return to the old bog

Sorry all, marshy it is, haha, some typos are worth repeating. So I've been too busy getting my book together and getting my back fixed up. As of now the book is good and the back, well I'd say I need a new spine but that would be too witty! Hopefully I will be published and racing again this year. New pics coming soon too!

nov. middle to beginning to end

yeah. oh yeah, i know what you are saying. get some coffee, dopamine. did you read that? oh yeah, ain't she sweet. she sure knows how to be a tourist, a benchmark, to defend the principle of immortality.

what if i were not-so-versimilitudinal, if the way of this world was synchronized with habitual rain, biblical floods. this is not to say i don't believe in anything less than a woman achieving her goals... i say, oh yeahh, go for it.

and you thought -- i waited how many months for this?

World Cup Pool...

Attempting to post the picks before it starts... pdf link maybe

that phukker in 6-0-7!

Turn down your $@#$ music!!!!!

this is a poem (not peom), off the cuff :)

Amid the wavering providence a better sense of an autumnal breeze,
a wish for the aching sidewalk, for the ropes that dangle along the edges
of an austere building... Who climbs here?
Concrete? Young girls scarcely aware of their adolescence,
boys with flowered shirts, black boots, hanging out at school doors,
or is it that groping actor pretending the show must always go on?
It's teaching now, September: light (emaciated) descends,
the rope swings out of necessity, out of respite for commercial-like gurus,
mentors, and therapists who lock and unlock the discarded spirit,
the import of cold unadvertised sex... Perhaps it is only those
who dream of hot rain, an open forest or a discrete library desk,
who know the wind can be framed like the painted tips
of a terraced sun. I remember a place not far from here,
a meeting was arranged then, and she said within the silence that engulfed us,
there is no theatre among the clouds. She didn't pause to look at the sky...
The motioning of her hands, first there around the knee, moved upwards,
like a spine perpetually awake, then twirling idly amongst the sutures of the skull.
I remember nothing that happened next, not even the sharp utterings of a name.
Maybe syllables, nor the combination of letters S and Z,
are not part of a dream. To think of her now
is to pass through an open window onto the tops of a tree,
onto a limb of whitewashed gargoyles soaring from a newly restored church,
a bicycle ride going from sunshine to snow, flakes filling the canals,
the human body casting itself endlessly onward,
intricate colours staked out in skin and hair, in eyes that bloom and blink...
What happens here when ropes are no longer climbed,
when there's no building to hide behind? Who will watch that cherished
adolescent flesh, that goddess in the window who doesn't need a plastic sheen?

Within me, (like fate lacking in temperature), the vision is a perpetual display,
a sign without time or place. And it arises again, with a little sound,
haze of noise and isolation, how long ago did she leave, did the empty chaos
bring me back to years that digest the soul? I've heard introductions before,
phrases that do not last, rumours: the oh-my-gods
of adolescence that everyone desires because nothing is better
than rising from the dead. Everything else, like a mountain or affection,
has an ebb greater than knowledge, a vast plucking we cannot disturb.
Yet I'm only one in a contingent of disappointed men,
a perverted involuntary group that cannot leave the hammers and scaffolds
of this old church. I only whisper to a gathering wind, years are balloons you cannot burst.
From time to time, as she would say, there is only the option of floating away,
the nudity of air and a differing false sense: a star that hangs beneath a fountain
like a goddess understanding the breadth of her own fleece. Another day has passed,
has grown within the doldrums of that same ancient myth. Another night ascends,
and somewhere, (perhaps the other side of this world), the child in her womb
is as withered as skin devoid of a dream, my face a futile sleep.


*** -- poem in progress, please return as it grows, changes, morphs -- ***
*** -- D U N perhaps? not quite as cheerful as my original intent --- ***

woman in heels, a car.

It happens so fast... morning becomes morning, then another... people turn from stone to styrofoam, the door, the floor, and the window blinds become as plain as a swishing of gravel on a country road. Somewhere the sun is also rising (Hemingway?)... and not settling on a busy urban road, a woman in a blue dress, light blue heels, jumping between two bikes into the centre lane. A woman rushing for a streetcar that has already gone by... a woman who doesn't know how close she has come to my cars' dark blue hood, its first scratch?

No idea what she was thinking, but for the second time in a week I've had someone run out in front of me forcing me to be quick with the brake... I spose it's good for both of them that I no longer drive like a teenager (did I ever?) and that I'm one of the better drivers on this planet, Malta and Poland included, lol!

