balk at all dramas;
ask afar, madcap rants appall.
flashback ballads as bad
as ABBA harrass and
stab, grand mal attacks.
allay a black garland,
para-papal balms craft
grand chasms. (far away yachts)
Friday, June 30, 2006
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
and how
i'm listening to pollard and thinking about how to dispose of my albatross and how i'm going to get fired and how i love that bookstore babel and how i always have to have things hemmed and how paint flakes so fucking fast after you've painted and how you stop growing but life keeps taking more from you.
use your earwax to cut the foam (picked your sister up)
there are 54
steps from the terminal one
window to your spot.
steps from the terminal one
window to your spot.
thought you were past this
Try really hard to tell us what happened, please.
oh it’s so exciting and all those awesome people you met who liked everything you like.
And how that place was so great and everyone was so great.
and how they kept telling you how great you looked.
oh it’s so exciting and all those awesome people you met who liked everything you like.
And how that place was so great and everyone was so great.
and how they kept telling you how great you looked.
mean a thing
His goal one new
muscle every morning.
No matter what.
I try to equate that
like sit-ups to syllables
or pushups, memorized
fifty : meaning.
I can’t do either
because I have
a lousy, fat memory.
There’s so much
action live action
but here alone
nothing.
(Never add on)
muscle every morning.
No matter what.
I try to equate that
like sit-ups to syllables
or pushups, memorized
fifty : meaning.
I can’t do either
because I have
a lousy, fat memory.
There’s so much
action live action
but here alone
nothing.
(Never add on)
Sunday, June 25, 2006
captain vatican
it's smokey and i should have used force instead of humour to secure a pinball credit.
speak fucking english.
what can i do? the dude wouldn't move. i figure that deep down if i really loved Ripleys i would have figured out a way. maybe it was the universe at work...
NB: beware the discounted fashion magazine!
the opposite beer.
you're not going to change your mind or anything?
well, what choice do i have?
see you in ten.
well, what choice do i have?
see you in ten.
killed by death
i'm not here to debate the merits or whatever of motorhead. i'm no completist. all i'm saying is that there's always another angle. no one's advocating anarchy exactly. i think i like coherence, or. it's just that i'm not sure that's what it's made for. you can like roy orbison AND ozzy. In fact, you sort of have to.
Saturday, June 24, 2006
all get beaten down
she comes over so late. there's more to life than impromptu gratification? faith is as important as ______; which is more important than you think. (the rational)
time.
time.
the tennis instructor
he misses courts
like bartenders miss love
bought some new racket
shoddy old batteries roll
from the porch i watch
you teach the things i
taught you. before
[xxxxxxx].
unlike coupons, we're not redeemable.
but you can't arrest a man
for the thoughts in his head.
like bartenders miss love
bought some new racket
shoddy old batteries roll
from the porch i watch
you teach the things i
taught you. before
[xxxxxxx].
unlike coupons, we're not redeemable.
but you can't arrest a man
for the thoughts in his head.
Friday, June 23, 2006
Thursday, June 22, 2006
sports
basketball is number three on my holy trinity of sports. it goes: boxing, golf, basketball. extra = baseball. In the old days, in Etobicke, i played tennis religiously. I was never that good but i loved playing and i showed well in the consolations each year. i understood the game but i was a junior just as the power game was coming in. i also couldn't control my emotions during tournaments. (YOU CANNOT BE SERIOUS!)and being short, my serve didn't scare anyone. Now it doesn't matter. Play for fun at a good clip. You grow out of illusions, quick if you're lucky. Figure your level out. But i used to get frustrated. Being angry in sport is like blogging; it's embarrassing and doesn't improve your game.
I still play a little here and there in the summer with a couple friends, but less each year. Across from my first house are some ashpalt courts. When i move downtown, maybe ten years ago, there were only two rusty metal fences for nets. On only two of eight courts. The lines were so worn we'd bring chalk to mark the service line 'T' and the baselines but even then you'd have to trust the line calls because you couldn't see it unless you right up at the net. And by that time, I didn't have the legs for much serve and volley.
I'm not sure how we found out that you could buy your own nets. About the time we finally figured out what the cranks were for on the posts. Idiots. Anyway, we got our's at "the merchant of tennis". It was great because you could play anytime, as long as you wanted. For awhile. Then we realized that probably telling everyone who asked where they could get their own nets was counter-productive. By then it was too late. And in a strange way, all because of basketball.
