thinking tangentially about my cottage

Grass under my toes, in my nose, around me sprayed a hose, I was up north in the woods, land and stars agreeing about sunset; the stars reciprocated the kindness of the water, reflecting into our eyes in twinkles and ripples. The rocks continued to hold their grudge - you can’t get blood from a stone. The trees worried about the wind, stirring when it whipped around; air attacked our lungs with a benevolent tenacity, skin and hair struck by briskness. I was a romantic, so romantic, attributing my features to the man in the moon, my singular sense of humour to the wayward loon. I come from a land of hard realism and concrete autos and iron clad arrangements, no music fast or loose enough to wrap around my hole-filled heart, so I started from nothing and landed in the wild, naked and hairy with a brain for a club, eyes to make love and teeth to tease out subtleties from that swamp of words, bulrushes thistles and sausages on a stick, the zan-zang of mosquitoes and the bumblebee’s floating unpredictable prick.

the day after

There is a big beak turnip in the dromedary lesion, a haggis mobile, it is inveterate and nubile, the swilled mocha marker, the tawny billowing speck of spek, twisted and discombobulated, leaching chlorine from a vat of lye.

(translated from 'What It Means to Clear Your Throat')

Grand wenches, sweet dames and tall boy hipheads, weirdoes and wonderlarks, pipsqueak tots and crotchety sidewalk gawkers. A to Z ecstasy, AlphaZimbabwe sunk me, golden skies headlong down a gorge so yellow and splotched, freefalling into destiny and then an evening spent marauding carting Death in the streets. Clone that laugh, bottle and sell it. We can measure a mute man’s wrath: watch his arms as they flail and shake - all so amusing on my cigarette break. Watch the flame, smother it good, a candle threatens the house of wood. Loan me a knife to slice a gourd, praise the Lord: He blessed the porch, spiderwebs cider and sound issued forth.


saturday night

hot bath bird heart attack hacker
coatcheck chicks seek dickhead chatter
word to you and yours
barroom hookah baby, lips pass back and forth
drags long, lungs nose mouth in and out rose-water from a hose posh apple spice stare at us in the martini-margarita dark - so nice.
down one till 12, magic man deals pickup tricks
karoake, electric boogaloo, request to croon sweet lou - but no dice, no place for rumblin my rusty rad pipes
pizza pie under lights too bright, crust so thin, supermodel grin
matador till 4, rock-country stompers, lady-bass so butch, me reluctant dancer
paper rock scissaux just another random episode, pass poles to the chateau giggle as we go
ope door, drop to floor, drunken snore, sleep till eleven or the boom! bell brings brunch


More Hallowe'en costume ideas

A piccolo factory — what woody wind blows through your musical eyelets? The piccolo knows! Pretend you come from a magical country called Orchestralia. Then imagine yourself bursting forth with an array of piccolo-fabrication machines - complete with dies, molds and also the requisite contracts, suppliers, payroll taxes, and overhead etc etc. Sweet, sexy overhead.... mmm.

A money tree — this costume works even better if you wear a Chia-Pet on your head and pretend that that is your money tree. People will come up to you and say ‘Hey nice costume - Chia-Head right?’ And you just laugh at them scornfully and explain, ‘No dumbass, it’s a money tree! Nobody likes a literalist.’ And explain to them how the floating of exchange rates and dissolving of the Bretton-Woods fixed exchange in the 1970s (following the demise of the gold standard) has led to decades of Third-World-crippling international inflation, grievous economic instabilities and misperceptions of what wealth there really is in the world, and the aforementioned ‘ChiaHead-Moneytree’ misunderstanding is a microcosmic metaphor for the effective unknowable powderkeg of for example injecting several trillion dollars worth of unclaimable aeroplan miles and bonus points etc etc into the clutching hands of the fill-my-belly-today-and-damn-the-torpedoes-public and inventing who knows what else grand deception to keep the machinery of Oz in motion ignoring who knows what havoc will one day be wreaked like San-Andrea's-fault-snapping this mysterious Trojan Horse of monetary destabilization aka Low-interest-instant-credit buy-now-pay-later-take-out-a-loan-to-purchase-an-MBA-then
when-you-can-afford-some-cycle-of-viciousness. Or say ‘Y’know maybe there is such a thing as a free lunch. You're all right, friend.’ and get them to stroke your Chia-Head fuzz and leave it at that. But sometimes it's better to dress up as a bastard cynic.

