torn labels

2007-03-04T19:48:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-10-13T16:27:00.000-06:00

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

2006-10-09T23:53:00.000-06:00

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

2006-09-28T17:36:00.000-06:00

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.

2006-09-22T10:32:00.000-06:00

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 ]

2006-09-15T10:44:00.000-06:00

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.

2006-09-07T23:45:00.000-06:00

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.

2006-09-02T10:16:00.000-06:00

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

2006-09-01T21:40:00.000-06:00

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

2006-09-01T17:02:00.000-06:00

urban shred

2devils

2006-08-31T23:49:00.000-06:00

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

2006-08-18T01:12:00.000-06:00

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

2006-08-16T01:32:00.000-06:00

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

j'adore that winter temple despite

2006-08-16T01:10:00.000-06:00

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.

2006-08-15T19:54:00.000-06:00

doig days of summer

from behind

2006-08-15T01:20:00.000-06:00

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

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

2006-08-12T10:33:00.000-06:00

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

2006-07-25T23:07:00.000-06:00

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

why i don't believe in karma

2006-07-23T22:54:00.000-06:00

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"

2006-07-23T22:48:00.000-06:00

tuesday night (what hurts the most)

2006-07-18T21:01:00.000-06:00

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

2006-07-17T01:00:00.000-06:00

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)

2006-07-13T13:42:00.000-06:00

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.

2006-07-13T13:22:00.000-06:00

when it flows

2006-07-10T00:21:00.000-06:00

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

we were born together on that day

2006-07-10T00:12:00.000-06:00

we were born together on that day
i took girl and child and man in hand
                                                                           we slaved
                                                                           we were in love
                                                                           and then died sadly

there is no place on earth like yr
bonelands

                                                        where i am very
                                                        bent with joy

2006-07-10T00:04:00.000-06:00

hauntd look out

2006-07-09T23:49:00.000-06:00

troubled river flows h(ea)rtwards.on th banks silently.trans

sunset.algae sleep instead.in a 800dollaramonth basement sweet.lockd.trouble.worry.sacred hill

chardonnay.teeth ript hrough h wake.lung guns shoot kisses.clear green eyes.peace.valley deep.children on th banks making

love.disappear in trucks.killing bugs.rival sister.fumbling w/ zippers.nowadays are missing.where are.not getting out bleeds.let

go.in me.stretchd cherry.coming in a scar.going out a liar.let go.drive.phone me.make ou t/cu t out animal.sixnine.a te

roses.a te t heir stamens.some were silent.lie back.be every body for once.h air on my neck.reproductive.on hers.entangled th ro

at roses.bad breat h

later on.dry river.in th sun.in her h(ea)rt.truck door for voi

ces.troubled river flows h(ea)rtwards.

backroads to backyards

2006-07-09T23:48:00.000-06:00

i ,candle
in th sun.alizé drops in th sing of underpines.a-hum sociofade.scuff my workboots in th dirt.golden
retriever just ahead, smelling each
flower alongside th’abandoned road.lifting her leg here and there.yellow tongue in blue sky laps
th back of my neck.tire-track fossils.just after
noon.i felt hotter than ever.hours
away from th nearest town, mind ful of silence.someone logd here.no idea abt existence.beauty mys
burns.inter
connected am no shirt.th heavy calm of passion.fingers are islands, run through mandy’s hair.away to chase a bee.thousands of bees are in th forest.and me, i got coasts.wood wind
instrusaw.

you are a child, said th sun,             looking up,       fine hot dusty and small

.don’t be shy, hemlock thirsty.

later  ( in tara’s kitchen mixing long island ice teas; she works for th mof and wears a colourful dress.

a roomful of mediterranean (i fell in)

2006-07-02T13:24:00.000-06:00

a long blonde found spread on th beach.once hairy now a moontide of softshaved
white.and after a million stars tugd her from th bare sky
i took her into my roomful of night closed th curtains and fuckd her for
thirty long minutes that eventually spread across th mediterranean.

