THE END

This is my last post on this blog. Out of space. Which is a great title for the next Star Trek.  I will open a new blog soon and place a link on this page.

My other blogs are:

http://powerofh.wordpress.com/

http://power-of-h.blogspot.ca/

 

Shake and Bake

Its crude. I may have been mocking crude at the time but it is still crude. And I don’t like it much anymore. But then I’m not in my 20s. And people are not taken back by such talk today. I think that a lot of Rap is crude. As was early rock’n’roll. Its not the times we live in. Its the age we are. You can see the same thing in Romeo and Juliet. Young men filled with bluster. Taunting their father’s generation. Still, it is a bit silly.

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SHAKE AND BAKE

 

I carry my cock and balls

damp and salty as they are,

wrapped up in an old newspaper

(fridays want ads, arab guerillas, streaks,

rain tonight, three to two in overtime,

and of course the women’s section.)

slap it down in front of ya,

sick and tired

of the same damn thing every night.

repressing a smile

coyly and slowly

you hand me your mouth

and bread it.

Winter Dream

WINTER DREAM

 

the kids are bundled up against the cold.

Huddled around the pond

in the middle of the frozen gold.

Squeals and screams slash at the air

steel not quite bursting in ice

but in their dreams

they’re playing in the Gardens.

 

Toboggans are waxed

crisscrossing the slopes.

A hillarious scattering

of rifts from rafts

even the hillside looks chapped.

 

At the edge of the hill

an old dog signs his autograph inside of a cloud

while his partner

a frozen squirt in red

running from the nose

tries to uncover

what goes on behind the snow.

Calendar Girls

We measure our lives in years, months, days, seconds. Time does not move. All measurement is a memory. Some memories are true. April made up her own story. I was there. I know she’s telling the truth.

Is it true? Is it a fabrication? You decide. Check out this new book from David Halliday.

Calendar Girls

Monica White

Monica White

 

Remembering how I rose up

into her arms

how we met empty handed

her fast eyes

the modesty of her blouse

alarmed by the claims of desire.

I can hardly recall her face or name

only

the waiting kiss

the eyes trembling

the warmth of a mouth.

the picture of her undressing

is starting to replace my sight.

They haven’t become conscious. Or horny.

I’ll tell you this. Because of my recent health problems. I think the body is a machine. Some of us got sturdy machines. Well designed. Beautiful. Italian upholstery. German engineering. The rest of us got the rip offs. The Edsels. The Nash Ramblers. Of course people don’t like to see themselves as a machine. That’s because machines are still in their infancy. They haven’t become conscious. Or horny. They rust. They break down. Start to make odd sounds in the night. The machines I mean. But when the machines become more sophisticated they will begin to look more like us. (or at least we’ll think so). Because that’s what we intended all along. To make them in our image.

I couldn’t stop smiling

One should never advertise one’s stupidity. But, I can’t help myself. I went for a nuclear stress test yesterday. It’s a routine procedure to see how my heart is doing. I had a heart attack four years ago and had 5 stents put in. It is a 4 to 5 hour long procedure. You do a lot of waiting. First they put a dye in your arm. Then you wait half an hour. Then they put you in this machine that takes pictures of your heart. That takes about 15 minutes. You’re not supposed to move. Then they take you to the next area. They join you up to a bunch of machines to monitor your heart while you walk on a threadmill. Every 3 mintues the threadmill picks up speed. A minute before you think you can’t take it anymore they put a nuclear dye in your veins. Walk anothr minute. Then you get off the threadmill and take a rest. Ideally you are to go away for about an hour or so and then come back and have your picture taken in the machine again.

The young man who was taking care of me on the threadmill was from South America. If you’ve ever watched Fawlty Towers, he was exactly like the Spanish waiter from Barcelona. So, I get off the threadmill and catch my breath. Manuel (I’ll call him that) asks me if I want water. I nod. He points towards my backpack where I have put some water. In between my backpack and me is another bottle. I point toward the bottle. Manuel nods thinking I am pointing towards my bag. I take the bottle and smell it. It doesn’t smell like water. But I remember one of the patients in the waiting room saying that they gave you something if you got an upset stomach from the procedure. So, I take a swallow. About a shot glass.

Manuel cries out. ‘Did  you drink that?’

I nod. Smiling. I couldn’t stop smiling.

‘You didn’t!’

‘Yes, I did,’ I respond.

‘You’re kidding me.’ Manuel smiles.

I smile. ‘Yes, I drank it.’

I think he is going to slap his forehead. Instead he runs for the doctor. They send me to the emergency centre. I register to see a poison doctor. This takes about an hour. She looks at the bottle. I’m okay. She gives me a note to take back to the nuclear medicine sight. I take the note back. (I still have photographs to be taken.) I keep my head bowed. While I am lieing in the machine having more pictures taken, I can hear snickering in the background. Later, I go home. My only wish. That this was the stupidest thing I have ever done. Alas…

It’s gotta be red

Had one of my illustrations show up on a blog by an interesting music group.

Halliday on Red Art

 

 

The store has no…. ceiling.

I am a…. snob. I admit it freely. Not a snob in all things. Afterall, I am not French. My wife wished to do some shopping. I was bored. Too many hours sitting. By myself. Drinking coffee. At Starbucks. (Never Tim’s). I changed my clothes. I had decided to go with my wife. She was delighted. Someone to carry her burden. We arrived in front of the Walmart. Oh my god, I thought to myself. This place! My wife grabbed a cart and rushed off. I decided to tour the store. I’ve noticed that the people who shop in Walmart are brutishly ugly. And overweight. Everyone looks like the stereotypical American. And the people who work at Walmart. They look… defeated. As if life had played some cruel trick on the them and there they were… working in Walmart. The store has no… ceiling. It is warehouse shopping at its most elegant. I met my wife as she finished paying for her goods. I pushed the cart out of the store. And on our way to the car I pointed out these observations I had made about Walmart. My wife started laughing. She pointed at me. “You’ve got your shirt on, inside out.”

A cigarette smoker in a dark room

I was intrigued by something Kierkegaard presented. In my undergrad years. No, he wasn’t my professor. Wrong country. Wrong century. He talked about God as being something on the edge of our consciousness. That unknown. That we could feel all the time. I have felt something akin to that. That our understanding of our existence was just a wee bit out of our reach. I felt the key. Like you would the breath of a cigarette smoker in a dark room.

Suppose consciousness was not supposed to  happen. That it is alien to the rest of existence.

Imagine there is no God. Imagine we are an accident. Or at least that our species rising to the top of the food chain is just luck.

Existence without a direction (a director) is very bizarre.