torn labels

noreply@blogger.com (hardyf) — Mon, 05 Mar 2007 02:48:00 +0000

male bear -- leg 4

it’s a clear morning and there’s no weather
but for a cold breeze that blows
th sun up th backs of mtns. not much of a sunrise –
just a pop of chilld light over th horizon.

behind th buildings and across th street, over th train
tracks and around here in every direction
th grassy hills roll upwards to become steep forests
that climb and climb up
to end in rock faces and snow-capd summits
way th hell up there. mtns and more
and more snow accumulation meets skies and glaciers and lakes
and waterfalls might as well go down forever.

I pass my truck, which is parkd in front of a convenience
store. camping gear and Pelican cases packd w/photo equipment
strain against th rear window. where there is no back seat
I sleep – in a yellow 1978 Bronco, small and boxy, tough as shit
w/a winch and 33” mudders.

th young town sleeps late,  careful not to let

hangovers take control   [ [ of th day.  stumbling
                                                                                                  thr  ough *@
                                                         th

                                las tt          hours
                                                                       ofsleep

I stopd getting hangovers years ago,
but th headache remains.  pass th bottle
from one year into th next.

plastic lid off a coffee cup
and steam condenses in th fur on my upper lip. hot sip and stare
over th rim.  th hot, dark
liquid – made heavy and sweet with cream and sugar – warms
my mouth and throat for as far down as I can feel
and fills my stomach for a moment

th mtn, th destination of denial, is a 45-minute drive from town
where an unmarked dirt road turns off from the highway

I crank th engine and roar down main, running parallel
to a phantom train before turning west and right out of
town.

th highway cuts sharp through jutting shale before it smooths
right out along th shoreline of a emerald finger lake – a mirror
for th pines. no ripple of disturbance.  pines, by now, no doubt, content
w/their appearance.

a canoe pushes in at th far end of the lake and disrupts a
flock of geese that splash and frantically jerk their
necks for leverage. extending long wings to catch th’air and
flightless bodies lift upwards.  realizing th
communication, a bald eagle soars off a treetop and
and and high above th lake. gentle and upthere.  I pull

over onto th shoulder and slide
and set up my stabilizer and wait for a
photo / space-time op,

capture sky house by th light of a sun too high
for a good shot and th truck hums again and
past th lake and down

into th thick and green Thorn Valley

you punk , you punk
I heard

which absorbs my thoughts at 50 km/h searches
out of the passenger window for th dirt
road between the pines.  I find it so grown over
it’s almost unnoticeable.

stopd in the middle of the highway.
in my rearview mirror a semi appears around th bend.
I spin th back tires, crank the wheel and break through
th low hanging branches.

noreply@blogger.com (hardyf) — Fri, 13 Oct 2006 22:27:00 +0000

male bear

leg three

Mt Katami can be seen from th front door of th Ice Cave.  upon
stumbling outside at 2am – if vision b clear – one is faced w/ th sober
darkness of a purple rock face.

it controls th clouds.  peak stabs th gray belly of th sky for snow.  rarely
is a day so perfect, though a blue sky mightstretch clear from horizon
to horizon, that a navy blue touque isn’t pulld down around th summit.

rolling foothills do not extend gently upwards, rather teeth of rock bite
up to high-altitude meadows – smooth and silvery-green cut only by th
silent rumble of avalanche chutes.

if rocks were razors
seemingly asleep
th mtn breaks bones. yet all th while providing food for its children
whom it loves so hard – bears and moose and goats and ravens and
insects and worms and wolves

                lurk and fight and sleep and die
                in animal heaven.  death always

but noticeable only
in th changing colours of th leaves

                that descend
                as would a clouds of insects
                ovr a corpse

enter th’imprints of boots. imprints…but what are you seeking, skirting
along th’edges of meadows w/shy animal movements?

a mtn rolls not forth as a sea, and therefore cannot communicate
through a submissive lull.  you think yr strange imprints in th ground
are a part of something, father?

no more than a raindrop to a puddle, then.  youv gone too far, too far.
and now what you’ve run to – you run around.  still searching, talking
to the birds until th'end of time – making friends with a fat robin –
yes settler, long distance runner, yr chords do not resonate off th solid
rock.

