(proudly blurring lines between weirdness and boredom since 2004)
I am the phoenix (previously unreleased excerpt)
I am the phoenix tonight. I rise from the ash into the light. Evanescent and intransigent, my aura is smoke and incense, split between the perfect geometry of stars, mixed through the last particle.
Do not fear; I have come at last. You were promised—I will take you on my shoulders.
You were warned it would be me.
Listen to the talk below, behind the closed doors of the sordid inn. Sprawling limbs soak up spilled ale. Men in soiled coats listen for the end of the world.
It has taken much to come together, but this will last forever. We look into our innermost reasons, and we are set on fire. Around insane beggars and destroyed egos, we come to cleanse. To be reborn.
But we fail to respond. There is an indecision. I am stolen.
All I can promise is sympathy, not action. For now I am weak, but I will be strong again.
I hear the call every day, but I forget; I lose myself in its clarity.
The poisons are many, and the antidote is a fiction—it cannot be found. We dissolve ourselves into waters surrounding the mountain; we slave in dark anonymous caves. But there is not futility able to keep at bay the phoenix.
I rise above.
This is not the end of days, though night does fall, and the logic of blackness is
smothering.
We dress for the moment; we are ready at the moment’s notice.
Into infinity we charge on silver lightning, into the end of cause and effect, of unfeeling order, to the breach between world and dream.
“Stop the smallest man forever from lunging after death!”
We are conceived in a quicksilver flash—and I am the phoenix. I am the exploding sun, and the red and white light is blinding.
5/29/2007
5/24/2007
O'Hare airport
(4 cups of coffee into my trip home)
This is not a good idea
O true worship, O man of length, the strength I gave was never spent.
If persons black were lent a noose, so I could I clear my name, the effect was cursory; I never was the same. Poems black as clouds, shave the faces of the proud. Othello was my cousin, I carried his sword and dagger, I walked in shadows until I reached the cliff of the great green adder. "This is Sunday morning showdown," and the walls shook like spiderwebs. I heaved at smoke and breathed in cellar dust, wrote encyclopedia entries for acid and rust.
She wore a cloak of silk atop her oiled golden tan. A frog and a gazelle traded jokes in Hindustan. I would calculate with simpletons; they crowned me Foxy Beast. Now insomniacs contribute to my pot of charity, it was explosive death I traded in — it was mindless liberty.
I dig for hours before I find the straighter line, open cans of worms and evaporate the brine. I wonder 'what will come?' but it's hours late, I looked up words like 'jaunty' 'facade' and 'defenestrate'.
If cobras could combine into a mild lamb, if pomegranates sprang like diamonds from my hand - why I'd spit out choreography and smile at the moon. I'd drink mudslides in the hammock and name my firstborn daughter June.
I call you contradiction I call you labyrinth, I call you late for dinner with an absinthe after dinner mint. I'd drink ovations with a monk and we'd scan the crossword pages, I'd make a pact with Lady Silver, and her first cousins, the Sages.
Collect a few fragments, polish them a bit, point them at the ocean and then be done with it. That's better than most, who obsess with spelling, grammar, father son and holy host.
I'm winding down and that's what makes me glow. I hammer till I shiver, live on love, process grief through my wretched liver. I can breathe now. I always knew this, but did not know how.
I loved many but insufficiently, never a soul completely, until we ate street meat at Queen and Spadina on Saturday evening. Lady, treat me as your lord, slave, lover, knave, lad, brave mad sad king. I have nothing except you - and I will give you everything.
This is not a good idea
O true worship, O man of length, the strength I gave was never spent.
If persons black were lent a noose, so I could I clear my name, the effect was cursory; I never was the same. Poems black as clouds, shave the faces of the proud. Othello was my cousin, I carried his sword and dagger, I walked in shadows until I reached the cliff of the great green adder. "This is Sunday morning showdown," and the walls shook like spiderwebs. I heaved at smoke and breathed in cellar dust, wrote encyclopedia entries for acid and rust.
She wore a cloak of silk atop her oiled golden tan. A frog and a gazelle traded jokes in Hindustan. I would calculate with simpletons; they crowned me Foxy Beast. Now insomniacs contribute to my pot of charity, it was explosive death I traded in — it was mindless liberty.
I dig for hours before I find the straighter line, open cans of worms and evaporate the brine. I wonder 'what will come?' but it's hours late, I looked up words like 'jaunty' 'facade' and 'defenestrate'.
If cobras could combine into a mild lamb, if pomegranates sprang like diamonds from my hand - why I'd spit out choreography and smile at the moon. I'd drink mudslides in the hammock and name my firstborn daughter June.
I call you contradiction I call you labyrinth, I call you late for dinner with an absinthe after dinner mint. I'd drink ovations with a monk and we'd scan the crossword pages, I'd make a pact with Lady Silver, and her first cousins, the Sages.
Collect a few fragments, polish them a bit, point them at the ocean and then be done with it. That's better than most, who obsess with spelling, grammar, father son and holy host.
I'm winding down and that's what makes me glow. I hammer till I shiver, live on love, process grief through my wretched liver. I can breathe now. I always knew this, but did not know how.
I loved many but insufficiently, never a soul completely, until we ate street meat at Queen and Spadina on Saturday evening. Lady, treat me as your lord, slave, lover, knave, lad, brave mad sad king. I have nothing except you - and I will give you everything.
5/19/2007
Scribbles from Austin
6th Street scene, me like a Wallflower, if I sang; if I lived in Texas I'd have to form my own gang. High heeled blondies, beefy baby boys with hair like Capote. Downtown paradise, await my moment on stage, fly gleefully with wireless, love Texas accents, have a cute stress recorder, it's so much like Tronno.
Stevie Ray Vaughan stetson wings on a river with bronze string. Lutists, artists like a lootbag, sweaty boys whiz, caffeine squeeze like oj, scabs on rock hard abs and mexican lime soda fizz, enchilada pigs. We snatch signals on a cafe patio, Austin to Boston, coffee and toffee, mosh pit mania and dirt trail llamas, I segue, the Segways on the sidealk, gawk, talk how silly and sinister two-wheeled half-cocked automobile replacements — I'm sipping mocha warm and sultry 5 feet 9 from the pavement.
