Celebratory cement mixer on Queen St

A cement mixer pours out with all its gunk, stopping everything in its place, freezing in time. This is no time to be a constructionist, I think – building up theories of thought, untestable, unfalsifiable, mere mystical philospeculation. Get these word merchants out of here – their verbal tricks leave you winded and blind. Throw away everything you think you know – let me tell about my friend Descartes. He went into a room, naked and stark, and came out as a real entity. I stink therefore I am... a sinner. Focus on the facts, focus on the focal point, focus on the faraway waterwheels, churning forces of productivity, grinding flour crushing chaff. Enough symbolism, let’s call a spade a spade. Enough metaphor, it’s like talking to a brick wall – enough simile, it’s the recourse of a simian. Don’t ape me – too much wordplay is insolent, don’t stoop to pun, it’s the tactic of a cow.

"We must do more research on the face-eating monkeys, they have so much to teach us," said Timothy Leary while tripped out on LSD. But I don’t do drugs – never have, and never will. What's the point; why spin out, I prefer straight lines, prefer waiting politely in line – I am far too Canadian. Here is a trick: snap your toes, snap your fingers, I’ll teach you to absorb a body blow, I’ll teach you to spurt a garden hose, to flood anthills like some backyard Old Testament wrath – the insects meet their maker, who’s just skipping along a path...

Bob Dylan, I found out, wrote in a twisted cliché, that’s all it was; that’s what we crave. When the wisest and most inscrutable finally blurts out all his secrets, are we likely to believe it? No I don’t think so, untrue. Let me keep my fables, it’s all I have that’s stable, otherwise I’m unable to block out noise. We need the same stories – keep them straight, repeat often, really jazz up the sexy points – they might even be true.

Here I am building up a work ethic – learning to write, say, 10,000 words a day. Obviously I have to think what I’m saying’s important, obviously you need a big ego for that. Obviously you need a good keyboard. You need the right spac, e the proper lighting, and above all an editor to make you finish what’s begun. You need somebody to take an interest. Otherwise what’s the point? We can’t all be Emily Dickinson.

Soon, see, we’ll just use links as footnotes. All essays will be submitted online, to allow for complete understanding. And in the future-future, hopefully, we won’t have language – just electric current in our cerebral cortex – sensation, knowledge in its purest form. No more vocal chordic oral-aural inter-media-ry. We can finally close our eyes, blinking to stop from thinking – what revolution, this evolution! what a nice holiday for the human ratracers… and our tongues will just do tasting. Mmm… can you smell the turkey basting? Yummy yummy - someday, honest, I’m going to try NOT to be funny.

But back on the street: it's methyl benzene and indie zine scenes, rubber soled shoes, black man blues, scuffed wooden baseboards, rough hewn warlords, Kentucky fried kitchens, Donner and Blitzen, blintzes and knishes, old Luca Brassi he sleeps with the fishes, switching modes of prosody, the accent falling repeatedly lulls me so subtley, sticks me into fantasy. Pieces of pizza covered in onions, old women hissing at the pain in their bunions, the sugar in the jar is clumpy and dry; the Wednesday witticisms are best described as wry, high fi and low moos boxing on your tippy toes, never mind about the landmine cuz we’ll know it when it blows...