                solitude is only
                a heart echo

father stone, who has draind me of all patience – what lies beneath
those cliffs that made you choose?  what did you feel – th’eagle’s
uplift, or th downward spiral of an earthworm?  you spoke less each
time you returnd.  but could you not just stay for winter too, when
you were just as cold.

those great brown kings of the forest you befriendd – but where were
you king?  fotographing them like children at a bloc party, did they
finally commit you to their soil?

perhaps you were king only on th highway, driving away. to an
unknown fear – two places, interchangeable like thumbs.  but how
could you chose nature.  was it words that alienated you?  did you get
that feeling that you were supposed to carry on?  maybe you still roam
those forests like a subject of deep nature.

I remember being in th backyard w/you and I was too small
to see ovr th fence. but
I grew w/o any help, anticipation gripd me, and one day when I was tall
enough I peerd ovr th fence and it was just another empty yard.  so I
climbd th fence and stumbled through th yard
and came to a hedge

I looked over it, and again
an empty yard… and th’empty yards continued.  I stood in the middle
of a yard like a blonde girl in th middle of th’ocean

                soul swaying and threatening to drown and so
                they say I have attaind island status or at least
                am buoyd by an ivory anchor in th’eye of rolling
                nervousness – avoiding storms by scrambling below deck and
                avoiding heat by swimming w/whores

                and I get that feeling that I’m supposed to carry on

time lost a perfect wonderwall and grew th knotted forest, piled those
rocks and charmd it all with th heil of eternity.  towering ovr other
mtns like a stone-face killer, yet stretching so beautifully upwards

                w/horizontal bands of furrowd snow
                as tourists fotograph from
                th shoulder

                                im pulled ovr highwayside, window rolld down,
                                behind an idling camper w/Alaska plates
                                and I can trace Katami’s temper in gusts
                                blowing down through th pines

th cold stone slopes stretch all th way home
my house/yr house/our house /empty house
muddy bootprints trudged across my body for near a decade.  Im trapd
beneath a landslide caused by a random footstep, and I have to get out.
even moses knew when the witching hour had arrived; when th
shadows bloom to th mtn we must go.

dare you?  then meet me in a meadow.  w/birds around th moon and
soldiers in th field, can you still not grasp love?  no – neither can I.  th
rugged imprint it leaves behind fills with rain and freezes, and with icy
feet I walk through accidents.

I will find a piece of you there, upon those heights, and I will kill it ded.
when I lie face down on my wedding day I don’t want yr hand on my
shoulder, nor do I want your dirty ingrown nails cutting the umbilical
cords of my children.  please do not den in my mares any longer.

ultimately
                you have ripd away life
                                                                and love
and replaced them w/a mtn

                                                made me
                                                kill my
                                                rocky mtn high

I have no pulse      th women are scared and dry       and th hills are dry
my eyes are red and dry
                                                I cannot shake you
                                                but I will find you
                                                and shake you to dust

noreply@blogger.com (hardyf) — Tue, 10 Oct 2006 05:53:00 +0000

as 'male bear' continues, po+fo has moved to simulacrahead

noreply@blogger.com (hardyf) — Thu, 28 Sep 2006 23:36:00 +0000

male bear

leg two

Trolley motions me from th hard-stare scratches of th bar
to a table in a corner of th room.  wooden dancefloor and
a handful of bodies move in and out of one another beneath
th silent approval of wildlife.  th crowd is a familiar morph
of unfamiliar faces dancing wingless beneath pulsing lights.

pearl jam and for a moment life is easy and upheld – I float
on a neon pulse through th black –

                I know you’ll be a star
                in somebody else’s sky
                but why…

we’re all angels w/ clipped wings
trapd in an anti-gravity chamber,
for a sec.

sleepless coyotes, Trolley and I slip into opposite sides of th
red vinyl booth.  th mellow corner of th raging room suits me
fine as

pheromones glitter in th strobe light like powder from a
bustd pill-cap.

She leans forward, sips her Boddingtons, crosses her paws on
th table and talks of herself : training to be a member of Rocky
Mountain Search and Rescue; patrols th mts in a helicopter by
day, and slings drinks at th Ice Cave in night.