And it's bubbly and outlandish, there's Barbie everywhere - can I help but stare? [Oh don't think I'm in trouble, my lady don't berate; she's so much more lovely and we quiver as we wait.] Fair hair here and there — got that oblivious aristocratic 'my city — built by slaves' air.
And this afternoon I'm a buffoon. I'm on stage soon. We want gold for Canada, to celebrate the loon.
Stevie Ray Vaughan stetson wings on a river with bronze string. Lutists, artists like a lootbag, sweaty boys whiz, caffeine squeeze like oj, scabs on rock hard abs and mexican lime soda fizz, enchilada pigs. We snatch signals on a cafe patio, Austin to Boston, coffee and toffee, mosh pit mania and dirt trail llamas, I segue, the Segways on the sidealk, gawk, talk how silly and sinister two-wheeled half-cocked automobile replacements — I'm sipping mocha warm and sultry 5 feet 9 from the pavement.
And it's bubbly and outlandish, there's Barbie everywhere - can I help but stare? [Oh don't think I'm in trouble, my lady don't berate; she's so much more lovely and we quiver as we wait.] Fair hair here and there — got that oblivious aristocratic 'my city — built by slaves' air.
And this afternoon I'm a buffoon. I'm on stage soon. We want gold for Canada, to celebrate the loon.
5/11/2007
rhyming as sleep aid
(a week with no words - wakes you up at 2am with itchy fingers)
After midnight with no one around
the wolves are silent, well profound
atop a mountain, climbing down
to the heart of an ocean underground
what sleep may come with a beating drum
nobody now to rub my tum
lie on the floor and pray for sun
when morning makes you run
the glow persists, vigil screen
too old to pretend to scream
no nightmare pillows, it's you I dream
and plunder what it means.
O fog sit thick atop my brow
tired bones beat back the drowse
warm words rock me gently now
[I see no point asking how.]
After midnight with no one around
the wolves are silent, well profound
atop a mountain, climbing down
to the heart of an ocean underground
what sleep may come with a beating drum
nobody now to rub my tum
lie on the floor and pray for sun
when morning makes you run
the glow persists, vigil screen
too old to pretend to scream
no nightmare pillows, it's you I dream
and plunder what it means.
O fog sit thick atop my brow
tired bones beat back the drowse
warm words rock me gently now
[I see no point asking how.]
5/05/2007
Channel changing blues
(hey - by the end it starts to makes sense!)
Witness this
we words work wonders
deliberate misses, don’t strike the missus
“Today I was threatened with a baseball bat”
so I’ve been saving kisses, and I’m
done compensating with a kitty cat. I
switch too fast, hang on
get steam, make it last; we
oscillate, can’t let your logic penetrate – I don’t
have time for eventual comprehension
we have a seven-city tour of
the
septic tanks.
If you were exhausted like me
these little bits are plenty feed
so don’t choose, just beg
be satisfied, signals collide we sigh
don’t die yet, go on a diet
of fibrous thoughts, roughage regurgitated
for rectal rumination, when you
barely gather your carcass
after sweat and elation
victorious and arbitrary
competition is something scary on your
face and I’d
marry that face to mine
and await my bottle of wine
we circled that date
months in advance
and now I’m ready
done floggin’ the remote
or switching sides in my one-paddle boat;
let’s watch every program; I don’t interrupt.
[Although I might occasionally curse the sky and get up if
it’s one of those two-hour documentaries
on the history of the menstrual cup!]
Witness this
we words work wonders
deliberate misses, don’t strike the missus
“Today I was threatened with a baseball bat”
so I’ve been saving kisses, and I’m
done compensating with a kitty cat. I
switch too fast, hang on
get steam, make it last; we
oscillate, can’t let your logic penetrate – I don’t
have time for eventual comprehension
we have a seven-city tour of
the
septic tanks.
If you were exhausted like me
these little bits are plenty feed
so don’t choose, just beg
be satisfied, signals collide we sigh
don’t die yet, go on a diet
of fibrous thoughts, roughage regurgitated
for rectal rumination, when you
barely gather your carcass
after sweat and elation
victorious and arbitrary
competition is something scary on your
face and I’d
marry that face to mine
and await my bottle of wine
we circled that date
months in advance
and now I’m ready
done floggin’ the remote
or switching sides in my one-paddle boat;
let’s watch every program; I don’t interrupt.
[Although I might occasionally curse the sky and get up if
it’s one of those two-hour documentaries
on the history of the menstrual cup!]
5/04/2007
4/27/2007
I don't go to pieces without my puzzle:)
(effortless expression, stressless impressions)
Don't feel like incriminating myself
got nothing to write for another two weeks or so.
Besides I can't type when exhausted.
No more censors in this special patch of grass, it is shrinking, too many eyes, who else watching us as we light up in that drug nosed high. I need an artificial barrier, how else can I mix my batter? If you see me in a trance, do your best to flatter, it's better for the blog if we lie to each other. Be discreet with all these secrets which are uninteresting when passed around.
I've been working on my posture, practised deep breathing. I've worked on preparation, explanation, delegation, and no more self denial or flagellation. (btw eco-guilt is the new catholicism)
I've sharpened that sense of humour, yet I'm mostly gormless (great word); I've donated spare change to the homeless. I've never been a borrower. I've lived alone without a loan or begging for a bone but certainly never chose this loneness over any other. I've learned from Bruce Springsteen - the boss himself. "You do some sad sad things, when it's you you're trying to lose." So I've finally arrived, paid my dues. Just watch now, what I will do.
Don't feel like incriminating myself
got nothing to write for another two weeks or so.
Besides I can't type when exhausted.
No more censors in this special patch of grass, it is shrinking, too many eyes, who else watching us as we light up in that drug nosed high. I need an artificial barrier, how else can I mix my batter? If you see me in a trance, do your best to flatter, it's better for the blog if we lie to each other. Be discreet with all these secrets which are uninteresting when passed around.
I've been working on my posture, practised deep breathing. I've worked on preparation, explanation, delegation, and no more self denial or flagellation. (btw eco-guilt is the new catholicism)
I've sharpened that sense of humour, yet I'm mostly gormless (great word); I've donated spare change to the homeless. I've never been a borrower. I've lived alone without a loan or begging for a bone but certainly never chose this loneness over any other. I've learned from Bruce Springsteen - the boss himself. "You do some sad sad things, when it's you you're trying to lose." So I've finally arrived, paid my dues. Just watch now, what I will do.