That's it for today. Oh wait, almost forgot my great run workout... 6 x "the lake loop" (progressive, on varying rest, 2:05, 2:02, 2:00, 2:01, 1:58, 1:52 -- LAST ONE was a "race" with Rachael, I won, jk :) Bonsoir!

early riser... no reason for this, or any other title **he says, smirkingly**

Ha! For reasons of inexplicable affection, dreams of women in white dresses dancing on a sandy-brown arena floor, **Szia!!!** this morning amid humanity's austere reality, dark skies, floods, I've pushed away all sense of despondency... I've stepped into the black tuxedo. Does this mean happiness is an eager addition to the usual morning whirrs?

Hmmmmm.... truthfully, I'm trying to avoid the seasonal affectations that follow Labour Day? Why is there such a lack of energy here, then, now? It seems the same contemplations (regressions) rise like holiday gas prices every year at this time... you'd think I'd be shrewd enough to encourage a different feeling (feelings) *lowers his eyes briefly, but refuses to shrug the shoulders*, to sing a more ebuillent tune. And you'd think **rolling eyes severly** that the fragments of the past couldn't coalesce into a barrier that hinders light from the future, light, salience... Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm, maybe I awoke too early this morning... before the end of that dream, the glorious sunrise.

* happy ending *

perhaps there's no way to deviate from lifes' normal conclusions.
nothing interesting has happened recently... a walk in the woods
is more peaceful than a television reporter repeating blurbs as stagnant
as water in New Orleans old town. what a mess this is?

what morbid aversions? I see the happy ending is only a vague myth
recounted with impractical myrth... how blissful the sides of a sandy hill
that lead to a clear unknowable lake, invisible rest... time to cease
this terminal post.

good weekend, **shrugs** (not really that bad of a mood?)

and this moment is gone...

you've taken it for what it is worth.
you've taken it for the architect of epochs, for what is granted
in that time. you look, doubtingly, at the duty of your own shelter,
at nothing more than refuge (not even what is known about the self).
they say, you "will live to an old age if you do not see
your own attraction". they feed you with love and other versions of despair.
you do not flinch. your passion is immune to the birth of a different story.
you are a body fashioned out of clay... your likeness evokes a bottomless lake,
dolphins, worms, and the victory of a daughter's handshake.
if a god or goddess abandoned you the darkest spider would not let
you hang. the unarmed mortality of "this moment", what they might call
"asking the heavens for a joyous vengeance", would see you into hiding,
into a forest or a sea, into a pocket of unopposed air... and you,
taking everything for what it is worth,
would transfer the weight of bones and fleece, golden anthems,
and you would build blossoms of fragrant silk, veins that splash
like a waterfalls' circumference. you would leave no vague uncertainty,
your charm would revolve like an endless planet...
because of the narrow path between orbits you would inherit
a mother's greatest affliction. your beauty would never suffice.
cities, towns, and revolutions would degrade
the sin of a stone monument. a thunderbolt
would show no sign of jealousy. an inscription would read,
"she has punished me for having claimed to have loved her".

*** --- directed at no-one in particular --- ***

something innocuous -- idkw -- *cough*, just pluggin' away *shrug* i guess

My Slanguage Profile

Aussie Slang: 75%
Canadian Slang: 75%
British Slang: 50%
New England Slang: 50%
Prison Slang: 25%
Victorian Slang: 25%
Southern Slang: 0%

I forget where I pulled this from... some other blog I guess...
It must mean I isn't from the south, ain't that right Saving Sweetness.
Haven't done the weird thing yet either.

creating an image, a new regime, perhaps?

`
Don't ask to compare tragedies, don't ask me for a death toll either. Don't ask for categories that have numbers fitting together like sections of an antique cabinet. Let the fin-de-siecle fuels run beneath this road... let prices rise, flood waters? I'm thinking of New Orleans now, of tsunamis past and devastating, I'm thinking I couldn't outrun any of them **wink** **groan, Irving, Julio ** So what do we regard as our immunity to suffering? Is the greater good (as some would call it) offset by the greater "bad"? What I mean is, does it matter how many people are affected by a certain event? Any loss of life, I believe, is a tragedy, any disappearance of a child, even that isn't on the front page of a newspaper, is distressing too... so what good is the hyperbolic media notion that leads every story with "... the death toll is climbing..." Is that really all that we want to know? Wasn't the tsunami bad enough when "only" 15,000 people had died...