– people do some hardcore shit around here, but not many
people attempt Mt Katami, Trolley says.

I stare into my glass and ponder th difficulty of climbing th'ice
cubes.

– photography, I say.

she takes a pull of her beer.  truth wells in her eyes deep, blue
and bulletproof, so to say, see you in another room.  but then
again, I could be drunk.

– do you know anything about the mtn…like that more people
have been killd by bears this year than have summitd.

I shrug.  th scene of my father laying in th grass, out of sight,
lens pointd at th golden beasts, flash, es in th dead pan of my
mind.

– besides, th base of th mtn is closed anyways after a finnish
climber was mauld by a grizzly two weeks ago.  it’s probably
going to remain closed for the rest of th fall.  it’s been a poor
season for berries and there’s nothing they won’t eat.  doesn’t
seem worth a picture to me.

– no one can really know th value of another’s foto, I say.

Trolley goes on to explain that she was part of the rescue team
that had pulld slammung’s bloody body off th mtn.  th shreds of
north face, th exposd bone, a bed of flesh.  his climbing partner
survived and w/ one leg managed to climb a tree where he bled
to death.

– well I’m sick of pictures of churches, and im even sick of porn.
if you find me up there be sure to develop my
pics.  death as my biographer.  it’s either  that or I drown trying
to get a shot of th bottom of an emerald lake.

Trolley feigns a laugh and leans back in th red, takes a long pull
of gold from th frostd glass and looks towards th dancers.

ramble on, til I get there.

– I’m aware of where I’m going anyways, or else I wouldn’t be
going there, so I don’t need a lecture, really.

– yah, well I have no problems lecturing you or anyone around
here cuz I’m th one who hauls th bodies when shit goes down.
in two years I’ve seen enough accidents from people going where
they shouldn’t.  left me no faith in common sense.

– you couldn’t lift me if I was in one piece or two, I say.

she laughs, leans back and bends her arms like wings.

– it’s those kids out there that keep me th busiest anyways, She
says, pointing out to th bodies in various states of flung on th
dance floor.

– yeah…

– they think they’re fuckin invincible on their titanium mountain
bikes and snowboards signd by pros. what makes someone think
they can land a forty-foot drop off a cliff just cuz they got a new
full-suspension Kona.

– don’t worry, I won’t be launching off of any cliffs out there.  At
least not on a bike, I say.

– you’re funny, Cody, but I have a hard time telling if you’re joking.

you young w/ broken bones and concussions. you people going
where you shouldn’t without experience, blah – scramblers, high ice-
climbers.  elevation, you’re the one that comes back wrapped in
bloody blankets.

– fucking yourself is one thing; fucking nature is another, Trolley
continues.

– save your breath for when you get outside, I say, taking a drink
and wondering for a moment what exactly that meant.  but I didn’t
care, words are free.

we stare at th dance floor through plastic eyes.  she discusses
th less interesting details of her life.  I offer nothing of myself.
my mind wanders through nine inch nails and my eyes dig holes
in th cracks of her smile.

noreply@blogger.com (hardyf) — Fri, 22 Sep 2006 16:32:00 +0000

male bear

burnd-open-letters

october 20, 2001

I continually fell on my hands in th garden
weeds wrapd in layers around my body
let myself be buryd and waitd for flowers
to grow – but only red shoots of anger
penetrated th black earth

            I let them grow

reemerged from th soil under a blue sun
went back in th house and drank a pint
of whiskey. half asleep
in front of th television I dreamd of my father
being mauld by a bear –
he did not struggle as I would have liked him to
but his boots kickd th coals
I thought dead
and turnd me over again

I took to th hum
of tires on pavement – another fist in th fight
another face in th fire

8 th’anonymity of a stain          passing on a double line             weary eyed

            no future                                     in a dead world
            current heaven                            telefoto blue

oh there were nights. th fragile
hangover. too late opend th front door
and faeries blew in. some small and quiet like mice,
others monstrous shadows

some nights turnd desire into pain
girls hung onto th jagd cliffs of bone as I roard at
crimson horizons from my front door
strangers at two a.m. bare-chestd and bleeding
come in. comets, cigarettes
and heart burn