4/19/2007
It spills over me
I'm whirlwinded, wallowing in highs. She sang swirlies, talks me over telescopic lines, I'm doing twirlies, this soundtrack never ceases, joy just abstract enough, satisfaction in that sensory vacuum, where everything heightens, this virtual stuff. It is tough. Yet it's the easiest thing, or so it's been, and still, it's hard, but "I don't mind hard work" and you'll agree. (I'm looking forward to our conversation, so we can end our purgatory.)
I've written lyrics for songs; didn't know my music though, and every note was wrong. Didn't know my strength, I'm sorry, I never lifted a finger. I let doubt fester; I let madness run rumour; I let simpletons shriek and drown out reason… and I let sadness linger.
I don't have time to gather arguments, rather be happy than right. I'm short on preamble, but I always fall back on the rhyming ramble. Amiability is a crutch; if you don't dare you don't win, and so I threw away my education because my mind was hollowing.
I didn't set out to break records for complexity - vexing with my book of photos, subversive against storytelling itself - though underlying everything, besides unlikelihood and improbability, is simple appreciation for the possibility of possibilities.
I've written lyrics for songs; didn't know my music though, and every note was wrong. Didn't know my strength, I'm sorry, I never lifted a finger. I let doubt fester; I let madness run rumour; I let simpletons shriek and drown out reason… and I let sadness linger.
I don't have time to gather arguments, rather be happy than right. I'm short on preamble, but I always fall back on the rhyming ramble. Amiability is a crutch; if you don't dare you don't win, and so I threw away my education because my mind was hollowing.
I didn't set out to break records for complexity - vexing with my book of photos, subversive against storytelling itself - though underlying everything, besides unlikelihood and improbability, is simple appreciation for the possibility of possibilities.
4/16/2007
What is anticipation?
"From this distance, I think I might love you.
I am beginning to hate this distance."
I am beginning to hate this distance."
4/12/2007
Have no doubt
(I want this to be talked about.)
Truly, I’m tizzied. Has it affected me? Certainly, since last week I’ve dreamt, not slept, swept and checked my countenance for cracks, carefully counted my steps and spent sweat, pain, laughter all spun together in this mind-churning infatuation with your brain.
And your name! I am ashamed; I have not yet said your name to you. All of the above has numbed my voicebox, a blow from which I can’t recover, and beyond my lyrics and drums, I do confess: I fear my rubber tongue.
And “Oh but reality,” the fingers wag, citing polysyllabic nonsensicalities, eventualities, uncertainties, contingencies, superstitions and fragilities:
For instance, it is true, we have not met. And do we both clean our apartments? Do we disdain four-legged pets? Do we like the mornings? And do we both eat meat??
I do, I love meat. I do. I’ll get my fill at our first meeting, with eyes that taste every inch of you. And I’ll call the banquet hall tomorrow, if you like what you see too.
But do not doubt the serene certainty in my insanity, surety in my naivete, Samsonlike strength in my devotion to this realism. Full of bull? Oh no. Ole!
Truly, I’m tizzied. Has it affected me? Certainly, since last week I’ve dreamt, not slept, swept and checked my countenance for cracks, carefully counted my steps and spent sweat, pain, laughter all spun together in this mind-churning infatuation with your brain.
And your name! I am ashamed; I have not yet said your name to you. All of the above has numbed my voicebox, a blow from which I can’t recover, and beyond my lyrics and drums, I do confess: I fear my rubber tongue.
And “Oh but reality,” the fingers wag, citing polysyllabic nonsensicalities, eventualities, uncertainties, contingencies, superstitions and fragilities:
For instance, it is true, we have not met. And do we both clean our apartments? Do we disdain four-legged pets? Do we like the mornings? And do we both eat meat??
I do, I love meat. I do. I’ll get my fill at our first meeting, with eyes that taste every inch of you. And I’ll call the banquet hall tomorrow, if you like what you see too.
But do not doubt the serene certainty in my insanity, surety in my naivete, Samsonlike strength in my devotion to this realism. Full of bull? Oh no. Ole!
4/05/2007
Backflips
(folks, we have arrived)
The written word is a funny thing.
I get the feeling you're
less sentimental than I
so you won't think twice
about me waxing
about how
important it is that
since I discovered your
existence I have resolved
to meet you
as soon as possible.
Oh I've been plotting suddenly
-and this is nothing like me-
and scheming,
every song selected
for maximum meaning
and melting of
your shivering hard diamond heart.
Call me a wacko
but a sliver of me
suspects
for the longest time
I've been writing
about you
-wacko, yes-
bet you didn't
know that
but here just now
I catch myself staring
at you
and reading you
in disbelief and
afraid to tell anyone
lest
they pinch me
and
I can't deny
this egocentric eccentricity
-so indulge me, please-
that if you were conjured
from poems
I've been writing for years
'Measuring the best of me,
awaiting her, clandestinely'
then it's nothing at all for me
to wait a bit longer.
I'll do what I have to.
Wait, yes.
When it's
blind love, Tom waits
But today I got my wish
and
will
see you soon enough
thanks to two unlikely cupids
and boy yeah now I'm being mushy and stupid and
be warned that
in person I tell shockingly horrendous puns!
The written word is a funny thing.
I get the feeling you're
less sentimental than I
so you won't think twice
about me waxing
about how
important it is that
since I discovered your
existence I have resolved
to meet you
as soon as possible.
Oh I've been plotting suddenly
-and this is nothing like me-
and scheming,
every song selected
for maximum meaning
and melting of
your shivering hard diamond heart.
Call me a wacko
but a sliver of me
suspects
for the longest time
I've been writing
about you
-wacko, yes-
bet you didn't
know that
but here just now
I catch myself staring
at you
and reading you
in disbelief and
afraid to tell anyone
lest
they pinch me
and
I can't deny
this egocentric eccentricity
-so indulge me, please-
that if you were conjured
from poems
I've been writing for years
'Measuring the best of me,
awaiting her, clandestinely'
then it's nothing at all for me
to wait a bit longer.
I'll do what I have to.
Wait, yes.