Hmmmmm.... I think this subject is too morbid, these images too. What regime, I wonder, could I create that wouldn't have to breathe off this strangulated sensationalism... Perhaps I'm living too far away from everything... I'm too distant from any tragedy, and maybe if anything like this happened to me I would want the world to know I didn't die without counting.

when she's eating Caesar Salad

Is it me, a smirk on the sidewalk,
a pair of hands glancing at an eyepatch'd face?
Is it the white lights of a small wagon, reversing,
or the windows in a restaurant
that always disappear... Stars are peeled
like radishes, like little brooms in a Grand Hall
before a wedding reception. Is it her, hers?
A hint of maternal grace wiping honey from a fingernail,
an axe, a slice, an open wound? What is it
that hinges our devotion? I'm betting
on something that could lean beneath a womb,
a promise that doesn't protest...
a dream upheld by the nipples and hearts
of triple-washed vegetables. Where is a world
that doesn't hedge its own motion? A conqueror
who prays (not preys) and passes the living into death.
Where do her eyes shift? Her lashes blink... Inside,
in the moment when motion is decided she always faces
into the room, she traps grapes and napkins like a princess
usurping a raised sword from a knight...
She measures the soul of a knife-edge, the fat of romance,
she dresses a sandal with toes that abolish a stained spot
on an old carpet, a Naricissistic memory?
She asks, "what would you be doing if I wasn't here?"
The clothes she once disowned disintegrate
from her shoulders, her skin is a garden, an oasis,
a zoo... perhaps an emu or a polished flower for the expression
of bees and spiders: thoughts carving
the beauty of this view... Where else can I stare?
What petals will adapt like the supple scrubbing of her tongue?
What Flora doesn't cut our taste buds?
On that white tablecloth her bones are groping
a dead meal, cutlery, saliva smelling the vines,
olives, unpeeled onions, and milk chosen
from the right teat. She doesn't shriek
when angels pile rodents in the laneway: "oh,"
she says, "those are not for us to dispose of...",
to remember. She loosens her belt with the painting
of dour pink fingernails, she snuggles into her chair,
as though the promise of being
has yet to render this moment with more meaning.
She chews loudly. A moth flickers like darkness
at the ending of the life of an unwilling martyr...
a child on the sidewalk acting like there is no bedtime,
another glass of exhausted wine,
a third course, and in my throat the humming
of a fugitive vanishes in a paradisiacal flood.

water street, a poem taken from SALVAGE

~
3. St. John’s 2003

Water Street, above, (alone), watching the weather smolder in all directions. To the north, and out of view, a set of earlobes pretends they cannot hear, dusk, an embryo? The horizon beginning to heal, waiting on the doorstep for a maternal breeze: a tinting of birth, separation, a trace that the earlobes and the sounds of the city that no one listens to, cannot see. A young flower submerged beneath a potted maple… A stroke of unfamiliar language, an immense thought: how it is that we are all still here? That the line on a cracked sidewalk matches a drainpipe between two cafés?

Water Street, swaggering like a deck of cards, a set of keys bulging the front pocket in old jeans, a stitch already tight… A man standing in a number of spots, simultaneously, carries nothing but an untenable hum, yet he doesn't stumble. And he says all the right things, how are you today, sir? I’m a lawyer can I take your case? Resilience is as fleeting as a splash from a small puddle, a sip of beer, or a slip of the wrist that hides the painters’ keel…

Water Street, seaweed? What else would one expect? Bars and traffic lights, pastels courting newspaper boxes like grainy streaks on a shop window… Today, the damage has become washed and dried, needed, and the bakery on the corner delivers loaves to fishing boats preparing for a week away. Their long assail, the massing sea. Hills that rise to an insufficient green, red columns floating like an apple peel near an unclean sink… how is that roads always turn light brown and windows have holes that totter and bounce within their black frames? Maybe the flickering face has hands to rest in, a dark wall in the sky that brushes a distant mountain with bristles unraveling. There’s history above the clouds, (the canvass)… a fold of skin that falls like the bottom jaw of a long-forgotten explorer, a new cove, an apartment in the south of the city getting noticed by the corner of an untrained eye.