                                               awake to a grande. pink barrista, I feel
                                               nervously alive as yr words rush over me
                                               like steamd milk
                                               staring deep
                                               into th fate of coffee cups

by afternoon pick up at th battle of melancholia
a truly romantic battle – on th misty moors of

black June killer mumbles august, love, moves on,
says october solar system seems empty

creep  creep     creep       creep in too        young    ex      plosions

                                       [ iron me
                                       high in a tree
                                       steel cables spun around
                                       and around me ]

noreply@blogger.com (hardyf) — Fri, 15 Sep 2006 16:44:00 +0000

male bear

leg one

so I’m drinking at a small bar calld th ice cave in jasper, alta.
thursday night, th scotch is cheap and so is my nerve. a dalwhinnie
on-th-rocks perches atop mt katami, just northeast of my wrist.
th big game on th walls seem content and stare blankly towards
a point in th upper-middle of th room.

in th dim spotlight from an overhanging lamp my head is hung
over a map. mine eyes squint to stay on a trail of dots weaving
through th contour lines, which get closer and closer and merge
into a cliff. mine eyes, deep in a chasm, suddenly jump up to its
edge – a flat view for such a dangerous idea.

th bartendress moves slower w/ every drink. slower means easier to
catch – but who’s slow. she’s small and mexico blonde. young
and firm, moves like scotch between cubes. or a glacial stream
over boulders. like a deer bouncing in th sights of a shotgun.

her rocky mountain tan colours her well into autumn. a real
cinnamon, not fake like hung in a sun prison trying to death to
maintain some unreal tone. she’s straight faced as if in th middle
of a steep descent, and I drink her scotch. every time she crouches
down to get a bottle of beer from th glass cooler her blue thong rises
above her hip-hugger jeans and smiles.

                             (isolation spine

I pull a pack of drum out of my satchel and roll a cigarette. strands
of soft, maroon tobacco tumble into th valley so I sweep them back
into the pack. th cigarette lights by th strike of a yellow pack of house
matches. careless voices enter into the room at my back, and gusts of
mountain air – blowing over my skin from th surfaces of dark blue and
distant glaciers.

I must look like a weary old traveler, I thinks, hunchd over th map
in my weatherd blue knit sweater. girls and boys press themselves
up against th bar on both sides, creasing th edges of my map,
demanding drinks from th mtn nymph. i exhale smoke.

mine eye are fixd in glance highwayside. th room cedar glows
and a blue neon tube-light above th bar. pool tables rack-and-clack
and foosball kicks and drinking and dancing and so on. th bartendress
slips me another dalwhinnie.

– on me...so, where you going?

– huh...nowhere.

my voice is groggy for not having spoken for awhile – days, perhaps
even months, so I repeat myself.

– what do you need a map for to get nowhere?

somehow th way she leans in when she asks th question seems
relevant. she is, like, a blue line waterfall spilling over a contour cliff.

– mt katami, I pick a place.

she walks away but continues to look at me while pouring a pint. her
arm tightens, releases th handle, and she sets th beer down hard on
th counter and th head foams over. she leans back on th bar across from me.

– my name’s Trolley, She offers.

her hand comes at me. it’s small and I’m confused for a moment, but I
reach out and grasp, cool and damp from th frosted glasses.

– cool name.

– yea.

– I’m Cody.

I let go and she strides away to pour another pint for a waiting punk.

– well, Cody…I’m done in a few minutes.

I ponder her comment and fold up th map. of lands and scotch I
struggle through another honey burn, only to have another set before
me. a reason to goodbye – words stumble – come out as

– thanx.

to say goodbye. down th street a cold motel bed awaits. but she bends
over and smiles, th outside of her body, and inside th night is a cold
world. th map sits down and fumbles though another scotch.

as I pretend not to wait, Trolley’s body digs a pit around me. she keeps
mixing drinks and looking over. I wonder who askd who to stay – my
mind wanders.

                                         b/w th trees a passionate forest fire burns
                                         and gasoline raindrops fall.I cannot
                                         talk through my mask, so offer me
                                         a quiet home.

most people have feelings, and think it polite, necessary even,
to speak. to one another in order. anyone bitten.

near midnight, as icicles form in my glass and in my mind, Trolley appears
on the barstool beside me and slips two more in conversation.