I don't know how to play basketball at all. I mean, i understand the game. I get screen and roll. I understand shortening the bench. And one. I love it so i learn it. But I can't play it in the real world. The few times I played in my thirties in a publich school playground with other men, it was like i was unintentionally humping them. i could not stop from jumping into them, from stepping on their feet. I was like a drunk ballerina trying to box. But that's why i love basketball. Because i can't play it at all. I can't make a shot. I know how to do it, technically. I watch hundreds of highlights and games and i read shooting manuals online. but i'm useless at it. Pretty much every other sport (terrestrial) I can do a little. At least enough to make a game with similar level contestants. Hockey, baseball, skeet shooting, golf. But not hoops.
It seems like the things most foreign and difficult are always more interesting. It also seems that you can admit shortcomings, and often, other avenues to explore your passions offer themselves. Like the invention of video games. Sports games are fantastic. I love to rename every player in the league. That takes weeks. Sometimes, I forget to save and the player freezes. It's brutal. Especially if i was on a hot streak.
Anyway... (i'm off to a party)
I still play a little here and there in the summer with a couple friends, but less each year. Across from my first house are some ashpalt courts. When i move downtown, maybe ten years ago, there were only two rusty metal fences for nets. On only two of eight courts. The lines were so worn we'd bring chalk to mark the service line 'T' and the baselines but even then you'd have to trust the line calls because you couldn't see it unless you right up at the net. And by that time, I didn't have the legs for much serve and volley.
I'm not sure how we found out that you could buy your own nets. About the time we finally figured out what the cranks were for on the posts. Idiots. Anyway, we got our's at "the merchant of tennis". It was great because you could play anytime, as long as you wanted. For awhile. Then we realized that probably telling everyone who asked where they could get their own nets was counter-productive. By then it was too late. And in a strange way, all because of basketball.
I don't know how to play basketball at all. I mean, i understand the game. I get screen and roll. I understand shortening the bench. And one. I love it so i learn it. But I can't play it in the real world. The few times I played in my thirties in a publich school playground with other men, it was like i was unintentionally humping them. i could not stop from jumping into them, from stepping on their feet. I was like a drunk ballerina trying to box. But that's why i love basketball. Because i can't play it at all. I can't make a shot. I know how to do it, technically. I watch hundreds of highlights and games and i read shooting manuals online. but i'm useless at it. Pretty much every other sport (terrestrial) I can do a little. At least enough to make a game with similar level contestants. Hockey, baseball, skeet shooting, golf. But not hoops.
It seems like the things most foreign and difficult are always more interesting. It also seems that you can admit shortcomings, and often, other avenues to explore your passions offer themselves. Like the invention of video games. Sports games are fantastic. I love to rename every player in the league. That takes weeks. Sometimes, I forget to save and the player freezes. It's brutal. Especially if i was on a hot streak.
Anyway... (i'm off to a party)
guard down (let my)
(or 'keys')
there's this moment
when you entirely remember that
you've completely forgotten
a whole entire thing.
do you know for certain
you can't remember.
there's this moment
when you entirely remember that
you've completely forgotten
a whole entire thing.
do you know for certain
you can't remember.
Sunday, June 18, 2006
can you do it for me?
there was an argument, briefly, over the merits of dancing in the dark. but then she follows it with jesse's girl and we realize she's only playing springsteen for the mass appeal, not the hidden genius (no one would follow springsteen with springfield unless they were really into seasonal compounds). but trying to penetrate the motives of others is dicey. i was more interested in the pulling power of my new white shirt. with the blazer, i really thought it might make the difference. nope.
mathematical equations almost are impossible to use at a bar. i mean, unless you're an expert. but if it's just one of those things you're interested in, forget it.
once again tonight, sin proved more interesting than sentiment.
oh what's the point in being oblique? they say to write something because you seem like you'd be good at it. if you're catholic it's your father that hates you. in this case, you'd hate yourself.
mathematical equations almost are impossible to use at a bar. i mean, unless you're an expert. but if it's just one of those things you're interested in, forget it.
once again tonight, sin proved more interesting than sentiment.