When it's
blind love, Tom waits
But today I got my wish
and
will
see you soon enough
thanks to two unlikely cupids
and boy yeah now I'm being mushy and stupid and
be warned that
in person I tell shockingly horrendous puns!
4/03/2007
Actual thoughts
(hardest to write down)
Dreaming of six things at once, occasionally erotic, ruing expression as the new running water. "Everybody wants the same thing." When I'm overcaffeinated and drunk I get strange results. Wake up in a thought clot, last night my eyes bloodshot, tearshot swearing and crying. Like a kid with a brand new toy; but I know I'll need a newer toy. I collect notions so I can liberate them.The other day I overheard myself thinking "How smart are we? Slightly less than he who can fully comprehend how smart we are, which means we have a lot to learn." I've been striving for sentences that enforce calmness. I could attach notes to people and places in my life, but thoughts in a vacuum have an obscene grace that make me shiver. Whom do I read these days? Oh no the discrepancy between where our minds want to go and the crude instruments around us. We all want to melt hearts. It's a test: how much can I bear embarrassing myself. If so many words could make you weak in the knees, I'm satisfied, tapping my baton behind curtains when the crowd's gone home, saying 'still got it'. 'Still got it' - but that proves what? An extra gear I've reached, what is it all tied back to neurotransmitters, all this hustle and bluster competing desires in a crowded cafe, flashes of potential for exceptional harmony, and I hear the miracle of the gregorian chant, submission to one note, take all these different people tell them 'sing this note and sing it well' yeah that's tougher than it looks. I don't sell myself well at all. If I did sell you on me I still wouldn't be sure that you're sold. So why bother with disappointment. Pioneers don't have time for applause or to dodge tomatoes. Mad Max in the desert trying to keep one or two loyal friends. Remember in Owen Meany, they practise the jump for the entire book? And the meaning came crashing down? But John Irving cheats because he knows how it will end. Not really a writer but a problem solver working on his next contingency, making lemonade from lemons. If I told you mixing drinks is what this blog is about, that it's based on fermentation and yeast, or whatever. Do you know what beer is? It's yeast shit. It's not something I would ever choose for myself ie expression as an addiction but there we have it.
Dreaming of six things at once, occasionally erotic, ruing expression as the new running water. "Everybody wants the same thing." When I'm overcaffeinated and drunk I get strange results. Wake up in a thought clot, last night my eyes bloodshot, tearshot swearing and crying. Like a kid with a brand new toy; but I know I'll need a newer toy. I collect notions so I can liberate them.The other day I overheard myself thinking "How smart are we? Slightly less than he who can fully comprehend how smart we are, which means we have a lot to learn." I've been striving for sentences that enforce calmness. I could attach notes to people and places in my life, but thoughts in a vacuum have an obscene grace that make me shiver. Whom do I read these days? Oh no the discrepancy between where our minds want to go and the crude instruments around us. We all want to melt hearts. It's a test: how much can I bear embarrassing myself. If so many words could make you weak in the knees, I'm satisfied, tapping my baton behind curtains when the crowd's gone home, saying 'still got it'. 'Still got it' - but that proves what? An extra gear I've reached, what is it all tied back to neurotransmitters, all this hustle and bluster competing desires in a crowded cafe, flashes of potential for exceptional harmony, and I hear the miracle of the gregorian chant, submission to one note, take all these different people tell them 'sing this note and sing it well' yeah that's tougher than it looks. I don't sell myself well at all. If I did sell you on me I still wouldn't be sure that you're sold. So why bother with disappointment. Pioneers don't have time for applause or to dodge tomatoes. Mad Max in the desert trying to keep one or two loyal friends. Remember in Owen Meany, they practise the jump for the entire book? And the meaning came crashing down? But John Irving cheats because he knows how it will end. Not really a writer but a problem solver working on his next contingency, making lemonade from lemons. If I told you mixing drinks is what this blog is about, that it's based on fermentation and yeast, or whatever. Do you know what beer is? It's yeast shit. It's not something I would ever choose for myself ie expression as an addiction but there we have it.
4/01/2007
20 four-word sentences
(excellent practice for writing headlines)
1) Cuddle peacocks every Tuesday.
2) Waffles bludgeon my soul.
3) Seek cobra venom antidotes.
4) Tarred, feathered, I moan.
5) I crave tofu biscuits.
6) Be smart, eat fish.
7) Revel in word zest.
8) Mormons haunt my thoughts.
9) Who has osmosis exhaustion?
10) Spanish eyes shine mightily.
11) Equal rights never arrive.
12) Club chicks gyrate hypnotically.
13) Polish grandma's copper dentures.
14) Spontaneously combust, then extinguish.
15) Analyze your squeegee budget.
16) Feast upon barbecued rhinoceros.
17) Swedes are prettier, bouncier.
18) Skydiving is aborted suicide.
19) Chickens cluck Swahili sonnets.
20) Ottawa Senators choke, again.
1) Cuddle peacocks every Tuesday.
2) Waffles bludgeon my soul.
3) Seek cobra venom antidotes.
4) Tarred, feathered, I moan.
5) I crave tofu biscuits.
6) Be smart, eat fish.
7) Revel in word zest.
8) Mormons haunt my thoughts.
9) Who has osmosis exhaustion?
10) Spanish eyes shine mightily.
11) Equal rights never arrive.
12) Club chicks gyrate hypnotically.
13) Polish grandma's copper dentures.
14) Spontaneously combust, then extinguish.
15) Analyze your squeegee budget.
16) Feast upon barbecued rhinoceros.
17) Swedes are prettier, bouncier.
18) Skydiving is aborted suicide.
19) Chickens cluck Swahili sonnets.
20) Ottawa Senators choke, again.
3/31/2007
20 more friggin' brilliant ideas
(self-explanatory, I think)
1) Coin laundromats that double as slot machines, to reduce gambling addiction. It would take 25 minutes for the spin cycle to end and achieve payout, thus delaying instant gratification. Spot gaming addicts by how white their clothes are, while the phrase "I'm all cleaned out," takes on a fresh-scented double-meaning.
2) Instead of left-turn lanes, laughterin' lanes! Uncontrollable giggling accompanies every fatal car crash.
3) In our germophobic society, handshakes should be replaced by a universally agreed upon system of pleasant whistling noises.