down
                                    to find                 pink      seashells

everyone in th’hostel believed I went to bed

while i down
                         to find
                                        a seashell

th blonde hair of down under flung across th beach moon breeze and what
i was really upto and a million stars pulld her across th mediterranean see and stood her
up against th train and stars.

her soft white neck and black bra and blue veins beneath her big breasts so i

took her into my roomful of night and sleeping
memories took her and fuckd her for thirty minutes to nxt yesterday.

be and be at th moon waves and some friends came in at high tide
while th mediterranean became olive oil ha ha ho and she pressd her nearby breasts against
my cock while pirates laughd and raised their swords from a nearby ship.

rock hard
never learnt how to hold hands

oops where were we are walking down th rocky path of love to a small coastal village
and i fell in i fell in a girl or did i fall into a hole in th ground or i fell into hell.love and then

th nxt morning she caught th first lips of a roomful of slumber and after all that talk
of forever crept in and out alone of th first train gone.

in thlovre

2006-07-02T12:52:00.000-06:00

had t obe a lovr
Or b eout  o life

death felt so fresh tonight

2006-06-28T00:54:00.000-06:00

death felt so fresh tonight
standing at the ball diamond
as the pastor raised his arms
against an overcast sky.i did not know
he who died so while everyone
bowed their heads in prayer I stared
up at dark moving clouds
waiting for some sign from god.life is a vapour,
said the pastor,
and a brilliant rainbow appeared,
later, after a short storm, when I was already home
watching it from my bedroom window and
though touching it was
too late to base any sort
of conclusion upon.

mahogony

2006-06-27T23:21:00.000-06:00

exercise
yr heart;

exorcise
yr heart.

white4 black 4 red

fingernails

11:47

2006-06-26T00:31:00.000-06:00

outside, a heavy rain falls against th porch..th sliding door is open..it’s been a hot summer with little relief..quieter than raindrops, jay leno mumbles through his monologue..then, th screendoor slides open..i know it's th nurse..she searches for me in th television flicker..i hate how she uses th backdoor and just walks in..she finds me on th couch and i dont look up..

she left th hospital to bring me narcotics and shiraz..she is marryd but not happy..days earlier, I cut part of my finger off - my pointing finger, cutting a red pepper..th knife slipd on a seed..there is trouble w- ei..my pointing finger throbs beneath a white bandage..it bleeds through as she undoes her uniform in th middle of the room..i just want th drugs but she walks into th kitchen and uncorks..she tricks my blood..she only comes when her husband is out of town..

i don’t care;

im convinced i don’t respect her..she cheats..she just shows up at my backdoor..th nurse..like im an emergency..th codeine starts to sleep w- the shiraz..my blood swirls slowly as she climbs me on th couch..th windows are dark..her tand arm is scentd of cotton and penicillin as it brushes my unshaven cheek..conan starts..i say I need to lie down and she follows my tall and unstable body to th bedroom..

i collapse onto th waterbed..th blood in my arteries pulses thick and slow and she uses each wave for leverage..my consent comes late..to sleep her moans..

2006-06-16T15:57:00.000-06:00

i dont think

2006-06-15T01:57:00.000-06:00

i dont think
to fuck a stranger is a good idea
to leave th house
at 1:30 am.

th'abandond garden

2006-06-14T00:38:00.000-06:00

eating heart amid burning grass.

                                  vanilla scente
                                  er orchid grunt.huh

relationship – tiny veins are ballerina wires.france

manicure   draws bad blood     from my

                      fingers,

                      deepr than an ultrasound now.found

                                  eden,
                                  a tiny floating seed;

       and out came tumbling
       an apple.

not too heavenly, and not too loud

                                                paper-thin  ear drummers go   liste-lay  lemon ee so.

a small wet sauvignon dream
                                                          of petals.nervous on an abandond thigh.

fall should be finer, sylvi, I promise
cream bombs of stimu                         then, my tiny veins,      dancer  wires,

heart drapes for yr bedroom.

                                                                                                     9 Editorial angels 
                                                                                                     toil over th cave metaphor
                                                                                                     in an abandond garden.

