8, 10) of The Poem. black holes, voids, comets, astronauts: pioneers of tomorrow all die. It is the moment of absolute present, of absolute certainty, of finality, of completeness, of understanding, and it kills in us any desire for art or creation or even life.
a poem could reshape the world
The Poem could reshape the world
and bring us to a place that’s scary
and bring us to a place that’s paved
Sunday, January 10, 2010
there is only fxkinh
where you are meant to be to be to be to be to be learn to be learn to bloom learn to be learn to be what you said you would be exactly exactly where your supposed to be said you would be
just
there
just where learn to be where we learn to see
O
blossom
to be
to be
come for me and be where i want you where i put you where you are where you will be where we were being being then then and not then
be
be
be
be
be
be
be
just be something
just
there
just where learn to be where we learn to see
O
blossom
to be
to be
come for me and be where i want you where i put you where you are where you will be where we were being being then then and not then
be
be
be
be
be
be
be
just be something
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