oh what's the point in being oblique? they say to write something because you seem like you'd be good at it. if you're catholic it's your father that hates you. in this case, you'd hate yourself.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
...able to make a mistake
doctor, your album is awesome.i'm a fool to delay you.
goddamn.
i love you doctor. i'll never doubt you again.
everything is prepared (i'll put this up against you)
sometimes a fan can sound like applause.
i mean a mechanical fan. which as i think about it, could mean anything. fans are ridiculous by nature. they're sad things. the sadder manifestation is the object of the fan. people who let themselves be adored are preposterous. though there are many parties for them. everyone loves to be blown.
it's difficult when your friends are these people. what can you do? you're either jealous or bitter or both. there is never really love among them. there is status i guess. or it seems like that.
my best friends have a better sense of humour.
diatribe in effect dude, obviously i'm so fucking bitter. fans as a mechanical for cooling you down are totally ok.
i mean a mechanical fan. which as i think about it, could mean anything. fans are ridiculous by nature. they're sad things. the sadder manifestation is the object of the fan. people who let themselves be adored are preposterous. though there are many parties for them. everyone loves to be blown.
it's difficult when your friends are these people. what can you do? you're either jealous or bitter or both. there is never really love among them. there is status i guess. or it seems like that.
my best friends have a better sense of humour.
diatribe in effect dude, obviously i'm so fucking bitter. fans as a mechanical for cooling you down are totally ok.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
mandelbrot and juliet III
Two gold coronas
Accompany comfort fare
white lilacs eavesdrop
the centipede threat
dispatched summarily by
my rolled magazine
cold porcelain bowl
welcomes the party’s vestige
salmon chunks abound
applicant albert
with a bad case of nerves, was
paler than his shirt
new couples annex
past lovers’ geography
fast as riffled decks
Accompany comfort fare
white lilacs eavesdrop
the centipede threat
dispatched summarily by
my rolled magazine
cold porcelain bowl
welcomes the party’s vestige
salmon chunks abound
applicant albert
with a bad case of nerves, was
paler than his shirt
new couples annex
past lovers’ geography
fast as riffled decks
moderation in excess
so, banff can best be summed up i think by employing the title of my favourite Deep Dark United song: Downhill is Downtown. If i have learned anything in my small little life it is that I always trust myself too late; scuttling about the foot of alberta's mountains, this came through to me yet again, clear as the air. sometime as i get older i hope that i will be able to figure out an appropriate blend between conviction and humility.
anyway, i realized too that while i love my neighbourhood and the three generation roots of my home here in hogtown, i prefer even more the feeling of being a stranger in a strange land. Though how strange banff, eh? Laugh if you want but sometimes exotica isn't a requirement for inspiration. Just changing apartments can be enough. I don't want to belabour the whole 'wow are mountains' thing, but when you've schlepped around on the canadian shield for a decade or two, vertical nature can really pop.
a sidenote: I realize of course for DDU purists, 'Downhill' is the poppiest and therefore least trustworthy of the oeuvre. Mr. Lukashevsky I hope will forgive me this populist plucking of his catalogue. Of course, many will not recall DDU; a shame indeed considering the emergence of subsequent local collectives who have parlayed the esoteric genius of Mr. Lukashevsky's quixotic ensemble into mellow, easy festivals and sales catalogue success.
Moving on. Much was made during the conference of 'social networking' and the collectivization of culture, thought and creation, especially via 'the tubes of cybernettick' as my new swiss friend would say. i am not entirely sure i know what she meant by that. I do know that i continue to instinctively doubt the popular. I have explored this contrarian element of mine to determine if perhaps it is more a by-product of envy than an intelligently configured thesis. no verdict. Occasionally you snap awake in the night with the answer to all these questions and more; The Hollingshead-ian 'supreme knowledge of everything'*. But it doesn't last.
As always, at the end of all digital discussions, the big question: what happens then when the power goes out? I hope for all our sakes (most especially bran's sake), we're sufficiently backed up.