2006-06-14T00:33:00.000-06:00

tastes like you but sweeter

2006-06-10T16:07:00.000-06:00

she took me to a skin flick
and afterwards tried to cover her skinnocence
w- steamd vanilla milk.

deep in my public pool

2006-06-10T15:50:00.000-06:00

my poem put love down there
on th bottom of th pool

and a girl died swimming for it.she punchd th water
bound to some lines
I left behind.

             ( no one else in me
               a no show
)

waking up th names
in th shallow end

                                   and my poem startd to puke

                     never ending baby
                 ’s breath.

male lace strap fear
put around my love
to swim down and save her.

2006-06-10T15:39:00.000-06:00

budweiser splendor

i never smiled (th most pathetic apology)

2006-06-08T02:30:00.000-06:00

stripd on th’edge of a bed
th motel smoke and midnight
monologue closes my eyes over
her older skin.she’d been born longer, been w-
child and wasted more maybes, yet I had walkd
further and seen th’inside of more miles.I learnd maybes
under th shotgun, in order to taste all of
th sun’s ash, even if maybe I didn’t want her shade
cast candlelit across my heartskin…while circling
high in th rafters of an irish pub thoughts
of me sleeping innocent or perhaps reading a smile
flitterd in th dim light from a chestnut mind being
pinchd by th dim wit of customers.not th housewife
scandal that stretchd to 3 a.m.this is
an apology, th most pathetic apology, some
where you will never read it, some
thing I will never say.this is a most pathetic apology
you will never know
for making that phonecall and drinking those apple
martinis and walking down that narrow hall and into some cold motel
room whilst you were working away.

outboard angels

2006-06-04T18:06:00.000-06:00

home
i said

i live here now
but it was only a river.

so i
suggestd body shots
when she ask’d for th’ocean, and

and pickd up a bottle of cuervo
from th bar.

she lookd away and didn’t have anything to say

b/c she knew I was on th river
to stay.

2006-06-04T13:00:00.000-06:00

inside a marsupial

2006-06-03T13:44:00.000-06:00

Australia bends and wiggles,
a soft coastline of kahlua hair.

& inland,
that’s th good stuff,

                where breast milk makes brown cows,

that’s worth another drink.

Finding where th pressure of 200-lbs of canada feels best -
on a couch from behind;

tongueing th sweat salty   like vegemite     off her neck.

Stars bust nuts and jack johnson is in th moon.
She spends northern nights in a bikini.
Flecks of coral in her eyes.

                Waves of red wine down throats and
                i feel like iv lived on th’ocean my whole life,
                drifting up and down towards th golden horizon
                of her shoulder.


(a fine balance we made th world
for years
in far away continents
as rivers to oceans,
snowpants to capris
spruce trees to denim seas;

and now
candle wax to time zones
mad white beaches flicker
as we body surf th carpet)

2006-06-02T18:32:00.000-06:00

still life ::
afterparty

[staged]

heart in a cage

2006-06-02T15:34:00.000-06:00

she's a zoo,
and I fck her different animals
through th cages.

"there's a towel on the back of the door"

2006-05-28T13:24:00.000-06:00

butterclit
drip and
spread pulse
ova my nerves

                        period fuck
                        in a trailer park
                        around 3 a.m.

it’s hard now rock, my corpse, under
covers
spread and red

                                                  tripping on a labia
                                                  some salt slipd away

pinching th pink from th dark / tight as a doll, and shaved to look
younger

                                                           deepr into th come peach

release and streams
white onto
her quivering salmon belly.inhale

                                                god
                                                and finishd
                                                like a dead wasp

2006-05-28T12:43:00.000-06:00

woman, climb my fence

2006-05-28T12:05:00.000-06:00

th neighbor’s house is too fucking close;
I can hear every shout.

                                 every phone ring…

         every time she cries;

I smell bacon frying
and a wall of beer cans in th sun.

                                                 her silohette in th bathroom window,
                                                 a moisturizing ritual (mine).

        see his hairy gut over th bbq
        almost resting on th meat.

