bereft or adrift? breadth or width?

` '

not sure exactly? perhaps hindsightedly, what the previous
poetic "tote" was trying to achieve. it began with a distinct, implacable
or shall we say distinctive intention... the Symbolic,
somewhat pointillistic approach didn't quite develop
like I thought it should.

the weekend arrives, dour, deepening realm,
unwilling to depart with foresight. and us?
they say you like to do your own thing, go
your own puzzling romantic way. lay down the statueque bikini,
let go the pride and imprinted zeros. remember the ancient children,
boys and girls carried by the seven rivers of the underworld.

meet you at the LC - 1823?
the BS - 2059? no confirmation necessary...
my love.

poetic tote for an idealistic friday morning

'

bliss? uneventful footsteps, spreading like
an assembly of emblems and roses ready
to bloom. the garden traps an immigrant
in its turnstile, flight is destined.
the field, with hydro wires and termites,
consults a lone dark window in an office building late at night.

the parrot repeats. men sweeping
in the morning on a distant roadside
do not hear, take the hamburger and fries.
frites, another language might say.
a symphony tills the edges of a skyscraper,
vinegar rubs its own self-inflicted wound.
a woman, who climbs and climbs, never looking
up or down, ascends the blade of a circumvented
helicopter. there is wind.

the fencepost potrays a raindrop
beneath its colouful wings. the immigrant
shelters a family with magazines and packages
of gum. a child reads,
listens with parrot-like obedience,
parody? then, consequence is oblivious
to knowledge, readiness they might say
in battle. a pigeon not eating green olives,
an old man descending to a park bench.
acorns shouting like parents at a hockey game.
faster, over there, get rid of it!

the ideologue (part III -- near Labin, Croatia)

. * part 3 of a poem already published in a well-respected
journal -- this is the draft version of course* . though i think
it may be retitled --- RIDE and RIDICULE

The bus cannot be painted, he says.
it is always moving, side to side, or rolling
raucously, and it rains when mouths are open,
when dips in the road elegantly flow.
"The bus", it speaks slowly, on and on
with an insurmountable flare... i'm alone now,
like another man, sitting at a window in a blue t-shirt,
twisting a cigarette package,
his adroit nervous fingers
unable to reach that greater pause. The length
of his emotions growing shorter, shredding
like a forested hillside that hovers above
a newly carved gravel quarry.

The bus cannot go faster, he says.
This highway is lodged between steep repeating hills,
is as gray as the chimney of a meek village chapel.
It moves like smoke undaunted, like three pines, tall,
sparse, peaking from the apex of a treacherous corner,
it turns like rare food in a weary traveller's stomach.
It is a bucket of conversations,
two businessmen squeezed together, (behind me),
cajoling the prospects for another seaside hotel;
a young girl, cell-phone tucked within a pillow,
promptly saying, or so it seems
from an acute angle, i'll see you soon.

the bus cannot be inert, he says. his accent,
though it is not local, replies like an autumn morning
amid a dearth of luminant steel.
The sun, slow to arrive, commisserates
with a cool fog at the end of a long canal;
the road, its agony unknown, a skeleton
stretching from century to century
to gasps of quotidian time... I am alone still,
breathing lightly, reading a map,
(an arrival plan), believing the Roman Amphitheatre
and the bus station in the city of Pula remain in the places
they always were.

buying that CAR. right now?

`
I'm not over-awed by this contusion
of fear and financial decorum. I'm
not trying to wait for any subsistence
LIKE a lottery winning, or death.

at some point I will find the dotted line,
the space where my signature is less
evasive the smile for a child
whose tears have only just subsided.

a long way from Lourdes

.
where are you going?
where do wish to go?

finally, it seems, the answer is less mutative than the flow of Westernized lead.
gold, a machine that makes your little toe feel the consolation within the wind;
there is relevance in a time stamp, in poor timing.
can you repeat the name of the place again, please?
Encore? how much money do you have? how much
can you get? I feel badly about bringing you
into this world. this province?
the taxes are worse when you cross the border. there are no fences
for finely chopped herbs, these are the products of a soft hand. a moon
that emphasizes "the light" and nothing else. gravity is a link,
a contagious spell the young will never avoid. did you pass
'that strange' baton to the daughters and sons of your friends?
do you have another generation?
i am concerned for the conscience of random summations,
for suitcases in distress. Some say,
Belinda is a dictator. I plotted a coup for the Marxists...
I flew like a cormorant. This is what they eat when the island
in Rice Lake is cleared by Zebra Mussels.

do you own the SE model?
how much did you afford?
these crackers are stale -- this jam, not as sweet.
I discovered these little locks and pop-off things
do not work without automation. i can open the garage
from the next street over.
I can discern my ability to swim
by staying in the medium-fast lane.