4) A coffee-flavoured, tobacco-based hard liquor you inject in your forearm, as a slightly less powerful substitute for Facebook addiction.
5) A separate country for dyslexics, where each citizen has the right to Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Hippo Penis.
6) A kindler, gentler Mafia, where 'taking care of stoolies' means more than taking a man's life; it means taking his family out for wings afterwards.
7) We could solve the scourges of world hunger and overpopulation simultaneously, with an admittedly controversial practice I call 'corrective cannibalism'.
8) Forget the concept of 'Give a Penny, Take a Penny'. I'd be elected President in no time with my proposed 'Give a Penny, Take a Sandwich' legislation.
9) Perfume lines that don't smell like fruits, or flowers, but smell like Historical Events. Calvin Klein's Normandy Invasion. Or a history book that actually smells like the Battle of Hastings. Or, if smell was the most important sense we had, then for final exams, you wouldn't write about a given topic—you'd have to smell just like it!
10) A Portuguese custard pastry so light it actually floats on air (if you call this a 'pie in the sky idea' I will shoot you).
11) A law that forbids lineups of any kind, for any situation that involves waiting—in favour of mandatory human pyramids.
12) A 1-800 help line for plumbers who are victimized by references to 'loving caulk', having 'a crack addiction' etc.
13) If cows were religious animals, then the 'Jesus cow' would be the one who invented vegetarianism.
14) To minimize litter in alleyways, call them Litter Death Zones.
15) Men should be able to brag about universally defunct skills in order to impress women. For example, my proficiency in morse code is second to none; my copper smelting is talked about in foreign countries, and I can skin a yak with my bare gherkin. Women should play along with this harmless delusion.
16) More Jedi in our armed forces, definitely.
17) To win more funding for space exploration, more astronauts need to return to Earth in space shuttles filled to the brim with astronougat.
18) The climactic scene in any movie should be called The Nutsgrabber.
19) Great TV show idea that's still a little ways off: Shark vs. Bark: Great White Sharks battle Evil Supernatural Trees, filmed in a giant floating arena, possibly a Jello-filled Zeppelin sponsored by the Discovery Channel.
20) Motorized glaciers!
1) Coin laundromats that double as slot machines, to reduce gambling addiction. It would take 25 minutes for the spin cycle to end and achieve payout, thus delaying instant gratification. Spot gaming addicts by how white their clothes are, while the phrase "I'm all cleaned out," takes on a fresh-scented double-meaning.
2) Instead of left-turn lanes, laughterin' lanes! Uncontrollable giggling accompanies every fatal car crash.
3) In our germophobic society, handshakes should be replaced by a universally agreed upon system of pleasant whistling noises.
4) A coffee-flavoured, tobacco-based hard liquor you inject in your forearm, as a slightly less powerful substitute for Facebook addiction.
5) A separate country for dyslexics, where each citizen has the right to Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Hippo Penis.
6) A kindler, gentler Mafia, where 'taking care of stoolies' means more than taking a man's life; it means taking his family out for wings afterwards.
7) We could solve the scourges of world hunger and overpopulation simultaneously, with an admittedly controversial practice I call 'corrective cannibalism'.
8) Forget the concept of 'Give a Penny, Take a Penny'. I'd be elected President in no time with my proposed 'Give a Penny, Take a Sandwich' legislation.
9) Perfume lines that don't smell like fruits, or flowers, but smell like Historical Events. Calvin Klein's Normandy Invasion. Or a history book that actually smells like the Battle of Hastings. Or, if smell was the most important sense we had, then for final exams, you wouldn't write about a given topic—you'd have to smell just like it!
10) A Portuguese custard pastry so light it actually floats on air (if you call this a 'pie in the sky idea' I will shoot you).
11) A law that forbids lineups of any kind, for any situation that involves waiting—in favour of mandatory human pyramids.
12) A 1-800 help line for plumbers who are victimized by references to 'loving caulk', having 'a crack addiction' etc.
13) If cows were religious animals, then the 'Jesus cow' would be the one who invented vegetarianism.
14) To minimize litter in alleyways, call them Litter Death Zones.
15) Men should be able to brag about universally defunct skills in order to impress women. For example, my proficiency in morse code is second to none; my copper smelting is talked about in foreign countries, and I can skin a yak with my bare gherkin. Women should play along with this harmless delusion.
16) More Jedi in our armed forces, definitely.
17) To win more funding for space exploration, more astronauts need to return to Earth in space shuttles filled to the brim with astronougat.
18) The climactic scene in any movie should be called The Nutsgrabber.
19) Great TV show idea that's still a little ways off: Shark vs. Bark: Great White Sharks battle Evil Supernatural Trees, filmed in a giant floating arena, possibly a Jello-filled Zeppelin sponsored by the Discovery Channel.
20) Motorized glaciers!
3/27/2007
Prospecting for semantics
(what you get when you delete 9 out of every 10 words:)
Throwing
freedom underwear silence Cyril Crosby. Polemicize fissions. happiness is mortgaged the moat hollowed out. throwing abstracts at walls, piling on concrete, dumptruck bricks oh fascinating tricks.
College marvins collect colanders in pots. Stick with me that’s all I’ve got. vegetative, delirious, suckling on sticks, swizzle trouble rum meadow shacks. Taught by beavers and climbing a smokestack.
Mozart was a keyboardist, too many letters loud lengthy staccato beaten by his betters, Wolfgang, undress secrets, expect no applause until you sign upon the line!
symphonic nonsense music words, cymbal crash symbolic trash rat tat tat
young as the day you untied your tongue, numb stuporal syllabic centuries of sssh! Silence in the library , greedy stern mother, gentry mores and clucking crow.
Half a liter more, I’m half the leader I was, I was littering below!
Throwing
freedom underwear silence Cyril Crosby. Polemicize fissions. happiness is mortgaged the moat hollowed out. throwing abstracts at walls, piling on concrete, dumptruck bricks oh fascinating tricks.
College marvins collect colanders in pots. Stick with me that’s all I’ve got. vegetative, delirious, suckling on sticks, swizzle trouble rum meadow shacks. Taught by beavers and climbing a smokestack.