                                                                                                                            th summer scent of heart on a grill drifts through th neighborhood

                                     ( headlights drifting through my rooms,
                                          someone’s been stepping out )

I sense lust
in her swelling detest.

never be done

2006-05-20T03:19:00.000-06:00

listen orange                        sun lake
be                                                                   th wrong map.

solar our
insecurity.

mud on a toe
screams – 1,000 moskitos;

hair café    (some day)s         dry ice                pink rain         (in a campground

I am supposed to be.driving th praire

im supposed to be stroking

her arm, but want to stroke her summer eyes.black


forest kiss-kiss seconds
over slow chambord pour.                        drive through th dry.

th wind
ow.

moon glam   sex foto               I’m not hard

to understand,

if you would just love

th what if
love.

2006-05-17T23:20:00.000-06:00

gorgeous code

good alone, but

2006-05-13T14:00:00.000-06:00

I am good alone, but

can you stay?

won’t you stay?

do you sing?
don’t you sing…

if I put you in a box lined w/ paper towels
would you sing?

2006-05-13T13:53:00.000-06:00

s(trip)IN my mINd

above bar level

2006-05-12T15:55:00.000-06:00

haste ye
my busy little drunk;

we were so awake last thursday
and th sunday before that;

            swinging
            children
            at dawn;                                                                                    ( above bar level )

decided never to sleep again, but I drifted
in yr charcoal eyeshadow.

maybe it's love (maybe I'm dumb)

2006-05-12T15:47:00.000-06:00

how much heart
                       is in that one

muddy     heart
artist    fall

get up and write that              n’artist pour

not if you didn’t
get up in th middle of th night
to write that shit.

bad run of life
gambling insane for a good river,
and ending up walking
parking lots alone.

th greatest blade on 100th ave
was th music
(was yr coffee hair…

my eyes are scissors)

                      talking w- my hands
                      something I didn’t confess
                      always telling myself ‘she knows’

                      not to replace scenery
                      but what do I hav left
                      to take on that road.

come back]

2006-05-05T12:42:00.000-06:00

juicy poems
pretty talkers

                                        juniper  wave
                                  black    sand

later ramblers

“further on up the road,
someone’s gonna hurt you like you hurt me”

justyou waitand        see

2006-05-05T12:27:00.000-06:00

stompt

curdl

2006-04-30T14:25:00.000-06:00

Pendulum breaths in black sunset debts.

            Th drinking startd at 8

in a salmon villa,

at 11.30 her hips          rose from th stream of         thurs perfecto violet.

concernd fem al spring stagger in heineken philos, darkly please,
enter dim pub 
ce carbon hair noir.shine; mercy

            me fuzzy pink sunrise – shut her vanila sle.

Th cowgirl in th sand promised me a fair
chance to grow up – almost cry every shocking apr
night.eyeing th pearl salsa
snaps on her shirt.

There wasn’t any hate in there – oh no Persephone, look ::
green apples again, on this my 27th year.
no harvest only                
            sour baroque whispers,
            had a feeling I was heading back

      into soil philosophy        (eukaryotic violins)
      no sun martini
      dawn buds at night

.In audible arcs of a hot drunk is conversation momento
rather than mori.says she can stand th taste of green apples, as I

digest those emotions outside my body, like a tangerine hooker
full  of  flesh pits      ( intimate disease (mono and
no house in her move on).

But paint streaks like france above country dances
and

th deep butter of small towns
churns my mood.once cream, now seems a despair dream.

2006-04-30T14:22:00.000-06:00

shiveR

twelf nite

2006-04-29T12:59:00.000-06:00

dead trucks in a cold wind and gas
station cigars.
th poet cursing everything local.says
poets are th toughest.sighs
rise through diesel
in afterthought.big rocks
al night in a hotel, no room
for sympathy.stars remind of a life
once wasted, or wasting – my, th hotel parking lot
is grand at 3 a.m., drinking warm beers out th back of minivan

th country dancers shuffle;
a real intellectual says “hello”.

no rooms for locals.th night
forgot us in th rest of th story.men
hunting for th’act of it.100th ave.say it
w- open arms and it sounds better.

                 words not understood
                 by th waitress but we like her
                 smile anyways, and feel bad b/c she
                 has something stuck in her throat.                                    may be words

lights out, poet reads a poem
abt a game of assholes
at 4 a.m. from an awkward position on the bed.poet
fucks fixes his
glasses and says yea man.       ( wonder, what is a poet aside from tired )

can’t imagine remembers

                 purdy –                  oh fun
                 police.a cold wind
                 on th fourth floor.