– why don’t you just drink doubles, She asks.

– why didn’t you ask me that hours ago.

– oh you’re a mean drunk aren’t you.

she swivels, stops, looks at me.

– so are you like a mountain climber, She says, making like she's grabbing a rock.

– not really, why.

she laughs.

– that’s a near impossible mtn, don’t you know. have you even seen it.

I look down to th map.

– yea, it’s right there.

noreply@blogger.com (hardyf) — Fri, 08 Sep 2006 05:45:00 +0000

male bear
et prolog

when i was younger still my mother died. our house was down th street
from th high school and a grocery store, so when my father left my sister
and I were in walking distance of nutritional theory.

i was in charge – a virgin pushing around a man. i didn’t sleep. i lockd
th doors. i unlockd th doors. i went in and i went out, crushing dried
funeral roses in my fist and letting them slip on random doorsteps.

my father’s sister lived next door – an alcoholic, guardian in absentia –
and she would stop by once or twice a week.

spring north of flowers didn’t exist. and summer was a flash in
th pan.

then – th night air coold and coold and coaxd its way in. i chopd wood,
made fires. my sister became proficient at cooking good, thick soups. i
would make th stock and she would make th soup – chowders, bisques
and purees everyday.

nights I would sit by th fireplace in my father’s worn chair and harvest kerouac.

no connection to th’outside world. while my sister slept in my bed.

i pictured my father as th black and white explorer of a history textbook.
100-pound external frame pack on his back – prepared yet determined,
looking stolid at a pinhole camera. nothing but distance for background.
th camera, set carefully on a rock. a mystery in th rock lungs behind him
kept deep hate from settling into th accumulating winters.

born into winter – bound to a numb soul.

those early years were impressionable years, and they turnd out only
emptiness. when th sun was supposed to be simple, and light th path
of play – it cast shadows. radio waves and soft blonde hair on thin
legs; blankets and stars. there was none. only bonham’s solos and
solo chaos.

deeper into th shadows; goodbye closed tight.  through a heart.

my sister moved away at 16. she said she was scared of me when she
left, and I kept going.

i had one picture left and my mother is laughing. i threw everyone away
and she kept laughing that cancerous laugh. im th baby in her arms,
looking at her like – what is this laughter? all in a wooden frame.

life went on outside. my age swerved. school and jobs seemd useless. from
dawn to dusk the city swallowd itself. i ate my meals alone, in silence.
years passd of watching headlights cross the dark living-room walls.

th fire was lit but I couldn’t feel th flames – only th burn when it spirald
down my esophagus and choked me on the day I finally opend th dusty
bottle on th mantle – and its warm, thin liquid dulld and lulld me nightly.

became myself, rusty and sedated. one to care, another to forget.

and then dusk came on a day so much like any other. it could have been
a yesterday or a tomorrow. and th headlights on th wall crashed and th
fire assumed full-flame and chased me out th house – into my father’s
old bronco, I drove down th street past th school and th grocery store.

noreply@blogger.com (hardyf) — Sat, 02 Sep 2006 16:16:00 +0000

male bear

prolog

when i was young my father went to th mountain. not year-round though,
as he came home in winter – to hibernate deep in th wood panels of his den,
surrounded by slides and 16-mm videos. he had names for th bears, and I
often wonderd if they rememberd him. when spring came, he’d go back to
mt katami – as regular as th thaw.

in late autumn, when he came home, th mtn followd him in through th door
like a glacial draft. for months he wouldn’t take off his boots. he slept in his boots,
in a sleeping bag. his beard grew winters and eventually th few words
he ever spoke became grunts.

in spring, when th back door was no longer frozen shut, he’d step out onto
th hard-crusted snow with his yellow pelican case and a coffee, stop for a
moment, and survey th hillside across th river. then, walk across th backyard,
through th gate and start his truck. gone; a hunter w/o a gun; bootprint father.

then, one year, he never came home.

my sister and I became th carrion of a spring morn. six ft of snow
meltd to reveal imprints of small souls in th frozen ground.

in my night dreams, leafless trees stand crookd atop misty hilltop horizons
like skeletal hands reaching from th ground; a river flows with th colour and
consistency of deep amber whiskey pourd from a full bottle; silvery-brown
meadows lay open and empty, collecting th precipitation of my fears.