Mozart was a keyboardist, too many letters loud lengthy staccato beaten by his betters, Wolfgang, undress secrets, expect no applause until you sign upon the line!
symphonic nonsense music words, cymbal crash symbolic trash rat tat tat
young as the day you untied your tongue, numb stuporal syllabic centuries of sssh! Silence in the library , greedy stern mother, gentry mores and clucking crow.
Half a liter more, I’m half the leader I was, I was littering below!
3/25/2007
Sunday morning coming down
Now I’m afraid of what Facebook might think. I’m self-censoring again, and I’ve started to drink. Or at least tend bar, I might as well, if I’m stuck here in the clink. I’ve got advice for every alcoholic, for the shiftless syphilitics, I’ve got the right diet for chubzos and the proper punctuation for the it's-greek-to-me acidics.
And yes - today I confessed, and that’s my confession, nothing left for this blog, I’ve lost touch with discretion.
I have so many projects on the go, if I stopped and focused then I’d have to go slow. And Mr. Peculiar is a no show? Oh no. Ergo, speed it up, pretend like you’re loco.
I miss everybody. Yeah though I see em each day. But we were special once and hard to pin down and I was lucky when you asked what am I doing on Friday. Now nothing’s a surprise, when I watch your every move, I’ve lost my drive to comprehend, analyze, pore through. Soon we’ll both die and the program will end, and you’ll finally feel loss electricity can’t mend. But suddenly suddenly that’s how fast it will end. Abruptness is the only crime, we adapt to Vesuvius if you give us enough time (and a decent pair of shoes).
Blues pour down, it always comes to this, Mystery mystery that’s what we’ll miss. The Borg is invasive and crisp and well-meaning me I’m spree-spending and hiding out by the cliffs. There’s a happy mob gathering blunt clubs, I’ve danced in disco clubs forty nights and worn down to the nubs. We all see now that we breathe the same air, misery loves company yes, but familiarity breeds contempt, and we’re simultaneously turbocharged and spent, equally miserable and ecstatic and so I'm borrowed for Lent.
I’m a man of few words, really I am, and this is the truth, in what I don’t say, so what kind of writer am I anyway.
Everyone has that nagging suspicion: Am I a hack? It’s an act of contrition. There is no easy out, no eraser of doubt and I’ve embraced this fact and that’s precisely what keeps bringing me back.
And yes - today I confessed, and that’s my confession, nothing left for this blog, I’ve lost touch with discretion.
I have so many projects on the go, if I stopped and focused then I’d have to go slow. And Mr. Peculiar is a no show? Oh no. Ergo, speed it up, pretend like you’re loco.
I miss everybody. Yeah though I see em each day. But we were special once and hard to pin down and I was lucky when you asked what am I doing on Friday. Now nothing’s a surprise, when I watch your every move, I’ve lost my drive to comprehend, analyze, pore through. Soon we’ll both die and the program will end, and you’ll finally feel loss electricity can’t mend. But suddenly suddenly that’s how fast it will end. Abruptness is the only crime, we adapt to Vesuvius if you give us enough time (and a decent pair of shoes).
Blues pour down, it always comes to this, Mystery mystery that’s what we’ll miss. The Borg is invasive and crisp and well-meaning me I’m spree-spending and hiding out by the cliffs. There’s a happy mob gathering blunt clubs, I’ve danced in disco clubs forty nights and worn down to the nubs. We all see now that we breathe the same air, misery loves company yes, but familiarity breeds contempt, and we’re simultaneously turbocharged and spent, equally miserable and ecstatic and so I'm borrowed for Lent.
I’m a man of few words, really I am, and this is the truth, in what I don’t say, so what kind of writer am I anyway.
Everyone has that nagging suspicion: Am I a hack? It’s an act of contrition. There is no easy out, no eraser of doubt and I’ve embraced this fact and that’s precisely what keeps bringing me back.
3/24/2007
Flocculation! aka So this is what it's like to run a water filtration plant...
First ever FIAC 'guest cupcake', written by Charlotte L (thanks Charlotte!), in response to my March 15 post:
Jeremy woke with a start to the truck-backing-up sound of his alarm, jumping across the room to press snooze and then dragging his feet back across the floor and flopping back into bed. Twenty minutes later he was standing in his boxers and housecoat at the kitchen counter pouring boiling water over instant coffee in a salt-and-pepper mug with a chip across from the handle. He stood there with his eyes closed, still half asleep, holding the mug up to his chest, enjoying the warmth of the steam rising to his nostrils and the rich smell of the dark roast. He put down the mug and let himself fall into a chair at the small kitchen table. Slowly waking up, sipping on his coffee every couple of minutes, he thought about the day ahead of him:
How when he finished his coffee he would rush about his apartment trying to find the right shirt for his meeting, realising it was in the laundry and have to pick the next best one, ultimately feeling less confident not only because he wasn’t looking put together, but because the search caused him to be late even though he had given himself an extra fifteen minutes.
How when he finally grabbed his car keys from the bowl on the table in the hallway he would race downstairs, feeling that dreadful feeling of “I-know-I-forgot-something-but-what-IS-it?” but already being late not being able to do the slightest thing about it. Slowly freaking out in his head at how slow the traffic is, it must be slower than usual today, what is there an accident or something, it would be today, maybe it’s on the radio, god I hate talk radio, yes! Boston! Nothing gives you more confidence than grooving to Boston as you pull into the parking garage.
How he would walk into the plant, walk past Lyndsay’s office (“Hey Jer! Nice suit!”) and run a little to get to the other end of the building to meet with Mr. Peterson. Of course Mr. Peterson is always running late so even being 7 minutes late, Jeremy will still be 8 minutes early and have to sit in the reception area outside his office, with Gertrude humming nothing in particular while she files whatever files she files.
How he would sit and fumble through the monthly status report for Mr. Peterson and how Mr. Peterson would likely look about as half awake as Jer looks before his coffee and Jer making the mental note to bring coffee to the next meeting and Mr. Peterson clearly not caring at all about coagulation and flocculation and pH levels and how much lime was used this month as long as the job is getting done, Thank you Mr. Powell, I’ll see you next month, and how Jer cursed himself for being nervous every time he had to do this, like his job was a stake, like he hadn’t done this for the past year and 7 months.