2006-04-26T12:21:00.000-06:00

as the sun gets lower ( home

green apples/ whitesmile

2006-04-26T12:08:00.000-06:00

lilac alaska high

                          wayburn sun
                          set.

            x & y

tulips
        on
   ice

                     softpunch wind ow

Scarlet roof clouds;
romantic dirt roads.

See th’end.Saw

                                    green apples
                                    see
                                    and too young emily smiled
                                    in noonsun.

Warhol soupcans for lunch; children gather round
th homosexual principle
unknowingly.

Can’t see th stars
her green apple
instead
speeds ahead.

Morning chases
night ashes -           too young fer art.

(naughty hammer still sits alone in pubs at night

green apples
green apples

2006-04-16T21:03:00.000-06:00

violet setbacks

th bottom (cigars, we

2006-04-16T03:29:00.000-06:00

we died
never honey

dance dance poison, my best

friend.where are you?in

a town of wealth, walking the red

my friend, look at me what

th hell is going on.need,

th sherbourne st bridge (one)

2006-04-03T09:48:00.000-06:00

                                               aint suicide fresh
                                               on black pavement

                                               halogen blue
                                                            hands

a soldier’s resolve to take th city
going down, jimmy
lookd up to see only time and temperature on th cibc.

twothirty and five degrees ]

toronto wants more concrete
souls.a backseat blonde, platinum kim
in a king street cab, on th way home
from th horseshoe.tiny bartender
dancd a tight nose and shook her tiny
tits.she drank and drank he
condensed her under metallic oystershells.

you can do anything you want to me           tonight

she said, exposing a low
strap and tipd back
a vodka soda.

flying around her mouth on his tongue, jimmy
pushd her revlon against th black vinyl.

th city moved by and in       
her skin
w- storefront glows.

                              but then her little lips
                              stopped moving.

in disbelief he rehookd her bra,
paid th man and carryd her onto stage.
dumpd out her purse on th’elevator floor
and dug through tampons and lip
gloss to find her keys;  unlockd
and carryd her into th’apartment.

delicate as milk and
lives alone.parasucco and

effortless he lays
her on th kitchen floor.could be a sudden around
her down and beside her
breathing  you pink jerk.

fucks away gracefully in trees and buildings and wonders
down her shirt.saw
her heart and it lookd back.

                                    g
                                    string along
                                    another string of night /

him along silently, wants nothing more than to hold off
th tall toronto buildings down by th lake underneath    wet trees

                                    leaves jimmy  [ kim flat

                                    w     et trees

now

2006-03-23T20:20:00.000-07:00

"all that fucking w- no art is really rather dreary"

- L word

th lesbian tongue is quicker than mine

breastfed fathers are stronger

2006-03-22T19:41:00.000-07:00

                                                            thirteen inches of synaps
                                                            eyes watching th world from mother’s
                                                            breast

strata of neon western
skin horizons increase eye
shortcuts

human child
brought up by parents
w- emotions.walls.th child will mimic those walls.emotions.

and since th human brain only likes
three walls anyways,

father walk'd out th door of his mind
and add'd he wouldn’t be back
until th december after dec.

( girl walking down a dusty              spring lane

on a mild,                       pink jacket
                                                cloudy afternoon                    to high  )  sea of         small town

eyes.students use stimulation to solve
social relations, divorce, grow
up never
to talk abt it.

museum species

2006-03-20T19:38:00.000-07:00

i went deeper  and deeper in
to th museums

                                th’older i got

got closer to relationships only
when drug'd

list less lips           know
                                             no
                             curves

                cold city stuck           ( a b s i n t h e s u i c i d e

   in a disco no show

                                got sad calculated   ,               pleasure ghost in me          away and swallow’d

my       come

2006-03-20T19:33:00.000-07:00

pulp perfume

No pomme

2006-03-18T23:05:00.000-07:00

milano disintereste                                 same season fall                                run (a) way bi
tch

drank too much coffee
                                                              ocean stretch
                                                              blank mansion stare

dignity held in canv  ass

                                                           e  y  e  p  i  c  k  d  u  p
&      l e f t

iambic faces

2006-03-18T22:58:00.000-07:00

when you walk away
I turn a screaming child
to your back.