Someone, a middle-aged man perhaps, is accustomed
to the fit of an old-cold speedo. This fabric is gratuitous,
generous. This is a leather-wrapped steering wheel.
I paint dots, small circles, from the outer atmosphere
a score of army invaders, red and blue
like malfeasance, or habits that can only get worse.
I prefer the skies of Renaissance artists... a convertible
of the mind... are you sure you don't need these extra
options? let's invoke ourselves a little playtime.
i'll pace this anxious showroom while you make your decision.

no rushing please...
I can deal this for you in twenty minutes,
your credit will be approved. you'll be burning
fire in far-off places
by the middle of next week.
Cut down trees,
Belinda is a dictator driving
an out of gas Hummer. I've played
both sides of the leftist argument.
I've played
random consultations
with grievous enemies.

Didn't you know this would end with a question?
You walking out the glossy showroom, shaking your head
and the hand in your back pocket?

Aigues Mortes -- travel trim.

Compared to the rest of this resplendent country it may seem, at first, that this area known as the Camargue resembles the dull lowlands of Florida. Inland ponds, small rivers, marshes, even a few untidy "tourist traps" spot the minor highways and national routes. Not to say that this area (or even Florida for that matter) are tedious to the first impressive eye

They cave has relocated, beyond the walls and paths where bulls are made to walk.

Saba -- travel bangs

They wouldn't move the island or its harbour on the south slope.

have I been... away?

`

what time is your bus?
do u know the cement crumbling from this curb
does not flow into a sewer grate?
charity is a whiff of diesel-blend grass,
the sloped sides of a forgettable road.
the cold arctic airmass above us
is like a pasture accepting its long wait.

what time will u leave your office?
do u believe in the shadow of the hubcap?
i am in the beginning phases.
i am a shallow area of low pressure -- light blue
on the radar screen. the lines you see are formed
and faced by miserable glances...

commuting is an inglorious waste of one's
death.

CAFE DES CERCLES...

Boulevard de la Grotte

the clouds seem closer here,
the sun, a less-defiant harbouring,
the mountains seem undivided
(like the memory of an insufficient God,
a point above where miracles come hindered
by candlelight), a walk is only a pilgrimage
if the intent is there, trinkled offerings
remains as they were -- winding roads
of second-hand shopping, two star hotels
with celestial gritty bends... a grotto

running the coast (toronto)

` Running the Coast '


Breaks like day or hour, urban coast.
Between trickles of a gravel stomach,
panged steps, and breaths
that ripple along railings and a shore
of pebbled concrete. An unpainted mass.
Here a path with green and blue broken
lines, geese that acknowledge their own trails,
vomit, the ascended summits of small hills.
Vapours as permanent
as an afternoon grid, a long series of lights,
vehicles not moving. The twitter and curse
of a helicopter watching from above, reporting,
perhaps seeing my miles per hour
rise ever so slightly -- like a curve
of Nature that gleams amid a "mobile wind"
a sketch of breakwalls and sailboats. The setting
of bows beyond suns and an island
which the Natives wouldn't bridge or name.

Still the wind is a hurdle for those who remain
behind glass, behind land or sail, a configuration
we may never know: strength, temperature,
or era. Was it the shield of Achillees
or the fleeting skin of Zadopek? Achillees, I know,
has come and gone -- has grown, like a hamstring
stung by the hills of Troy. The achillees
comes and goes, entrusts itself to the mind,
to a cold-water recovery, a cross seperate and bare
from the rest of the body. The body saying,
"tomorrow I may not go!"
Tomorrow the forgotten moment
of dehyradation, limbo - both feet lingering
in the air... a raised white bridge where one
wants to turn around, feels the wind at their back
and another runner climbing the steps from below.

resuming the scenario --- of use and miscellaneous testing

.
I fling the fast and dying merchant a faint denomination,
ask that memory be kept like pavement
beside an rageless river --as though the yellowy lines
had buckled only once before. I pass the market
where statuesque rows linger well before dawn

i am damp and heavy and tilting towards...

