laughings' stock!

so i know that anticipation can be a devious and dangerous thing, a double-edge sword (Rye and Ginger, maybe?) that one shouldn't over-expose. this weekend (5 days for me) should be something anticipation cannot denude... fresh pavement ahead, also limitless, stocked, coddled, driven, and sunlit rewards. oh yeah, we're going to the cottage, and... we're partying.

sentimental as she

Aha! The day is an ambulant capture, a walking paradise and not a failure as Katy might say. She? Aha, the rolling rolling randomness sleeps during another class, Geography, summer school. Hills. Climates. What a collection of cheap (yet positive) reinforcement. A building of plumes for the material projects. Smokestacks, me? I'm plumage over and over again, the cold side of the moon... over and above the belt buckle that twists in a reversible gold. I'm not so sure of what metals to make, those that sing and whittle away at time or the waves of a harbour in a distant unvisited land. A country? "I've been there," Katy might say. Oh-la-la... Okay, I have lost the life-raft and the anchor, and anything that preserves the galloping hand. Would you prefer to dream about the steamship and the crane that unloads its' hermitage-like cargo... Would you like another person's story modified by starch and shelves of cold jam? Here goes something quizzical, Katy might say...

Reached what i thought was home finally
threw my logic into the bedding of one's self,
my head doing the rest of the resting,
finally an ally? A dream resembling the pillar
and door-sign push. after that, home is not quite
home and i find a roof upon my head,
a future so... someplace in the present
i find myself wanting to contain this tenderness,
this, oh what is it called -- a feeling maybe
but if nobody ever thinks like you do
does that mean you will never fit in?
alone again
my mind lives alone...


Okay so that is what Matty (not Katy) would call dreadful. Awful. Barfatious. Spitting it out I return to reality... and the day is less glittery now: the hokus pokus of passwords and profiles seems to gild the clouds that bless this aerodromatic setting. This droning cognizance. I'm awake, aha, and Katy is a caption forgotten, a time being that never returns...

***roll of my eyes***

Okay. i was fifteen once... i was bored, and i dismissed anything that wasn't confined to the present, to the crowd around me. it was easy, and i was willing to admit that 'everything sux' (lol), besides that, I'm pretty sure I knew everything already even if I hadn't been in a car that passed the 2nd line south...bush party? my friends knew it too, at the bus stop, the arena, the classroom, but then it was probably all a waste of their fur-eeking time too eh. oh yeah, what it was? a moose? lol. i spose we all have those days, "hanging around the golf course", the mall? we thot we'd never have to learn anything really imporant, greater? -- "the sum of lesser-thans", Mr. Zeroing In On Math would say, ha, what a miserable chump he was... what to do with another nothing day? Equals what, yuuuukkkkkkkkkk! They said that guy hung himself with an electric cord, so i guess we were never that lazy (or bored), it rhymes i bet -- lmao -- like rope and penelope, but seriously whatever happened to us was just another event in a series of things destined to eliminate or postpone our perpetual boredom.... or at least deface it in such a way that we wouldn't have to think about it until it actually happened again.

a little smile for the belly dancer inserted here :)
Chad, you won't get it.

Not sure if that makes sense or if the memory of this week is just as confusing as "how many" years ago, lol. what if i just went to the mall and hung out again, old fart? supermodel? or perv? ha! our mall sux, well it does if compared to other new ones in those bigger towns, especially that thing in Kenora, lol... what did we do before it was built though? ha, the oldtimers will remember that, so will Jess and Kory, history buffs, (that's Kory with a K, OK, lol, she's a she)... I'm getting bored again, sorry this post is going nowhere, pffffffffffftttt! Time to hit the beach, play some v-ball, or ultimate on the sand-bar, i wonder who's there today, hey HOT stuff, HOT enough 4-ya? BE there, 11th or 12th concession, noon hour, ice cream? lol-LA LA LA LA-fontaine!

"there was an accident, bikes were everywhere, then a helicopter..."

`
She is only 18, so perhaps the drivers' words are enigmatic, seem lost in the fog of a greater light. Perhaps the news of this accident on a roadway in Germany hasn't affected the world like a bombing during a spectacular 'phrase-ful' day in another part of the world. Perhaps the grief is less indelible to the lens of public sympathy. Perhaps it doesn't matter to those who lament this tragedy how much airtime either of these senseless departures have recieved... perhaps, this questioning is also a way of dousing my own sadness, my unquivering fears.

Riding a bicycle -- on any roadway -- is a dangerous, defenseless pursuit, is putting the body at the mercy of society's good judgement, behaviour. Every cyclist has had close calls, inches to spare, whooshes that graze the ear... every cyclist has heard the sardonic jeers, "get your own effin' road", they'll shout, or perhaps when trying for something more clever we have yet to hear, they'll say, "nice pants lance..." and then speed away. Speeding away... "you..." not like me to be so derelict the "I" arrives here now, me cruising alone, along the slipstream of a country road, the sun behind me, the heat within, and the wind coming from the back and a little to the right... I'm nearing my home, (la maison), crawling a slight, blind hill towards the main highway... could it happen to me? A newly ordained "driver" losing control? A minivan, three kids in the rear seat distracting "my guardian angel"? A man towing a boat? Another pickup squealing its tires, the horse trailer jackknifed into a slide on the edge of the pavement, me jumping onto the soft shoulder, barely able to kick-out, stay upright, barely able to keep my heart beating below its max... the all-of-a-sudden thought that luckily passes! yes the schoolbus slowed to see if all was right, but the driver of that black pick-up barely slowed beyond the skid, he sped around the sloped corner, wheels grinding with every rev, he made a quick right turn at the next stoplight, it was red and barely acknowledged.