2006-03-17T10:56:00.000-07:00

my oil boots

on a windy winter morn

emily unlock'd heaven w- my hand

2006-03-17T10:52:00.000-07:00

ah she’s back , th’antiseptic
annoy'd as usual.riding dawn’s breath
on a pearl around my neck.iv been sleeping
for months w- dead swans
waiting…ah, been waiting since
so many scarlet moons pass'd.and
waiting is so good when you know
she’s going to come.

in th castle of gaze and quiver, where spires of
black hair release shudders of holy purge, but suddenly
she claims not to be
into th castle life anymore.i hardly understand
bloody english in those
black pumps come in
and out of heaven so calmly whence th door was shut.
‘oh count, what you have entered into me
has ingrown, no master – im so sick of you.’

and so don’t go, i said in stabbing spirits,

‘remember,
that famous dialogue where you said
yes
and let me into th chamber;

you were writing w- th door lock'd,
and i took off your dressing gown
and suck'd out god.remember. ’

so i pray'd quickly on th wet skin
of angels.and prey'd
once more for th dim
virgin in their fold.but

she became abt face and horses
clack’d away like a
bed frame, away on th stones,
and th little air I got off
th memory of violence and small feet
was just enough to wonder
what went wrong.

8 mos.

2006-03-11T12:05:00.000-07:00

analyze th saliva of the person you are kissing
                  is it good and
                  different enough,
                  is there any direct use
                  for lips after.

living life at such an artificial pace
                  so many scents
                  trick
                  brain bumbles in
                  an out messages.

pulp pregnancies develop th brain under
                  stress damage, un
                  born mothers
                  to unwed fathers.

under st.valentine, random blur of
                  first dates - end up be
                  coming in
                  one.

                                                               relationship
                                                               islands love children
                                                               graphy

self-help see section six
                  nine there is
                  something in yr mouth
                  my dear call it
                  bond
                  ing
                  age.

2006-03-11T11:03:00.000-07:00

piles of snowdust on dead spruce

shiver slivers in my mind

drives away fast

what canadians do after th dishes

2006-03-10T12:04:00.000-07:00

                                             for katy,
                                           whom i’d like to make
                                          feel canadian for abt four or
                                         five minutes

th same thing we do ::

after a couple of maple syrup martinis

or while lying in bed at 3 a.m.
listening to th north star

sometimes we dont comehome

2006-03-10T11:00:00.000-07:00

cities become
our last names

she told me she’s from toronto
and i wanted to move into
her darkness

2006-03-10T10:51:00.000-07:00

barry's mind breaks th centre ( as jay ponders consequences

blue skin [all i ever wanted]

2006-03-08T23:51:00.000-07:00

oh Neptunue, oh ship
                                               oh cello, soft breast,

                       i had a stroke
        at sea.

oh Venus, sometimes sex is   
is so fucking painful
you have no idea          [even for a fucker like me.

down near th ships
sunset intrudes and a lonely man
takes off,

leaves th beach
alone.

orgasm                       hypothesis
sunset                        blue
notes                         red under ;

oh glass me
under th sea,
melancholy.

wait - there will be a story yet;

against my will
i became desperate
for sadness,

found a reason breathing
saltwater deep in, but there was no instant
message,

                     no fight
                     nor air
                     just parasites.