...
a dry camera lens.
my head rises beyond the edge
of the film. a computer labours
behind me,
its screen is blank,
a kind of grey one
sees in a Southern swamp,
there is a bottle of water
near the keyboard,
half full with its label
peeled. i remember
high school and how my friend Erin said
that meant you were horny. i remember
the difference between then and then. we
never made it to a hotel room,
to one of our own beds

miscallenous percussions, symbols of reunion

`
`

with

so this is how we define ourselves,
with a world protected by harbours
redundant in the size of theiir shore. with
miraculous pebbles, and a conscience cleared
of all extinct currents.

this is our defense. a body of water that moves
like a crowd but doesn't nudge, that doesn't resist
the visible bottom -- or carry its hat
among the waves. there's nothing but
pleasure here,
the fortune of holidays
and weekend receipts,
hard work that once was.

this is our visiting breath,
a willingness as dry as the sight
of a neighbour in the yard, walking
slowly perhaps,
deciding which colour of siding
she'll use for her house...

the green is brighter than chlorophyll should allow *

those words are not mine, 'my title', mon bon joue!
they belong to JLo (he's a runner-poet & not the singer-cum-actor-ess).

how does two months go by with barely a thought for entering here?
I'm guessing I'm not remotely as obessessed about blogging as the people
in the article I read yesterday at maisonneuve.org. Maybe I was too
busy getting ready for the big race, big trip.

The plan was to blog from the various places that I visited,
to let the world know what I was doing, thinking, seeing.
But, the truth being what it is, I didn't even think about blogging
when I was at any of the internet cafes --- all I did was check
e-mail and stock prices :)

Perhaps it would have taken too long anyway
considering some of the charges they were asking.
The only real cheap / reasonably priced cafes I found were in Ljubljana,
Besancon, and Valenciennes.... the other ones seemed to be a bit
exhorbitant given the quality of their systems. Alas, I was able
to stay in touch and find out what I needed from over here...
not that I really cared that much,
I was on vacation after all,
and getting away is really
the whole point of being somewhere else.

from a plunging boat: body wash

.

soft breach, waves deafening their own momentum.
a bathtub that deserves a better name --- like Agamemnon
or Argos
or the bays near Pula
the amping blue Adriatic,
resistance and mist
stones garnering what's left of an empire
what hasn't been voted out.

automated fist.

.
AUTOMATED FIST
.

The mind of its own is permanent,
has tenure, stretches upward,  
an umbrella beneath a distant rain...
The mind of its own is permeable,
floats amid metallic spires,
dandles with the wind - like
a shrine's brightened extremities.

The mind of its own is pedantic,
covers itself with a simple skull,
with shadows and hymns,
and the roots of a city that once grew corn.
The mind of its own is motion,
clenching the horizon like a new moon,
like a fist admitting -- it cannot close...

a milestone... memories bereft?

It's been little more than a year now, since this breath of experimentation began, and the bark upon the brain seems a little less fixiated,  and the circles around the eyes (swim goggles, you say?)  aren't quite as clear either.  Yet I wonder (STILL I wonder), are you really planning a visit to a place called KISKUNFELEGYHAZA (sans accents, mais it sounds like --- le meme chose!)?

Input country guess here: __________________________.

I believe my first ever blog mentioned something about the Tour and that Lance was about win, well a year later and it's happened again.  Hurray, Boo!!!  No not really any of the former or the latter... to tell ya the truth the tour was a disappointing cake-walk, the cycling / action was good and I enjoyed watching most of it but the outcome was never in question.  How is it that one team is so much stronger than all of the others?  Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmm....  there's always a question.  So now after another year of my own internal combustions, overhead cam-eras, this blog thingamajig hasn't quite progressed as planned... it's cool and I like but it hasn't become part of my daily agenda --- perhaps because I don't have as much time to spend on such inanimate objectives as I'd like to, and also because I guess I prefer to keep things (my life, for instance) as simultaneously simple and convuluted as possible.  How can that be?

I'd like it to be more pedantic, like this afternoon a gull flew against my window, the CN tower drowned (doused?) in fog, a shroud of noise from the building of buildings below, a crane, and a fast unscheduled walk through Queens Park (thoughtful monarchs avowed).  And yet I don't want to dull or devour the reader with quotidien simplicity, perhaps there is a balance amid mundaneness and my penchant for obscurity, oh yes the fever is rolling, the great awakening, the sonic concomitant (embodied by the weekend sun -- not weakening)...