*see, Ian Brown's What I Meant To Say
anyway, i realized too that while i love my neighbourhood and the three generation roots of my home here in hogtown, i prefer even more the feeling of being a stranger in a strange land. Though how strange banff, eh? Laugh if you want but sometimes exotica isn't a requirement for inspiration. Just changing apartments can be enough. I don't want to belabour the whole 'wow are mountains' thing, but when you've schlepped around on the canadian shield for a decade or two, vertical nature can really pop.
a sidenote: I realize of course for DDU purists, 'Downhill' is the poppiest and therefore least trustworthy of the oeuvre. Mr. Lukashevsky I hope will forgive me this populist plucking of his catalogue. Of course, many will not recall DDU; a shame indeed considering the emergence of subsequent local collectives who have parlayed the esoteric genius of Mr. Lukashevsky's quixotic ensemble into mellow, easy festivals and sales catalogue success.
Moving on. Much was made during the conference of 'social networking' and the collectivization of culture, thought and creation, especially via 'the tubes of cybernettick' as my new swiss friend would say. i am not entirely sure i know what she meant by that. I do know that i continue to instinctively doubt the popular. I have explored this contrarian element of mine to determine if perhaps it is more a by-product of envy than an intelligently configured thesis. no verdict. Occasionally you snap awake in the night with the answer to all these questions and more; The Hollingshead-ian 'supreme knowledge of everything'*. But it doesn't last.
As always, at the end of all digital discussions, the big question: what happens then when the power goes out? I hope for all our sakes (most especially bran's sake), we're sufficiently backed up.
*see, Ian Brown's What I Meant To Say
Thursday, June 08, 2006
continental kit fake soft top
i forgot how much fun it is to hang out in hostels. i've arrived a day early for the conference i'm supposed to be attending. met a lovely woman en route who it turns out is among the organizing committee. these sorts of encounters make me remember why any kind of travel is always better than sitting still.
i've never seen mountains before. for me it has always been oceans that have wreaked havoc on my convictions. but the cold misty peaks are giving my memory of the aegean and south china sea a run for their salt. tom stoppard is my read on this trip. arcadia, precisely. i'm always impressed by anyone who can drop fermat and claim that newton's greatest error was to omit sex from his laws of attraction. definitely a grevious oversight.
at the moment i'm eavesdropping on a deeply tanned, self-possessed (in that faye dunaway way) spaniard as she endures the tragic approach of a gawky-capped ingenue. she makes me think of bonnie and clyde, how they get done in the end. how perfect it was. or how we all should finally come to accept that hoping for answers in the afterlife is like pretending that the solutions to life's problems can be located in the back of some divine text book. Watching their little frisson, i wonder if maybe it isn't more important to recognize that ultimately in all things we must fail. Not to suggest we should forfeit our hope to schopenhauer (never him!), but because of the comfort there is that we are all limited and frail. Who is not a fool is not alive (here I paraphrase my favourite writer du jour, Mr. Milch). Meaning i think that we should not quit the struggle or fetch as an excuse for indolence the futility of existence.
Anyway, much like the unfolding of all our stories, i did not witness the result of the spied-upon courtship. It's trite (when has that stopped you before cb?) but I wonder -- as my mind shuffles through these strange non-sequitor snap-shots of others' lives -- who out there has pictures of my forgotten moments in their memories? What eavesdropper has relayed with hilarity (or scorn) my own pathetic advances? (or is this gross ego at play? assuming any should attend my presence? christ, another spiral!)
Which leads me to another unfinished thought. For a while now, i have been obsessed (or rather, terrified) by time. Handcuffed by its relentless forward grind. Desperate to obviate its omnipotent sway. However, now that Adam Sandler has bastardized Nicholson Baker's ultimate and delicious exploration of time-control (see: The Fermata) for his own sophmoric purposes, I think my next preoccupation will be to seek out all incidences wherein i have provided 'human background' to stangers' pictorial records. To wit, take a look at some of your own vacation photos. In the background lurk those unidentified extras; the accidentally captured. Playing the part of anonymous hub-bub. Unknown drinkers in bars, meanderers on sidewalks, sunbathers on beaches, or passing motorists who happened by at the moment of exposure. A single moment of their unknown lives caught in our own context.