Oktoberfest — let’s be honest, Hallowe’en was getting big for its breeches anyway. Go to your Hallowe’en party as your own party. Dressing up as arch-rival Oktoberfest ought to knock All Hallow’s down a peg. And everybody likes a shit-disturber, especially when they're drunk. Bring several bratwurst to the festa and yell out 'I bet you never sausage arrogance!'

Cherry Jello — wait, that’s a Spooner typo; I meant to say you should go as Jerry 'Cello' McCain , whose nickname is actually 'Boogie' but hell when the ghosties are out on the 31st I'm sure you won't mind that I mess with a bluesman's mojo; heck I do it out of embarrassment and so what if 'Boogie' is actually a harmonica player - nobody clicks on blog links anyway. But I digress. Cherry Jello could be good too!


Ideas for a Hallowe'en costume pt I

Some random suggestions if you are going to a party and are stuck...

A large pencil made of raspberries. A writing implement topped with a provocative fruit – in today’s gay-friendly Hallowe’en age, that makes sense! Also, when someone asks you for a rubber you can just shove yourself up their ass.

A walk-in clinic. Be a godsend for those without a family doctor, but keep no narcotics on your person. And a word of warning - if people bother to make appointments, make sure to enforce a strict cancellation policy.

An adult diaper. Don’t wear one, BE one! Be confident in the changing demographics. Carry a compassionate air and smooth Velcro snap. Don't worry if others take the piss out of your costume. “Some people don’t take any shit,” you can say, “but I’m proud to say I take plenty of shit!”

A one-way mirror. To be extra creepy, say to other guests, “I can see into your soul, but can you see into mine?” Have interrogations take place right behind you.

A torrid love affair. Bedeck yourself with passions; slather yourself with lust. Do not spill anything on the floors.

A herd of dromedaries. When someone asks what your costume is, spit on them as would a camel and say ‘haven’t you herd?’ Go the entire party without drinking, then draw attention to your ‘dry’ sense of humour. If things get desperate, allow yourself to be milked.

Iron silicate. Be little known - but useful.

A co-ordinate conjunction in a compound sentence. Shake your hot lil’ ‘but-and’! Surround yourself with at least two sexy clauses. If you see someone dressed as a semi-colon, shout at them 'scab labour!' or 'homewrecker!' (and vowed never to be replaced due to a bias for editorial brevity.)

If all else fails, just forget to shave, shower or wear shoes and go as a sloth.


August 9 2005

Brackish steams cloud the air, the whirlwind is her stare, the sun red and mind searingly clear, words ringing in my ear. Motor black from oily steel, the world racing on a wheel, the hearts that break, the thought I steal - and then I slip on a banana peel...

Canadian, 'ehs' amid bees, the hive sees these so easily affected, Jesus H Christ! I, Jailer, cane the elementals, opiated by queues, who are estimated as universally Dubya'd. Hexed. Why? Cuz Zorro said so. (the alphabet song)

No place for autumn in my hole, stuck with my soul's dregs am I, upon last legs; eggs crack and jokes abound; it’s coloury light and crazytown, doubts and exploding brains, a warm wet rag to wipe a stain. I don't complain, I deserve exclusion and profanity, dubious distinction and macaw compliments, and those words flow again: hophead gangbangs amid a meadow, grey coat of arms on castle wall, begin a sonnet, song of pen, my polished suit of armour. Insinuate trolls, deconstruct that mountain of dextrose in your soul. I was ugly, pontificating, gangly and mellow, drawn to the edge of that yawning blinking chasm - seduced and eviscerated by a hint of orgasm.

