March 2012
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yellow plastic bruises III
your face was threadbare tree’s comfort. yellow windows, cracks running down, crumbling. plastic flowers were knuckles at your breast. silencing scarves tacked to your throat. words succumb to drowning, and rise and bloat. you. on the plates of dismembered dinners. you. neglected, a fractured bedroom door. Your face was a fogged mirror. microscopic splinters, sewn together, macerated, spliced...
Bear with me. This will be the third major overhaul of this poem. I think I may have finally gotten it right. Edit III of Yellow Plastic Bruises forthcoming.
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pidginology replied to your post: On Writing
i couldnt agree more! thanks a lot for this encouraging piece.
Of course! I wrote it as much to encourage myself as everyone else. It’s easier to be frustrated and hopeful together :)
February 2012
13 posts
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On Writing
I wonder if it’s possibly the fate of all writers to spend our whole lives tortured by the fact we think everything we write is shit. And then we accidentally drink too much (which as a group, we have been known to do) and write something we actually like but upon sobering up realize it’s overly cynical and even we begin to question whether or not it’s satire.
No wonder we...
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Travel and learn at once? The only way I'll... →
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goosfraba
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Burn Up
I float and develop. My negative burned scarlet in the grass. I draw smoke to the doorstep of breath’s casket, the cherry a safelight in this daylight macabre. Exhale. Red-light screening eyes of thirteen immortal luminaries, dressing the park as hero’s bayonets anoint their delusions, upon delusions.
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The Hazards of St. Valentine's Day
Valentine’s Day. How do I loathe thee, let me count the ways…. First of all, before I digress in to how many times Valentine’s Day has run over the toes of all my birthday celebrations for the last twenty two years, I would like to say: Fuck you hallmark. This holiday is merely a way for you to make money off 99% of people who aren’t original, feeling, or creative enough to write an...
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Where do we draw the line?
In Response to the approval for foreign (slimy American) development in Jasper National Park:
Here’s an idea: If you want to see Canada’s national treasures in our national parks, learn to hike, learn to camp, learn to ski, learn to climb, kayak etc. learn to exist and explore within the wilderness and services that are already here. Learn to do it with respect towards the ...
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Under Realization of Eternity
One day if I go to heaven…I’ll look around and say “It ain’t bad, but it ain’t San Francisco”. —(Herb Caen)
I fell right down the San Andreas Fault. And I woke suddenly with no recollection of the great tragedy of my death and I believed to find myself in heaven. For a moment, I considered the eternity of Haight Street beneath my feet. And that perhaps I will walk with the Ghosts of the...
“Beauty is eternity gazing at itself in a mirror.
But you are the eternity and...”
– Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet (via proustitute)
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lookingforwisdom replied to your post: Free Poetry
I had a look and it is well worth bookmarking
He’s right, it is!
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Free Poetry
ATTN: Free Poetry Here! Just download the PDF!
Wax Poetry Magazine put out by Kirk Ramdath (Author of “Love in a Handful of Dust”) which you can find and purchase here.
—”Wax Poetry Magazine is a free poetry magazine distributed in Calgary and other Canadian cities. The objective of Wax Poetry Magazine is to provide an artistic alternative to other free papers in...
January 2012
24 posts
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Anyone want to somehow combine Derrida’s idea of the Transcendental Signified with James Joyce’s short story “Sisters” and the binary of paralysis/movement within the notion of a singular Christian God for me in the next 18 hours? Anyone?
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So-Long Ten Years
He reminds me of the favorite book of poetry I drowned in the bathtub like some sort of page sadist handcuffed to the letter-forms. My pen an emblem of marital discord. His pages are puckered and yellowed as if some vindictive cat leg-lifted and pissed. The more I learn about words. The less I believe in them. Life is too short to sleep in the hound’s abode. We’ve only got ten good years left.
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The more I learn about words, the less I believe in them.
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Check it out...
http://maladeez.tumblr.com/
http://sddemos.tumblr.com/
The music of an extremely talented classmate!
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Mornings like this make me feel like the world is so crisp and beautiful that a single snap of a camera could send it shattering.
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Beware of Condofax Management Calgary!
So the heat went down in my apartment over night. It’s -30 with a windchill around -40. Our windows are frosted over on the inside, I can see my breath when I get close to them. AND MY ASSHOLE building manager has the nerve to (as usual when we call with any problem) act like I must have done something to break the heat.
First of all pal, you’re getting paid to fix these sorts of...
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Really? All you poets and only one person appreciates a quote from Blake?
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“If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it...”
– William Blake- The Marriage of Heaven and Hell
Survived the first collective critique of my works for my creative writing class. Phew.
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I Used to be a Scientist →
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Arthropoda
Segmented bodies repeating, and molting alpha-chitin fortified lobsters sense light, and scream on stoves to anaphylaxis. If there were ever a phylum to watch out for, it would the antenna wielding, grasping clawed, four meter limbed beasts, dipped in butter. Ammonia escaping permeable membranes, toxic, compound eyes. Fifteen thousand ommatidia: to one. Hermaphroditic barnacles tell us, dating...
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Chordata
Pharyngeal slits are embryonic smiles as we wave our notochords goodbye. Bilaterally severed, symmetrical and nervous. Circulatory extractions from bony trunks trigger synapse shudders inside incomplete braincases, stacked on vestigial vertebrae. Burgess shale Pikaia swam as an eel, Precambrian ancestor, soft-spined leaf. Nerve-cord dilations, we are future facing.
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Echinodermata
Mesozoic revolutionaries divide tube-footed ossicles in pentaradial, blue living room recliners. Absent fossil records skin sea-lilies of two hundred armed, ambulacral rogues, holding hands with the limestone. Abyssal, intertidal hedgehogs drooling ammonia over carotinoids, and melanin. Spineless and heartless. Limbs regenerating.
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A Night on the Town
Sitting on the edge of the bathtub dulling the razor as you attach that great, dead bird to your head. Its broken wing cascading off your shoulder as tweezers slip off unruly eyebrows, leaving iron-willed margins. Eyelet opened to the chest, and the clamorous small of your back lends its black paint to the upturned corner of eyelids. Ravens dip their feet, and sashay to the window with their dead...
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December 2011
33 posts
“They have worries, they’re counting the miles, they’re thinking about where to...”
– Jack Kerouac, On the Road (via talkativolive
)
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The Brittle Caretakers
Footfalls lick fog from the lodgepole as violins sing orgasm praises against the wall. Mossy altars sink sleeplessness. All our clothes are in the freezer, rigid, and wondering: why couldn’t we have been the brittle caretakers of cannon bones? Wrapping our spines together, melting the fingernails off hoarfrost, and tightening our tilted haunches homeward.
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Plastic Patriotism
Leeches undress your elbows as I hold your knees up to refinery geysers, ejecting their dictionaries on great highway yachts. And power lines cut through night-pupils, open to the hooves of a hamburger, chewing its cud. That antler rack bounds in front of us. Wouldn’t it look good on the mantle above the monoxide fireplace? We climb up two-by-fours and perch on the monolith of home so we can...
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The East
If you look hard enough through the fog you can almost see the Queen. Somewhere across the shipwrecks and the ice. I rock back and forth on the rocks, my feet turning them to dust. Tonic water long forgone for the bottle. Just gin. I open my mouth, and it tastes like severed lumber being hauled off to living rooms in December. The air tastes of the cold wetness of a sailor’s ghost. I...
Way too much coffee. Still awake. Help. Trapped hungry in a hotel room in Rapid City. Bring me pizza.
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