Or maybe I just want to use this forum to explore my language, my relevant voices...  maybe something concrete like the building of buildings will cement its towering authority here.  Maybe I am not a single a pane of glass...

the long wind

.
A blast of contuded oxygen?
foreign flecked assault.
Rain and dust peppering
the border between assumptions
and retrieval. Perhaps none
of the followers in this grand redundancy
need fear the pricing of information,
the breeze that rises from tills
through holes in translucent windows.
Circles of undoubt?

Seeing the White Fence

There, passed by tractors and convertibles,
hands fluttering unbeknown to a naive eye,
flickering grains of refuge
left by the breeze of teenagers - their long skin
seeking those sands and suns of independence...

or he says, ego is self-contained,

renders the unamused.
Terrible lack of animosity,
here? Post-haste me your thoughts
my dearest betrothed... felled voluptious
tree,
innocuous branching of fate
that yearns like lengthwise pavement,
a heart (is that what I really meant?)
parallel to a grey de-summarized sky.
Only humanity could go more unnoticed.
Not really sky, I should think,
or light years away... not really
justice, he said.

They say it rains when it pours,
that ditches cannot feel pain,
and freshly cut shrubs don't need
the rich impediments of a newfound spring
that they will be warm and speckled
where-ever they land --- like whiteness
on an innocent wooden fence, like a gate,
unopened, or dichotomies... ever-present
torrential streams. Blue-boxes
at the edge of a gravel driveway.

I do not check the Recycle Bin anymore
but I still adore you... how does one say

au revoir without really meaning it?

GOODBYE.
GOODER-BYE.
DO-WID-ZENIA.
Effing OFF... for now.

. HEARTfelt MIKA.

x marXist the spot... Sopot? or Hel?

*
ELeCTION dAYLIgHT
*

pourquois les références vers la Pologne?
have you seen the zagging of epitaphs?
the Great Danzigian Bay, imperial wit?
yet they say, he is here to confound,
with inexplicable (yet understandable) French
inserted like a string of modified starches,
with 12-carat mischief clenched by a democratic hand.
There is always an abrasion to communication,
a diamond-held finger cutting the layers of a golden cake,
there is remant food (nourriture) housed in strange buffets,
and votes to be served... still? somewhere else,
maybe trailing a plane that circles a city skyline
it may be written, that words and pictures cannot be objectified,
yet here, plain, invalid here, I can pretend, I understand the message,
I can say, I have heard the people and their power.
*
I suppose the resulting anger was devoured by an inconstant fear,
by red lights ascending to the tips of bells and parliaments,
to benches stripped of their blue and green,
to orange juice squeezed from Caribbean Cafes
into glasses inured with feckless spots.
These are the times when the roomy tables of the New Proletariat
are infested by the ranting of political thieves, children smiling
in the background, daughters as pure as those lonely girls
on Bikini Beach (Wasaga not discounted), daughters as dour and aplomb
as the feelings for their one inherited brother,
the ones the reporters have named (gratitude Rich?)
the one that waltzes away, tabulates,
and spends each last pellucid moment of the everyday
scouring for safety.
*
Perhaps it's also true that their long, slim hairlines,
and slender mouths, have yet to spark riotous acts in suburban grottos,
have yet to tremble beneath the poor brinkmanship of indebted contractors,
have yet to waste their gorgeous (and stubbornly generous) ulcers
on small wooded ravines that tussle the roads straddling the city,
have yet to feel a day going by that couldn't be won...
*
Later in the evenings, whilst the elder Richard
ponders an inconstitutable sky, white yet puffy,
the clock passes the time of Szymborska's Universe,
and brandy becomes a flicker of pine-scented verandah,
and that daughter with bikini entrails,
with waxed poetic legs and polished germs --- seeks nothing
but the hypnosis of a good photograph, of the ridges that linger
on rouge'd pursed lips, that cleanse the teeth
of anything leafy or green. And in those ravines
where the city is safe, unusuable 2x4's are now discarded,
a discomfiture of metal and glass bubbles towards life,
escapes its 4x4 past, opens its mouth and gazes at the iridescent stake,
with tepid indulgence it sends a shiver of momentum onto the roadway...