January 2012
24 posts
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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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The Best Christmas Gift
My lovely Mom had Cansport photography dig up all the pictures he had of myself and my wonderful mare Roxy in competition. She broke her leg and I had to let her go at Christmas two years ago. Hard to believe she has been gone that long already. I miss her so much. Photos forthcoming. She included this poem:
A Horse’s Resting Place
If you bury her in this spot, The secret of which you...
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Last Picture on Christmas Day
Ten years with you and three without. I took the last picture on Christmas day. Half moon forehead against my hands.
If only a photograph could have captured your soul and left it in my external hard drive.
All that’s left is a braid, and a hole in the ground.
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Marina Endicott and Esi Edugyan at Memorial Park...
Marina Endicott and Esi Edugyan were invited to read in Calgary by Pages Books from their most recent novels. Endicott read from the Governor General’s Award nominated The Little Shadows while Edugyan read from the Giller Prize winning novel Half-Blood Blues. Hosted by the lovely librarian of the Memorial Park public Library, the event was held in the small, fluorescent lighted basement of...
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Review of Patrick deWitt and Chad Oakes at the...
Literary Event Reviews in Calgary!
Hosted by Bryan Wright, the event put on by Wordfest featured Patrick deWitt, author of The Governor General’s Award for Fiction winner: The Sisters Brothers, and Chad Oakes, the producer of Western television series Hell on Wheels and was held in the John Dutton Theatre at the Calgary Public Library. The venue proved to be a great place for both deWitt’s...
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Preamble (ramble) and recording of “The...
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The Things I Could Tell You
I could tell you what I want. I could tell you I want to flit about the earth writing postcards to those people I have met in airports, in hostels, in wine country. I could tell you how much I want to wake up the the Golden Gate bridge outside my door, and the ocean beneath my hands as I lift my coffee cup to my lips. I could tell you how badly I want to smoke spliffs on hippie hill and stand at...
Life Update
Happy to inform you guys that I have my first real reading next week (come buy me a few drinks beforehand?) And that my poem http://a113ykat.tumblr.com/post/12310788678/mollusk will appear in an upcoming chapbook put out by the lit magazine I volunteer for http://www.fillingstation.ca/
“There is a kind of crying I hope you have not experienced, and it is not just...”
– Lemony Snicket (via coello
)
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Here we Are in Heaven
Dear Allen (Ginsberg),
Tonight while walking on the waterfront in the angelic streets I suddenly wanted to tell you how wonderful I think you are. Please don’t dislike me. What is the mystery of the world? Nobody knows they’re angels. I saw a whore and an old man in a lunchcart, and God-Their faces! I wondered what God was up to. In the subway I almost jumped up to yell, “What was that for?...
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“Follow your inner moonlight; don’t hide the madness.”
– Allen Ginsberg
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yellow plastic bruises
your face was threadbare tree’s comfort. yellow windows, cracks running down, crumbling, plastic flowers are knuckles in your breast. silencing scarves tacked to your throat. blood drips from your steak I could not prepare, with the kaleidoscopic knife of cursive As. your face was a fogged mirror. microscopic sand, sewn together, and macerated, falling-down bones of lachrymal mothers....