It happened like that, the same day the AIS Womens Cycling Team was taken out, swept into a ditch with one foul swipe... BUT me, I'm still upright, signalling a woman through yellow open doors, her hands carrying the shifting weight of a bus full of kids, I signal her to carry onward, to go, I'm okay... ready for the road again, the heartfelt finale. I ride to the same set of stoplights, turn left, feel the wind at my side and the last hill before home burning my empty legs.

New Lease on Resistance.

.
Hello grand sun!

Humid cause? I am sitting in the perch, in the craft,
and the shadow that once descended like a midnight
forum has crept away... It isn't you, my darling,
sweet star softening on a yellow sphere; it isn't you
that roughens this inflection, these strong persuasions
within the somewhere (and if) of where I began.
I'll say perhaps, perhaps, since the conceivable nuance
of tongue and teeth is a vulture waiting to arrive, like
an evacuation of permanance: the tangled run of...
hesitation, roads and vines? A question of contrasts,
of brightness, labyrinths, am I just one?

I'm not the singular wallow, the lurching of a confused
vanishing light, sunset... Three days have passed
like clouds that contest an animating breath,
your lips devouring the cause beforehand, before here,
almost four years, intelligible time racing as though
a celebration aggrieved, a lighting of candles
that needs no glass to protect "them" from the wind. Amiss,
skepticism vaunted, yet hiding beneath a gilded veil, beneath
artless oily legs. Your sign, a crossing of hands and palms,
a touch being sampled, tinges, and felonious thoughts exposed.
I'll apologize, my dear, when the drubbing resumes,
when this naked habitation edges away like hard skin
at the bottom of one's foot. This is my timid side, you'd say,
the point between my toes that feels
no impact from the greatest of steps.

Please admire the mirror and send your favoured cajolings!

the day, the dais, and Piotr Diaz, she said?

Ready. Set... am I pre-empting the cause of a post-exultant coup? The road, how will it fly? Depart. Taking care of the easy things: cards and old books, shampoo, and vague necessities that resemble a wool sweater or water-resistant gloves. She has her hands full, she says, doesn't have time to carry water, bowls of spinach salad, or even dressing made from scratch. This moving, impending move, has brought her living to a standstill, to a full and unabridged stop. Yet the expressions continue... I'm ready, she says, with a seeming unhesitance, and there another podium emerges. And there that twinkle in her voice derives a less obscurable answer, a persuasion of skin, of triumph and muscle from the lower curves of one's spine... I listen then, I follow the folds of cardboard and old warm bedsheets. I follow the voice, the lilt of silk and recognizance, the plan that she, a woman abiding in transience, the one whose lead is as simple as another slab of concrete on a suburban sidewalk, she that never loses her way, her footing assured like an evening walk... I listen then, the names of people in photos without enough light, Tanya, my best friend, she says, Peter, and that ridiculous guy from who-knows-where, another camp perhaps... I listen though the pillows leaning against an empty dresser drawer allow me a moments' reprieve, an inch of space, the lowest slope between hope and fear. What does she think when she talks without stopping? What is the catch, the equation, the loquacious hook, that which amounts to the pulpit of all bare shoulders? Is this the weight of the world? Fate revered, or the personification of blame, critiques? Momus (momentum, I would hear) was still a god reproaching Zeus for his greatest creation, man (humanus), because it had no window into its heart: that its real plans, he said, could never be truly seen.

Ready? Truth. The thought has its own repetition, a reiteration of what can or cannot be fathomed. Depth. She stands alone, unencumbered by the brevity of her own silence, the aloof siren of some emergency vehicle growing ever more distant on another street. A direction opposite to her chosen route. The city, it seems, will hold no goodbye, no parade or final embrace. And she, she prefers to leave nothing to chance, the i in "it" especially, she amends the mirrors of this rented cube downward, adjusting everything else until it is "just so"... she doesn't need the impressions of cork flying from a fine wine, she doesn't need a patch of blue sky rolling behind her, getting smaller than any blind spot could ever be. The horizon, she once said, will never determine what one actually sees!