th scene, season after season, year after year, remains th same – th wild and
empty stage. missing beneath th pine-pillar heavens is my father and
his bears. i know they’re in behind th treeline, or peering down from
alpine zones, but never do they move into th'open.

unsettling is th feeling that they watch me from deep in th forest,
eyes buried behind layers of growth, seeing me love and fuck and fight from
their cold comfort. come out! spirits have nothing to offer and this path
cannot be part of your trail system – show your faces; do not den in my
night dreams.

or else

noreply@blogger.com (hardyf) — Sat, 02 Sep 2006 03:40:00 +0000

build a liquor fence around me
and lay me
on a window bed.

                                    slowly, th drops of blood
                                    come.

unhappy in this generation ;                                 romance     ferment
                                                              beyond    perhaps

th problem is
i am only water,
yet named                                              asshole & lovr    /    writer &amp; fuckr    /     cunt & cock & son

was confrontd by myself
in a bar,
had little to say.

                                                moved on behind black flames.misu

noreply@blogger.com (hardyf) — Fri, 01 Sep 2006 23:02:00 +0000

urban shred

2devils

noreply@blogger.com (hardyf) — Fri, 01 Sep 2006 05:49:00 +0000

a lion's skull full
of white lies
I
bleachd and dry
from summer's
conversations.

await autumn on a parkbench
under a pile                                      of ded leaves
                                 details hide                                                                           2devils  ~  prime

             in     a windy sunset.blanco                     ( huntr, bring me yr gun ;            lovr, bring me yr death )

dr in th sky

noreply@blogger.com (hardyf) — Fri, 18 Aug 2006 07:12:00 +0000

woke up in a daylight scene
and emotion suggestd

alive was th perfect entry point
for this sickness.

tormentd by th'external world, we ate away

noreply@blogger.com (hardyf) — Wed, 16 Aug 2006 07:32:00 +0000

that was a great party
where th clothes were made out of candy

j'adore that winter temple despite

noreply@blogger.com (hardyf) — Wed, 16 Aug 2006 07:10:00 +0000

what good is common sense
cinnamon and fume blanc

she enterd december
on th seventh
and shook th’empty bottle
my heart was in

as snowflakes to thin skin, nothing changed

                  but one night on tay
                  we lost our inhibitions
                  in a winter hot tub

                  go ahead, baby, undress in th laundry room
                  while I caramelize th’onions

ice prints run from th backdoor
and slip into a pool of smoke

th thin white thigh of winter
extends from behind th treetops
and traces my body in th darkness

th astronomics of her merlot laugh
th low pressure of black clouds pushing gently by

th moon, intent
th neighbour’s bathroom light, on

through steam
words came out in nature                          hard to / in here

rivulets of sweat
and immortal drops of breath push

snow dris from th branch of a pine
onto my shouder

fearful of th unseen frame
around us

     pine needles             upon our shudders                forest presses

and small I watchd a bead of sky condensed slips down her blade
and across her breast

               seasons don’t just
                drive slowly, this time
                  was our biggest mistake

                     for every strand of long au
                       burn hair
                         i find year after year.

noreply@blogger.com (hardyf) — Wed, 16 Aug 2006 01:54:00 +0000

doig days of summer

from behind

noreply@blogger.com (hardyf) — Tue, 15 Aug 2006 07:20:00 +0000

that's how i knew it was love
th crying i mean
when we had sex

half-heartd lines composed upon youth (home-august06)

noreply@blogger.com (hardyf) — Sat, 12 Aug 2006 16:33:00 +0000

drifting on silver
sperm beams
through semen demons.

come here relation                           (( a yawn floats away
ship.

crashing hard
in th basement of honesty. beaten dreams. tell me more abt going home,
over and over,
in relapse.

remember vomiting in my sleep after prom.from double-fisting
jack and jim.listening to
th killer in you

                  isthkillerinme ( a golden-haird siren from dresden.

stuck in th back seat of a stationwagon w/ jim morrison. for better or worse.