I'm exhausted.
note, written later... this is so bad i'm ashamed to be alive. it's like a pirate shirt or those continental kits on fake soft top lincolns in florida.
i've never seen mountains before. for me it has always been oceans that have wreaked havoc on my convictions. but the cold misty peaks are giving my memory of the aegean and south china sea a run for their salt. tom stoppard is my read on this trip. arcadia, precisely. i'm always impressed by anyone who can drop fermat and claim that newton's greatest error was to omit sex from his laws of attraction. definitely a grevious oversight.
at the moment i'm eavesdropping on a deeply tanned, self-possessed (in that faye dunaway way) spaniard as she endures the tragic approach of a gawky-capped ingenue. she makes me think of bonnie and clyde, how they get done in the end. how perfect it was. or how we all should finally come to accept that hoping for answers in the afterlife is like pretending that the solutions to life's problems can be located in the back of some divine text book. Watching their little frisson, i wonder if maybe it isn't more important to recognize that ultimately in all things we must fail. Not to suggest we should forfeit our hope to schopenhauer (never him!), but because of the comfort there is that we are all limited and frail. Who is not a fool is not alive (here I paraphrase my favourite writer du jour, Mr. Milch). Meaning i think that we should not quit the struggle or fetch as an excuse for indolence the futility of existence.
Anyway, much like the unfolding of all our stories, i did not witness the result of the spied-upon courtship. It's trite (when has that stopped you before cb?) but I wonder -- as my mind shuffles through these strange non-sequitor snap-shots of others' lives -- who out there has pictures of my forgotten moments in their memories? What eavesdropper has relayed with hilarity (or scorn) my own pathetic advances? (or is this gross ego at play? assuming any should attend my presence? christ, another spiral!)
Which leads me to another unfinished thought. For a while now, i have been obsessed (or rather, terrified) by time. Handcuffed by its relentless forward grind. Desperate to obviate its omnipotent sway. However, now that Adam Sandler has bastardized Nicholson Baker's ultimate and delicious exploration of time-control (see: The Fermata) for his own sophmoric purposes, I think my next preoccupation will be to seek out all incidences wherein i have provided 'human background' to stangers' pictorial records. To wit, take a look at some of your own vacation photos. In the background lurk those unidentified extras; the accidentally captured. Playing the part of anonymous hub-bub. Unknown drinkers in bars, meanderers on sidewalks, sunbathers on beaches, or passing motorists who happened by at the moment of exposure. A single moment of their unknown lives caught in our own context.
I'm exhausted.
note, written later... this is so bad i'm ashamed to be alive. it's like a pirate shirt or those continental kits on fake soft top lincolns in florida.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Friday, June 02, 2006
denmark
i like how things can come and go. you know, i know because i know, what i mean.
if we had been in this neighbourhood, my neighbourhood i mean, we would be having a lot of fun.
anyway. this note should be had exactly like a martini.
if we had been in this neighbourhood, my neighbourhood i mean, we would be having a lot of fun.
anyway. this note should be had exactly like a martini.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
smooth balls are cute
--upset at the eviction turn,
and duke has retreated
inside the closet to lick off
what's left of his fur.
my comforting cliche elicits scorn.
don't pull that 'change is inevitable'
bullshit, she writes back.
chastened i relay:
bobby says,
tell duke to throw a party,
invite the neighbourhood
cats. a going away soiree.
chicken will not attend. but she
sends meows and says to say:
hey duke, smooth balls are cute.
and duke has retreated
inside the closet to lick off
what's left of his fur.
my comforting cliche elicits scorn.
don't pull that 'change is inevitable'
bullshit, she writes back.
chastened i relay:
bobby says,
tell duke to throw a party,
invite the neighbourhood
cats. a going away soiree.
chicken will not attend. but she
sends meows and says to say:
hey duke, smooth balls are cute.
vermilion in the wind
her impala themed cruise
pilots acetate ignominy.
such salted standards ripple
unseemly weaves, like drunk
boats or heaving breasts.
crumbled coptic revisions
spur the termites of wooden faith,
the foregone doom of falstaff.
pilots acetate ignominy.
such salted standards ripple
unseemly weaves, like drunk
boats or heaving breasts.
crumbled coptic revisions
spur the termites of wooden faith,
the foregone doom of falstaff.
rejected
dude, watching shaq get blocked by ben wallace last night, and then crash to the floor like a giant hock of ham; it felt like seeing your father cry. i'm telling you, it profoundly shook my psyche. i don't think i can ever feel safe again.
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