June 30, 2012
Too Much Time On The Phone
That girl has too much to say. Such big teeth. Such a big mouth. Breath like mints. You thought she was a wolf. I think she’s a saint. And I would have married her. If she hadn’t sworn that she was engaged. To the Moody Blues.
Several generations later. She lives in a flat. High above Yonge Street. There’s a parade going on in the street. But she can’t hear the music. Someone comes in to cook her dinner. She has meds on her counter for everything from bone hardeners. To blood thinners.
I swore. I was living a different life. A Scottish hoodlum. Raiding the Roman encampments. On three day weekends. The doctor tells me that he has to change my prescription. My memories have been invaded by history.
In the middle of the city. On a cold damp evening. Loneliness scurries through the alleys. Eats what it can. Sleeps behind the Chinese Laundromat. We know what is real. The rest we have to guess.
June 29, 2012
Its a great motivator. Blogs I mean. It focuses your attention. And because there is a sense of it being out there I get a more objective view of my work. And its nice to hear from people now and then. But it is not what it seems. One blog that I read had the blogger addressing her readers. As if there were thousands of them. On this blog I average about 50 hits a day. Which I figure means about half that number read the blog. And that’s great. But its odd when you consider that almost 500 people are following this blog. Its like my kids facebook numbers. They have hundreds of friends. My daughters tell me they don’t know who half the people are. So there is a lot less networking going on then one might expect. And I have only a vague idea what the title means.
June 29, 2012
Ode to Bill O’Reilly
Its not that dark. Its just the flash. In the camera. You’re not really mired. In confusion. Life is an illusion. The universe is a tree. And we are the fruit. Falling.
There is mortar in the wall. That you are leaning against. You look a little like Marlene Dietrich. In drag. How much would you charge. To fix me.
Someone’s got an empty room. In their mouth. The guy two floors down. Is laughing his head off. At your joke. Bouncing across the floor like a baby.
Its not that late. Its earlier than you think. That’s not the sun going down. Its just the end of the world.
You make me laugh. When you’re looking that sad. Something about it. Makes me feel better all over. I hope you attend my funeral. My friends can be reminded why I have no regrets.
June 28, 2012
Sing. In the shower. The water sounds like applause.
Tell a joke. On the subway. The wheels sound like laughter.
Get pregnant. In an air balloon. Be a cloud. And break your water over the farmland.
Take a pocket watch. To the operating room. Put it in your chest when no one is watching.
Cut off your lips. Make a smoothie. With blueberries. And yoghurt. Pour that smile over my face.
June 27, 2012
Art Is One
Fire in the books. In the metaphors. There is acid to be applied to your face. Like make-up. Words that mean nothing. Until they are laying down with one another.
I’ve never read the bible. From cover to cover. But I’ve read Huck Finn a dozen times. I can’t swim. But I’d rather drown in the Mississippi then Moses’ desert. Filled with false idols. Open your legs.
When I walk by museums. They threaten. To rearrange my face. Like a Picasso. Art is a bully. They try to draw you close. To see that magic brush stroke. And then you get two fingers in the eyes. Like the three stooges. I was hoping that we could do more than hope.
June 26, 2012
The problem with getting away from that job you hate is that you can’t say, I hate that job. Everything is perspective.
I was watching a show last night about reality. Stephen Hawkings. The problem. How do we know that there is anything out there. Reality is created in our minds from the information we receive. A spider’s reality will not be the same as a horses. Ours is not the same as a dog’s. But is there one objective reality?
Well, horses can’t discuss their notion of reality. But they act as if that reality existed. Human’s also act as if that reality existed. But we can discuss it. Compare notes. Of course we once believed the earth was flat, that all the heavens swirled around the earth. So we make mistakes.
Our reality changes. We learn as we grow, mature. A child’s reality will change when she/he becomes an adult. Education changes our reality. As does head force trauma. We cannot step into the same river twice.
I don’t hate my job. It’s not really a job at all. Its a wonderful view of reality.
June 26, 2012
It changed my life. A book. Actually several books did this. So I may be fickle. But Mark Twain’s story of a boy named Huckleberry Finn who came to grips with the racism inside his soul was for me, an epiphany. Because when he said to himself that he would rather go to hell than turn Jim over to the authorities, Huck expected to go to hell. There was for Huck a standard of morality higher than the God he’d come to understand. And he would stand by it.
Here is Hal Holbrook doing a one man show on Mark Twain
I’ve read a good deal of Mark Twain. And enjoyed them. I think Tom Sawyer is one of the great boy stories. In a lot of Twain’s stories there is a great deal of humor. And beneath it, bitterness. Perhaps he had too keen a sense of human nature.
Perhaps it is asking too much. But I would have liked to have read another book of the quality and depth of Huck Finn. It is no longer taught in our high schools in Ontario. Many African-Canadians find the frequent use of the ‘n’ word insulting. Demeaning. (In Twain’s time the ‘n’ word was used all the time. By very respectable people. By church people.) I won’t argue against that sentiment. If it was my children that were black, I might feel the same. But it is a shame.
June 25, 2012
Stan Used To Kill Olie
It was snowing. In August. Like a warning. I should have guessed that September was coming.
I saw the cloud coming down those New York streets. Like a monster. Out of Spielberg’s camera. But there weren’t any children to save the day. They were in the airplanes. Stuck like spears in the sides of the towers.
Watch what you say. There are microphones in the airports. Watch your metaphors. There are spies in your poems. Watch who you kiss. All lips aren’t sealed.
I want to turn myself in. I must be guilty of something. We’re all sinners. Except for Donald Trump. A show stopper. He made all of his money from his own effort. You can see it on his face when he’s crouched down shitting coppers.
I was reminded by a reader of a story i blogged about 3 years ago. I read it. Behold it is odd.
1. The Edge of Darkness
The grandfather clock in the dining room struck ten thirty. On the television they were hanging a young boy. I sat in the darkness at the top of the stairs watching the movie through the reflection in the glass dining room doors. Outside the wind howled. The old peach tree smacked against the side of the house, its fingers clawing away at the windows. The screams of the young boy were gargled and choking as his silhouette danced at the end of a rope. Mother turned her head away into my father’s shoulder. The boys feet kicked against the television screen.
I lay in bed staring up at the ceiling. There was a shadow cast of the peach tree in the backyard. It stretched onto the wall opposite my bed. Its branches looked like legs. The wind shook the tree and the legs…
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