                                                    [ like a vampire
                                                                                     needs a stereotype ]

deus me a’quivering
lay there
naked
under machina, goddess of
oil rigs.

th cry of someone saw penguins – drift away
in a yellow submarina

to club th’ice
shelf alone.

mojito poet

2006-03-07T21:34:00.000-07:00

don’t get all melancholy over a 30 second dance –
they don’t dance like you dance; so long
mojito poet,

you were single such a long time ago,
and for reasons that you don’t even know,
don’t get all melancholy over a dance. accidents
happen,

like when yr eyes made a
wick'd promise to that barfly. a young head is safe
wrapped in mint leaves but when it slips rum to sleep
w/ someone,
in that invisible gown
remember yr body
has already made a promise. and don’t

swallow if you don’t like th taste
of jukebox dust b/c there’s bound to be some on his
mind. stay clear of saliva
webs and maybe offer a moment in th basement
bathroom and slip out th front door instead. or perhaps

think back to how hard it is
to remember nothing, take a look
down th clear glass stairs, and let
th white w/ rum roll
as mint branches bend in th wind.

2006-03-06T19:16:00.000-07:00

firelust (or old apartment
dust

i got a question

2006-03-05T14:59:00.000-07:00

you would have to be this hurt
to understand this much,
and since when did you become so hurt
sleepy head.

a diet similar to life

2006-03-04T10:14:00.000-07:00

( a
making love in a stone oven on
warm cellar nights. th bread rises. bacteria gather. no proof
of skin. honey
abrasions – th’attraction of sleepless bees
to a baker’s bare hands.

so winding th pinot stairs, grape stains on
our ankles,

senses stifled by humidity. satellites spin
at a phonograph’s pace. see on nights like these
our children stab footsteps
to hush th creak of lovers’ floorboards. so they

can sleep
and hang smiles from klimt         [ th crack of pool balls ] hush

            we won’t exceed th sizes
            of our stomachs, nor question
            th magnitude of constellations. when
            our legs touch in endless
            thread count yet sleep
            separate, mindless and warm.

( b
on sunday mornings,

breast feed me
butter
and champagne;

            be my mother
            all at once;

cook with olive oil
and sea salt;

            th'asparagus is crisp,
            and i will serve you tonight.

2006-03-03T18:54:00.000-07:00

into th sixtynine

2006-03-01T21:24:00.000-07:00

i climb'd out of a woman and onto a desert'd street. dawn
rose like a vine around th stomach of a silent black song
bird. in time found a cold cement floor on which to place
my two hopeful thoughts.
nxt to self sacrifice, art became an easy way out.

start'd to deal in self
portraits on th corner of napa and absentia. at night admired
myself in th sixtynine.

outside, newspapers were growing on trees.
"th world is too fu…"
i heard someone say, but may have taken it out of context and left.

art lift'd wing-shaped scars from my skin that fold'd thoughts
back into a woman. i began to wear mascara and grow out my midnight.
gravity came in blurs. went further than ever into
th sixtynine, and train'd th mirrors not to see.

2006-02-28T23:09:00.000-07:00

felt honey on fire
peyote dream, on a gravel road

remontreal

2006-02-26T09:51:00.000-07:00

sundried morning lips
sink beneath
a river of red
septembers.

members re montreal, to feel strong i sit

beneath her saffron lips

( on a frozen river,
in a red canoe. keep paddling to
september in th old city. september is

getting further
away. keep looking up
memories in cohen's white
pages )

ballad of a broken highway

2006-02-25T14:38:00.000-07:00

logging trucks and
little teeth –

                                    driving th cold out
                                    stretched province; getting away

                                    from
                                    th
                                    horizon.

never met anyone who done it. it grows,
buys a house, moves on.

                                   names become sentences
                                   to which I take a chainsaw. futures crack

th engine block / a hitchhiker’s thumb
song –

three hurry-up’s and a child
hood. hear anyone

did it slowly paddling under
th moon on heart lake.

2006-02-25T14:03:00.000-07:00

little teeth&

logging trucks

where everything becomes unclear

2006-02-22T23:22:00.000-07:00

what be of this ?
see th spirit of a drunk deer singing
in th driver’s eyes.

and crash through a glass
down th northern stage pole
covered in crude and coin –

head bone on fire
from licking whiskey   off a stripper’s stomach
and yelling back.

                ! cowboy up,    princess     [  ye  haw  understatements ]

driven by th cooz of bad country
and wet spots left on stools.