back to rehab.  climaxing in th airy morals as th metaphor of a pedophile. eye    modern child skin

and raspberry moondrops.damn

sleep sucks at my eternal cock. ingrown and sore. worship so deep

that th nechako drifts over my head,
th wet curtains of suicide                                     seduce me.                                                  ( rum murmur

heartbeat ready, but seemingly distant.
re dead oxygen spine needle eyes clasp – at least my last words were a success.

fade to a shot of a small town carnival. a mist of old cocks ovr young trash.

not here for th rides. floating in th primal vapour of mini donuts.

update

noreply@blogger.com (hardyf) — Wed, 26 Jul 2006 05:07:00 +0000

ha-ha,
there is no such thing as karma.

why i don't believe in karma

noreply@blogger.com (hardyf) — Mon, 24 Jul 2006 04:54:00 +0000

carma
el coming
down on me)

so I may have met this girl
of my dreams on Friday nite ;

but i mean
iv really been
treating ppl like shit, lately ;

                        from strangers to lovrs
                        ex machina

but why
should that matter.

other possible title: "perhaps my best is my worst"

noreply@blogger.com (hardyf) — Mon, 24 Jul 2006 04:48:00 +0000

tuesday night (what hurts the most)

noreply@blogger.com (hardyf) — Wed, 19 Jul 2006 03:01:00 +0000

the israeli military is moving
into lebanon, i am in the bathtub and
anderson cooper is in the living room.

rascal flatts is on the radio, the hezbollah
are crouched in stone houses, i'm
in the kitchen cutting a zucchini and
a spider
is about
to die.

i am lying in bed, which i re
positioned
so i could see the stars.

missing, and a river of bottled nite

noreply@blogger.com (hardyf) — Mon, 17 Jul 2006 07:00:00 +0000

she lay back
on th summer grass
and tipd her head
back.

i askd her if
she was all ready
in her summer
dress, and
she said, no.

she propd herself
up on th blanket
on her elbows
and tipd her head to th stars, and
i pourd some from th bottle of jack daniels
down her lips.

and askd her if
she was ready, and in th silence
listend to th rush of th peace
river.

she said,
no.

i heard a rustle in th bushes
and told her it was a bear,
but she didn’t believe me and I took th bottle
of jack and tipd it back.

i pourd some on her lips and askd if she was ready but she said, not yet.

raven, purple in th moon and
dark wingd on my shoulder, but
thots of her man
known as chief was far
in th back of my head.

and off a nearby bridge i heard him call her name
into th river.

away blowin.

exhaled something abt
as good as a preacher and
twirld th beads on her necklace
along th eyes of a madman.

so i leand over and up liftd
her flower dress
a little bit
and brushd th fair stubble on her
thigh.

on th flannel blanket
th wilderness kissd us already for hours
and th stars were just over
tips of birches as she archd her neck
to th call of my jack and down some on her lips,

and I askd her if she was ready
and as th rush of th river ran usin th’air, yes, she warbled.

and into her pools i went, wearing th headdress
of th wild.

th blues(for serotonin)

noreply@blogger.com (hardyf) — Thu, 13 Jul 2006 19:42:00 +0000

ambulance on a toronto night through a bedroom window
is th blues.a beautiful

face alone in a blues bar drinking a rusty nail
is th blues.

a red shoe dancing in th’east upon returning home
is th blues.

                                                tangled lips
                                                are th blues.

                                                                     seeing just th right girl crossing a
                                                                     gas station parking lot in summer
                                                                                  only 16
                                                                                  is th blues.

th possibility of no more is th blues.

memento mori
is th fucking blues, man.

                                                coming down off mushrooms is da blues.

midnight sun is th norther blues.

confessions are th blues.

                                beating yrself up
                                is th blues.

                                court on a winter afternoon is th blues.

i can just imagine what th blues would feel like inside me.hope

sings th
blues.hanging

around w/ memories is th blues.billie holiday

on a record player
in a florida room
at 4 a.m.
still drinking scotch
is th blues.

the blues is sleeping around
and having a great time.                           and even lithium is th blues

                 until yr chemicals balance.

noreply@blogger.com (hardyf) — Thu, 13 Jul 2006 19:22:00 +0000

when it flows

noreply@blogger.com (hardyf) — Mon, 10 Jul 2006 06:21:00 +0000

damn wildflowers think
th rain met th ground and conspired to drown them