How he would make his way back down the hall and stop for a cup of coffee in the break room and talk to Lyndsay about last night’s hockey game which she would know more about than he would but these conversations made him feel a bit more of a man and Lyndsay was a nice enough girl, but really could have been doing something more with her time than general reception for the plant.
How he would take off his jacket and hang it in his locker, replacing it with his yellowing lab coat and unhook his clipboard from its place up on the wall beside the door to the plant proper. How he would walk through the deafening plant, with its steam and its ducts and valves and how it was all so big that it would make him feel small and it was all so loud that it seemed like complete silence and how it was all very Zen. This was what he liked about his job: the solitude, the recording of data, the graphing of various chemicals and products and temperatures like some mad scientist plotting to destroy the world or, when he was in a better mood, a brilliant chemist saving the world. And sometimes he honestly believed it.
How he would get home and pry off his shoes and toss his jacket and tie over the chair in the hall. Twist the cap off a bottle of beer, with the satisfying hiss and the cool drink that made him feel more and less cool at the same time. He would turn on the TV and watch the news and decide whether to make dinner or order in Chinese. How he would pick up the phone and dial a number from the black book full of post-its and scrap pieces of paper and business cards and wait for someone to pick up. “Lyndsay?” he would ask. “Hold on just a minute.” a nasal voice replies. Silence. “Hello?” “Hey, you want to meet at the Brunny for a drink and a bite to eat? I thought we could watch the Leafs game.” Silence again. Some rustling, conferring with the roommate, then: “Meet you there in 45 minutes.”
Taking a last sip of coffee, realising his mug is empty, Jeremy is finally awake and has to get ready for work.
Jeremy woke with a start to the truck-backing-up sound of his alarm, jumping across the room to press snooze and then dragging his feet back across the floor and flopping back into bed. Twenty minutes later he was standing in his boxers and housecoat at the kitchen counter pouring boiling water over instant coffee in a salt-and-pepper mug with a chip across from the handle. He stood there with his eyes closed, still half asleep, holding the mug up to his chest, enjoying the warmth of the steam rising to his nostrils and the rich smell of the dark roast. He put down the mug and let himself fall into a chair at the small kitchen table. Slowly waking up, sipping on his coffee every couple of minutes, he thought about the day ahead of him:
How when he finished his coffee he would rush about his apartment trying to find the right shirt for his meeting, realising it was in the laundry and have to pick the next best one, ultimately feeling less confident not only because he wasn’t looking put together, but because the search caused him to be late even though he had given himself an extra fifteen minutes.
How when he finally grabbed his car keys from the bowl on the table in the hallway he would race downstairs, feeling that dreadful feeling of “I-know-I-forgot-something-but-what-IS-it?” but already being late not being able to do the slightest thing about it. Slowly freaking out in his head at how slow the traffic is, it must be slower than usual today, what is there an accident or something, it would be today, maybe it’s on the radio, god I hate talk radio, yes! Boston! Nothing gives you more confidence than grooving to Boston as you pull into the parking garage.
How he would walk into the plant, walk past Lyndsay’s office (“Hey Jer! Nice suit!”) and run a little to get to the other end of the building to meet with Mr. Peterson. Of course Mr. Peterson is always running late so even being 7 minutes late, Jeremy will still be 8 minutes early and have to sit in the reception area outside his office, with Gertrude humming nothing in particular while she files whatever files she files.
How he would sit and fumble through the monthly status report for Mr. Peterson and how Mr. Peterson would likely look about as half awake as Jer looks before his coffee and Jer making the mental note to bring coffee to the next meeting and Mr. Peterson clearly not caring at all about coagulation and flocculation and pH levels and how much lime was used this month as long as the job is getting done, Thank you Mr. Powell, I’ll see you next month, and how Jer cursed himself for being nervous every time he had to do this, like his job was a stake, like he hadn’t done this for the past year and 7 months.
How he would make his way back down the hall and stop for a cup of coffee in the break room and talk to Lyndsay about last night’s hockey game which she would know more about than he would but these conversations made him feel a bit more of a man and Lyndsay was a nice enough girl, but really could have been doing something more with her time than general reception for the plant.
How he would take off his jacket and hang it in his locker, replacing it with his yellowing lab coat and unhook his clipboard from its place up on the wall beside the door to the plant proper. How he would walk through the deafening plant, with its steam and its ducts and valves and how it was all so big that it would make him feel small and it was all so loud that it seemed like complete silence and how it was all very Zen. This was what he liked about his job: the solitude, the recording of data, the graphing of various chemicals and products and temperatures like some mad scientist plotting to destroy the world or, when he was in a better mood, a brilliant chemist saving the world. And sometimes he honestly believed it.
How he would get home and pry off his shoes and toss his jacket and tie over the chair in the hall. Twist the cap off a bottle of beer, with the satisfying hiss and the cool drink that made him feel more and less cool at the same time. He would turn on the TV and watch the news and decide whether to make dinner or order in Chinese. How he would pick up the phone and dial a number from the black book full of post-its and scrap pieces of paper and business cards and wait for someone to pick up. “Lyndsay?” he would ask. “Hold on just a minute.” a nasal voice replies. Silence. “Hello?” “Hey, you want to meet at the Brunny for a drink and a bite to eat? I thought we could watch the Leafs game.” Silence again. Some rustling, conferring with the roommate, then: “Meet you there in 45 minutes.”
Taking a last sip of coffee, realising his mug is empty, Jeremy is finally awake and has to get ready for work.
3/21/2007
Nonsense Sermonizing
(I gotta do more of this!)
Omigod Sconfitter wallooned four pudgemuffins into a grangish grey Flexpool. It was Augustus 32, Year of the Yade. Deltavoid V Waxcollar was droopydrunk and brimstoned. He dangled a fist and bellowed, disneyfied his sermonizing, occlusions included, bombastardizations aplenty and befouled his flock with tactic unfit for happy dwarves and slabbed out the aforementioned undulating dreck.
By then Microeconecronomics had filtered to the tittletelligentsia, half-knackered with doom nuggets and drunk on pigeon-livered, duck-gizzarded bronchial eructations and horseradish greyneck.
Reverend Waxcollar exhaled insults instantaneously: “You scud! Pale movenpickles! Enemies of omnipleasance! Chad-dimpled democratizers, hiding half-chosen presidents and worse!”