Go? And the living goes on... the living that once stood like an unending plain, as still as a stream in the sultry candor of remorse. What guilt? She would say. What umpteenth river? Her eyes awash behind a defiant shade -- only noticing the width of the bridge or the bumps and curves that lie beyond its span... and I, I would listen then, to every thud of imperfect pavement, to every breeze of an open window, of other cars going by, wondering what direction us and them will turn, return...

operation colombo (chilean red)

'

Pinochet, limping, could put his face on trial: a life behind bars, wrinkles, propped
by the shadow of legal immunity. Innocent and sick, some say, evading taxes;
yet critics have their own health against them. The hospitals are full, too many
hearts, too many crimson slurs on the feet of absent authority. How long ago
did the chicken-bells toll, leave? (Dying like infected worms?) How old the bribes
of mammals, of scientists leaping between species? Between bamboo drums and
disinfectant that squirms within our long lost thirstings.
This Pinochet is a population, red wine drinking, seated comfortably
amid tables brimmed with salads and rice, the short fancy of annihilation,
saying goodbye with a spoon or barrel. Anything here, (whereever the here may be),
carries the smudges of a handwashed goblet, a dark chalice, a bank balance in synch
with its own confidence. Some say the end is almost inevitable, is blind to calculations,
and doesn't deviate from the master plan. Pinochet dies of course,
in jail, his carcass a swollen lozenge for the wine's incessant dread...
.
.
work in progress

on tourines, taking leeks, and tomato boredom

Not wanting to spin myself or my ever gliding words (spokes as it were) into the twists and turns of my favourite sporting event, I regard each day in July as a stage in a strange unfinished journey. I believe, more fully than desired, that the flight we have chosen, whether alone or in the presence of a "stronger team", remains within us no matter how far we try (or perhaps sometimes it happens without trying) to deviate from the intended course.

It is easy to think (feel) when one is still touring in their youth (unbeknowst as a teen per se or even in the mid_twenties echelon) that the destined end is a lot like pissing from the saddle of moving cyclone: it seems it doesn't matter where the content or spray goes... I never fully mastered this e-motion, this onion crying lack of focus, nor that of other ingredients in soup or false flats. And yet, I have not quite obtained a higher resonance for scouring the road or market for that right combination of spices, be they a riveted green, or that dry nonsensical tongue-in-cheek variety. I speak though, without hindrance, without a loss of motivation or respite. The feeling that I develop (and maybe other age-grouper chowders do too?), is of a compromise being that inches between those spaces that avoid the incessant potholes: a pot-pourri tourine without any constituent love. Sometimes, beneath the seemingly broken core, one is able to inspire...

Alas, I was once told the hills "are alive" with twists of perfection... and today the ride was right. An asparagus of wind... (urine odors notwithstanding), I was spearheaded along the concessions, all curved nose, helmet, and relaxed arms of me. I took the hill on the Cote De La Dalle, a clove of garlic and splash of curry tossed into the terrain, I flowed like broth towards Tiny Beaches Road. Sauteed leeks beefened me. Today the sun was gold and heated itself like moist enviable silk. I dreamt of onion skins... tomatoes dicing the flat falseness of giving up. The wind was hotter still. Driven like a windmill through a stainless steel hand-mixer... I boiled, yet the boiling pace of reason bubbled my metallic grill. I was cleansed of all negativity, and there was no "ending", no point in the distance where I felt the race would be done, where the last stir would stand like a signpost on the side of the road. There was no ladle resting on the ride's abiding rim.

"Any day with the bike, or a soup bowl, is worth savoring." -- a friend named Sylvia

ORDINARY ORDNANCE?

~

This post is justifiable only because the delicate layering of metal and corrosive alternative transience fuels my daily fleeing. Fleet? Today, I am here, at an exact point in momentary momentum that defies all other being... (haha, that might rhyme). Opportunity siphons the grid, the girders? Andthis meander of newly prescribed resilience is an apple core divided by a gilded brownish haze. I am at fault too. I have bitten the leather wrapped controls, and I hold close the trimmed exhaust and fetid spewing of inivisible gases... I am the tinkering wheel, the single unsexed bridge between artillery and resolution. The guilt of these debauching shifting feet knows no grappled mind... Out we go. Out. Damn brain! Limousine'd fate!

This poet is a grandstanding horizon. A small definition of gothic smog, a man and his silhouette frolicking in the assumed nature of thunderstorms. Clatters of Gods. Booms! Golden booms detecting the omnipotent everpresent shadow of the unheard ear. What follows, they say, is nothing more than progress and hearsay.

not forgetting the revolution drummed by a calculating spire

architect. light wind encasing fields of trees
and an otherwise intestinal haze. locomotion
remembered? blue spheres
denuding a soft unbreakable change,
rectangles that dangle like pieces of sky
in paintings the weather forecaster could not see.
a pink blouse. a lawyer forgiving a night of red wine
and photographs to be used in a munificent frame.
slab of concrete descending,
foreboding "center of the universe"
designed by something, (someone?),
whose technique would never yield a singular
grey smokestack. nameplate similar to words
devouring the small print on white cards,
resolution of form over content, a seagull
chewing a red and white flag beyond the green-tiered dome,
the flapped angle of remorse, or justice to a boy now hollowed
by the summers' holiday begun. a parade of leaves
felled in the gardens' suburban home. a place of unpalaced
gold. a whisper of old men walking a boulevard once held,
embraced, in the discerning upheaval of masculinity. crisp
wind twisting again, becoming erect,
grave in the mouth of gravity, teetering
amid soft flesh as though a cushion invented
in one's long intervallic sleep.