1:45 a.m.

frost in my beard beads
to sweat
while pumping  a bikini line
in th front seat of a pickup;

                                                             $2 a glass
                                                                               no shame
                                                             in that.

cocaine bust
in th parking lot
and doing it to
th flashing lights.

2006-02-22T23:19:00.000-07:00

don't live in the real world

that what i am low on spots a smile

2006-02-19T21:58:00.000-07:00

                     i am a red
                                                  taxi

                                   you are beautiful direct
                     ions.

                        loud night rock on we devils
                        in red pint eyes
                                                ended up w/ drum sticks
                                                but no drummer.

she was so white on my black.22
martinis turn into gas kisses
on a no-home drive,
                                         she said she wouldn’t ‘forget this night’
                                         but I doubted that.

so many one night stands, and another is impossible – only an empty blue
lemon.

we idle on,                                                        [ on  ‘e’ ]   
add fumes to th industrial dark –
if I ran out here
that would be alright.

paving pillows w/o a bed, parked in a moon
face town.

could watch you come and go tho
from behind th snow,
like a storm of dark roast hair
            and
                                         don’t get out of my sorry,
                                         my truck, I mean:
you can go
if you want.

but judging by th lists,
by th crystallized patterns of failure
and regret –
so long.

                                       22 drinks fucked
                                       doors close over me like waves
                                       and I look behind        (

2006-02-18T14:05:00.000-07:00

boneless nights

in th wake up

2006-02-17T14:45:00.000-07:00

coffee applause morning
in late shades of
pink parliament he rubs
his eyes.
figured never there would be such encouragement
for a politician.

every morning
he wishes away dreams
of blue mountains and ex
pensive nevers.

red wine stained nights
$100/bottle
and rub pork fat
on belinda’s body.no drink bud
and dream

burp oh
that fantasy
again.

screams in his head
and then stephen shows up
– never fails.

a foot in each time
zone he
never gets any
sleep impatient and time equals
money he rips of his
covers and stares.

whatever they can, he wishes
for a dead moment to lie
in bed awake.

who would consume so much shit
to swim in debt ?  then
looks around
and notices culture.

clunk and spit debt
cards and soon no more
and more no
one would be left to manipulate.

                                                  out of control and this is
                                                  useless

excessive jerking creates life
and turn around to realize how
ugly it is.

get up anyways man
in some house of
common ,
some nice machina.

                          no corporate card
                          no big league

high school dreams
up in the clouds above
minimum wage.

for th low natural price of
gas  head  and a place
to live.

                                                                    branded some economic
                                                                    criminal

grade two teacher said class
you can be anything you want in canada
you could be prime minister.and
now you know what Jimmy says?  he says:

fuck you

ball and chain has been rolling
since day
one and one more
year away from being
dead at this rate.

                                                                         [ dive into th system
                                                                                  free thinker
                                                                          keep the dream alive ]

naturally slip a little
gas
to th hostage
and get unpaid.

Jesus, small forward

2006-02-16T21:44:00.000-07:00

there were no answers today,

just more falling leaves.

and as I walk home w/ Jesus

at dusk,

he’s on my basketball team,

we stop to shoot

hoops at th Tree Hill court.

I look towards th sunset,

head fake –

he was never one for sports, anyways.

2006-02-16T19:34:00.000-07:00

norther [ l'ete ]

perhaps there was nothing there

2006-02-16T19:16:00.000-07:00

red river drips into an open bottle of wine.

I drank against
a tree in th sun.

while skin washed yellow
in crazy smiles

exploring similarities
in body

consumed no
guilt of a swollen memory

a boy replied w/o sound

a virgin emerged through a small hole in th woods

I [not my father]

2006-02-16T19:07:00.000-07:00

I bet
I listen
I love
I blue
I know
I shop
I have
I sypathize
I felt
I whisper
I one
I two
I fuck
I you
you drunk
I masturbate
I hate
I vote
I vow
to fight
I throw
I screw
I yell
I live
I touch
I wish
I don't

2006-02-16T19:05:00.000-07:00

carme