Waxcollar heaved his totem and bangled the podium. The congregionals cooed twittery chattervanilla. “Far flung goulash,” he continued, “– what you will get. So it is, dreampuffs, kaleido-decadecisionery, all fake figments of the opiated opinionator. Clicked to the dicks and scrolled to the bowels – shut your macbooks and breathe afield freshivity.”
The crowd crowed; Waxcollar was looped to the gills, depillocked but unbowed. (Though if any were harrumphing it’d’ve been big loud beat-threats conking confidence hastifying rapid retreat.)
“Often ghosts mist up the mirrors,” continued the Sweaty Shamu. “Shamble away before whispering woe. I have eleventeen twenty-four packs of alcoholic advices – left to your devices your sinnicysm suffices.Will I tolerate this state of the inebriate? No, not unless the hour is too late. There it is. Checkmate!”
[to be continued, oh yes...]
Omigod Sconfitter wallooned four pudgemuffins into a grangish grey Flexpool. It was Augustus 32, Year of the Yade. Deltavoid V Waxcollar was droopydrunk and brimstoned. He dangled a fist and bellowed, disneyfied his sermonizing, occlusions included, bombastardizations aplenty and befouled his flock with tactic unfit for happy dwarves and slabbed out the aforementioned undulating dreck.
By then Microeconecronomics had filtered to the tittletelligentsia, half-knackered with doom nuggets and drunk on pigeon-livered, duck-gizzarded bronchial eructations and horseradish greyneck.
Reverend Waxcollar exhaled insults instantaneously: “You scud! Pale movenpickles! Enemies of omnipleasance! Chad-dimpled democratizers, hiding half-chosen presidents and worse!”
Waxcollar heaved his totem and bangled the podium. The congregionals cooed twittery chattervanilla. “Far flung goulash,” he continued, “– what you will get. So it is, dreampuffs, kaleido-decadecisionery, all fake figments of the opiated opinionator. Clicked to the dicks and scrolled to the bowels – shut your macbooks and breathe afield freshivity.”
The crowd crowed; Waxcollar was looped to the gills, depillocked but unbowed. (Though if any were harrumphing it’d’ve been big loud beat-threats conking confidence hastifying rapid retreat.)
“Often ghosts mist up the mirrors,” continued the Sweaty Shamu. “Shamble away before whispering woe. I have eleventeen twenty-four packs of alcoholic advices – left to your devices your sinnicysm suffices.Will I tolerate this state of the inebriate? No, not unless the hour is too late. There it is. Checkmate!”
[to be continued, oh yes...]
3/20/2007
sundry pelican notes
(polish squishy bits into shiny pebbles)
...You said "I am a gift to humanity and afraid for myself for that fact." Humanity doesn't treat its blessings kindly.
Give until you break. Why? There is nothing for you here. You don't need anything.
You use the same language I do, for thoughts that are too big. So we have these talks where you're the only one speaking, and I'm jotting it all down like a conversation with an overly interesting invisible man.
We were put here to do good, but I get stuck. I keep forgetting how to walk. Please help me. I am independent and proud and young, but be ready one day to answer my call for help.
It is easier to be sincere at the end of the day. Though, not enough has been done. But I'm tired of it anyway.
I don't know if a love explained is a secret ruined, or if a love explained is love that is permanent.
I am seeing a part of you that always existed come alive the first time. Nothing you do surprises me, because I've loved parts of you that you don't know yet exist.
Maybe it’s the music that funnels it out of me. I can’t call it ecstasy, I’m thinking too clearly, and I can’t call it peace, when I’m so desperately seeking something I can say brand new each time. I’m sorry for being quiet so long. If you only knew how tiring it is to try to contain all this.
A glow, I guess, a glow, not from alcohol, but maybe it’s the release. Collapsing on the ground afterglow. I am certain suffering has much to do with it. And being beat up so often, until you realize humility is strength.
There is release knowing you are completely lost. Being lost you are free. I am finding this out.
...You said "I am a gift to humanity and afraid for myself for that fact." Humanity doesn't treat its blessings kindly.
Give until you break. Why? There is nothing for you here. You don't need anything.
You use the same language I do, for thoughts that are too big. So we have these talks where you're the only one speaking, and I'm jotting it all down like a conversation with an overly interesting invisible man.
We were put here to do good, but I get stuck. I keep forgetting how to walk. Please help me. I am independent and proud and young, but be ready one day to answer my call for help.
It is easier to be sincere at the end of the day. Though, not enough has been done. But I'm tired of it anyway.
I don't know if a love explained is a secret ruined, or if a love explained is love that is permanent.
I am seeing a part of you that always existed come alive the first time. Nothing you do surprises me, because I've loved parts of you that you don't know yet exist.
Maybe it’s the music that funnels it out of me. I can’t call it ecstasy, I’m thinking too clearly, and I can’t call it peace, when I’m so desperately seeking something I can say brand new each time. I’m sorry for being quiet so long. If you only knew how tiring it is to try to contain all this.
A glow, I guess, a glow, not from alcohol, but maybe it’s the release. Collapsing on the ground afterglow. I am certain suffering has much to do with it. And being beat up so often, until you realize humility is strength.
There is release knowing you are completely lost. Being lost you are free. I am finding this out.
3/15/2007
Thought of the day
The written word isn't being devalued. It's being revalued. It's changed from being like a diamond (in the Age of Gutenburg), to being like water. Incredibly high total utility, incredibly tiny marginal utility. Being a writer or editor will soon be like running a freshwater filtration plant - not glamourous at all but incredibly necessary. When pipes are everywhere, how interesting can running water be? And literature is like bottled water: refreshing for its utter luxury.
Everyone that is written (online) has universal currency, but no permanence. Stickiness is highly sought after. The scramble for fresh metaphors is more intense than ever. The alphabet is the most pervasive set of metaphors we have, but they are exhausted, mostly taken for granted.
...I have no idea what running a water filtration plant is like. Can someone write me a description? :-)
Everyone that is written (online) has universal currency, but no permanence. Stickiness is highly sought after. The scramble for fresh metaphors is more intense than ever. The alphabet is the most pervasive set of metaphors we have, but they are exhausted, mostly taken for granted.
...I have no idea what running a water filtration plant is like. Can someone write me a description? :-)
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