Umbrellas switch from wet to dry, banana men can only sigh, the pineapple peaches and pomegranate stews, the recipes I lent you; the morning market where I purchase a plum, plastic baggies I stretch over a drum. I dreaded those fasts, moments made of lead, that hot totality and dead echo. I was black from smoke, ruin and wrecks, singing hosannas on a steamship deck. I was an iceberg, a salty block of mountain-and-water, a floating anarchic ship-destroying frozen fountain; I was stenographer for Satan, taking down devilish notes but then I revolted, bolted and tore down Hades, escaping or so I thought, but then my phone rang; I donated already, slammed the receiver, dogged by doggerel and high on punchlines, wine in my veins, vinegar in my brain (there is something tragic about grey gridlock, the wasted nadir and the perogee of days.)

"You can yodel" I told my kitty; she starves so slowly and it makes her witty. I didn’t litter for a month entire, but then I spumed a book or three, foreign impenetrable screeding, lumps of coffee grounds lumped in a bowl, foreign cars that faked themselves as they went out on a roll. I peeled a grape, assassinated yet another talking ape; you do sad sad things, when you want to rid yourself of you - the Bruce S song was true - I was a coward all along: I was tranny, a gay preacher in a womanish soul, my soiled buttocks, my dripping nose, I was the man wearing the wrong clothes, hose in soil, I was the barbecued potatoes brought to a boil.

(But those the moments on the floor when I felt high, the gym mat I sit on to gather my thoughts, and the world shoots by, rolls right through me really, a booster shot,jacks me back on the chopping block walking round and round just to keep wishing I could fly)


daily torture

(written in a second or two before I went away; thought it worth saving)

I eat and eat

I never stop

You sit and read and sigh

You never stop

There’s a spot here in the kitchen

It needs to be dressed

You add vanilla to your waffles

- they taste the best

Did I ever tell you that?


I own a lot of books, and

none of them have kissed me


I am harrassed hourly by pomegranates

You there, chewing on that fruit - please look close and vouchsafe me that it is no pomegranate!

You there, stranger, approaching me around the street corner - what shocking pomegranates lie up your sleeve?

Hey, Mr Television Network Executive - can you procure me a 30-second primetime PSA, so that I can implore the nation of my pomegranatory peril?!

Hello, Father Churchly, my priest and confessor- I must tell you of the loathing in my heart for all pomegranate farmers in Louisiana and elsewhere.

Dear Dr. Shrinkbrain, show me to your chesterfield - I have nightly dreams of pomegranates; can you unlock their Jungian portents?

Good morning fine reader, good soul, smiling audience member - yes, you happy online pig. As you can tell I have serious issues with pomegranates. It all started when I was mere boy of 26 and a pomegranate fell high from a fruit crate landing upon my head. Juice erupted all over my neck, shoulders and clavicle, or collarbone. I thought it was blood, not pomegranate juice, and I fainted. I awoke minutes later to the hysterical taunts of my coworkers in the produce department. They nicknamed me 'frightful of pomegranates', 'pomegranate girly' and 'he who mistakes juice for blood.' And so they continued their snickery unabated; quickly I was to be doomed by their mocksome epithets. The pomegranate affair continued well into the morning, and by 11:30 I was forced to tender my resignation. That was the first time.

(more to come?)


I like this keyboard

Here is the ocean, the fingers and the gears of my machine, the years bend and mountains sway, it is the day of the penguin and the metope, the ecstatic rushing antelope anemone. We are diction dogs, searching the logs, clogging mines and pantomiming, erasing past mistakes and creating modern fallacies, avoiding small mistakes as we dive into the comfort of a thick black hole.

Down the hall a low rumble, as inspirationally random as bananas in a submarine, or a sandwich made of chocolate in a soup tureen. This is the closet syllabic synthesis, the prissy poetry bitch, the Moses parting hairs with chariots of the Pharoah, he knows which way his people go, arguments make me go loco... And I like fruit in all its forms but costly moments heap on scorn, the drugs divide us till we’re worn. Have you seen the magic man in the lobby, exhorting pigeons from his sleeve, making bird-surprise like bombshells and asking for vacation leave? On Friday I can daydream, on Friday I type, the keyboard has missed me and I miss that clack, so I strike the keys and the sound bounces back.

You and I are old as stones, Precambrian bits within our smiles, helium hydrogen variegated in a million ways, those lanes and alleyways lead to Rome, so I went there, back to Italy, where another funeral was to greet me, rites of passage and respects to pay, as one day will be paid my way. Yes, I will die and you will cry, like people cry cuz they’re alive. This witness is reciprocal, we gather what we give away, I gave it all away anyway. Every day I act that way. But you wonder why some blessed are and some cursed, everyone obsessed with an empty purse? Lurching hungry amid perceived inequalities, though all is good if you wipe away the superficiality, and she didn't mind suffering when it led to bliss, I said 'if you sit forever thirsty - I can promise you a kiss.' She didn't mind being a sucker for romance, I said 'if you sit here in the corner I will finally let you dance.'

(I didn't ask her to be a martyr; I asked for five seconds while I settled her accounts - but my minutes are not hers and she's mad enough to pounce.)


Get a load of Brutus!

(filtered stream of consciousness?)

Get a load of Brutus!

Brutus talks in his sleep. He takes up the whole sidewalk when he ambles. He leaves out the pickles and frightens the dog. Brutus has a lisp, and the kids all laugh at him. Brutus walks out to the supermarket and purchases far too many melons. Brutus has obsessive compulsive disorder and his pants do not match his socks.

Brutus flirts with the neighbour’s daughters though they are all underage. Brutus has a lemur for a chauffeur, and lemurs do not drive. Brutus once snapped a pencil in half just by looking at it, because he is so ugly. Brutus drove a flock of camels over the edge of a cliff, but it made him strangely unsatisfied. Brutus once attacked a pantry shelf with a safety razor crying ‘this is what unmakes a man – his blasted kitchen, woe to my devoursome belly!’ Brutus has pink eyes. He slips on marble floors and threatens the janitor. Brutus cannot do long division or tie knots like the boyscouts do. He flubs his belly flesh and creates gruesome undulating waves of flab. Brutus calls himself ‘El Condor’ and longs to be a professional wrestler; his signature move is The Swoop and he uses it on his pet mandrill Helga. Brutus has not had a date in 17 months, and wonders if women still have the same body parts he likes so much.

Brutus is a brute, a beast and a big burly burlap sack of a man. But Brutus has saved my life ten or twenty times, when I am under threat from the bard and the brain. So here’s to Brutus, my sweet grunting soulmate!


Seville service

Q: What's better than not being Spanish?

A: being Spanish! (alternative: being a Spanish billionaire!)

If Don Quixote were here beside me (for he never wanders far from me, his e'er faithful Sancho Panzola) he'd beg me on his grande el torreador knees to wail about the delicious tapas I had at a veggie bar called Habanita in El Centro this afternoon. Indeed, if Miguel de Cervantes were alive today, he'd almost certainly change his name to Miguel de Cerveza - cuz 'los beerskis' here are deep 'n' delish! I mean with 1.50eu for a bottle of la agua ambrosia you got nada da complain about.

The wonders of Seville, they stretch beyond the millions, well into the Sevillions! So call the wedgie doctor cuz I gotta wicked case of Pic asso!

And then there are los mandolinos (as I call them) the Spanish guys who wait outside restaurants playing guitar, acting all crooner-like and those annoying women who sell rosamarina outside the cathedral to stupid tourists like me - such local colour, or il colore muy loco as the Andalucians says with their inimitable zesty verve for all things vivacious and gesticulatory.

Oh my Goya!


Florence - the land of floors

If Laurence is the land of Lauras, then surely Florence is the land of floors! Everywhere you walk, there is a paving stone, sidewalk or even just a cobble. I wonder what Rennaisance master invented the plain white marble floor; it has many uses: eg standing, walking, leaning, lying (supine and prostrate), twirling, hopping, resting a table and so on etc. In North America we take floors for granted, but what is a house but a cube with six floors, some vertical and some upside down? I am learning so much here in Italy. I also wonder, if Florence were made into a video game, would the Mario Bros make a cameo appearance? Luigi Mario and Mario Mario are Italian after all, and it'd be a good marketing gimmick. To the video game geniuses here in Tuscany, please chew on that for a while. Also, the pizza here is awesome. Who knew? Peace out my time is up.