hit INTO

So this is our team name, HIT into, hit in TWO? Our team... light blue shirts, team, as in mates. Old meets new, meets young and wreckless, Art Titus, grab the railing, there's pills for that... *wink* Here is a picture of us on the 6th green, getting ready for an EAGLE!! As I said, hit in TWO! Well, we didn't quite make 3 :((( or four, fore, hit INTO again. I'd say it was blasphemous, not-so-good samaritan robbery. We did hit the hole three times in six tries though :0 From there it was all downhill, until the back nine of course where the holes start climbing again, and that's when we made our move... first birdie, 12th hole, short par 4, beautiful pitch by mees-elf, 5 and a feet, what a feat! Next hole, even feat-ier, driven to the green by an ex-pro (shop worker, haha!). Ziggy on the ground in beer cart girl agony. Another EAGLE goes begging!!! How can I leave a putt like that short... then again, next tee, HIT INTO, twice, come on ya FOUR-EYED-NICKABEET BOTTLE-EATER FREAK! Just kidding, love ya like a bounced check, have you ever played KILL THE BUTTS! No, it's not an ANTI-smoking campaign. Not a beer-cart-girl looking death mulled over... lit her... sweet but not feeling so aces today. I don't know but if she weren't serving drinks I'd think she'd probably tell me I'm using too much uPPer caSe, punctuation too! Luv ya like an afternoon pale fog :))) LMAO!

Alright well... I think the rest of the round might bore you into divoted submission, so I'll just say that we birdied the last hole (my beautiful SW to 12 feet, Nephew Pat's putt, Rosey's drive too, how could I forget such teamwork?) in front of all the other gophers, received a big rousing rousing, rising ovation... or polite applause, is it really polite if you should receive the clapping of something more??? HMMMM... the rest of the evening went quickly and without much distraction. Winners and trophies were announced, the food was delved into, was pretty good according to most (not so good according to that rare gem, well done!)... and as you can tell by this, (or that picture above of a WINNER with SOME prizes), the wind had come up and everything was a little coooooollllerrrrrrrrrr! Some were cooler than others, some people's golf balls went farther downhill than uphill too, ha ha, LMAO! As it was, we listened to FIX YOU on the way home at least three times... and went to sleep motionlessly.

more balls. swivelling torsos?

FGT this weekend. Very important to be prepared... to have patience,
to have a good time!!!

I shall return with PICs and stories I hope.

Mika out.

"I never get in trouble..."

mmmm... okay, so it isn't me that belongs to this phrase,
but someone a little younger (and cuter?), someone who has surrounded herself with flits of affection and nonchalance... someone in a town that devours its own youthful intelligence like a river gorge in the south of France swallows the fragrance of great wine. They say every town has a label, a cave perhaps, so maybe every street in these towns has its own chimney of good smoke, a sign of the cloud, or a cough.

It may not be the most crucial fact in her everyday existence but I bet that she (the one who couldn't get into trouble) could smile her way out of any situation, like if she danced naked on a cruise ship full of old Baptist ladies... or if she inhaled crystal meth outside a smalltown daycare in mid-morning daylight... huh? oh, u get the point? And you don't need to wonder how it is that some of the oldtimers (not me:) think that kids have it easy these days?

what play, what hardship!

mmmm... I think, therefore I suppose, if I could ever have mouthed those words veraciously (in that order too) then I might feel her inexcusable debris of insouciance. But would i have learned less at an earlier age? Would I just go on feeling the harmlessness of my actions?

After all, it's been a while since J. decked me, figuratively, (so that part is not really funny), and it's been even longer since I sat warm-blooded in the back of a police car! LMAO!

I guess time is a boundary that changes, that persuades and erodes the delicate balance of experience. And her? Well, I know she rocks, and she's a Superstar Sweetie but maybe she needs a good little talking to... a lesson in quandary dynamics?

for my NB sweetheart: a ray of sunshine and a lather of spit.

Sprinkling the anger from your shoulder-bladed gold. Queen?
What's happened before us would bring drones from a crowd
if a crowd or tiara were here. How naughty the swing of a weapon
and pulses of air: diamonds engaging the lollipop swords,
saliva held in esteem, as understood as the slate steps of a Country Club,
Held? A reception whose blades you've sown (as though grass
through the tip of a unicorns' horn), yet you've taken more than you need
and written liqueur and lipstick on the same napkin -- what mingling sense
does the meadow procure from another field,
another square on the scorecard? Oh, you've wished,
how those bouncing gods would fulfill their own intended wings,
buffeting pores, sweat glistening amid a mountainous haze.
Tomorrow, they say, the clouds won't form
the spattering torrent of cliché, of rubrical muse
and storms that send us towards the nape of a refuge
primping the flowers that seal your fate: an evening in white, annuals pulled
from the sides of an aisle, blooms that know every sequence equals the equation
of a sphere, of words like four plus three. Fives.
Tables full of billiard balls colliding for those unnumbered guests.
Destiny believing they couldn't arrive, and Milosz translating a cure
for the whimsy of golf and Earthly Delight,
"how lightly they walk", how constant "the hands that march in early morning"
as if wresting the soul and the "onset of an another world".
Risk, they say, is a provision of Hell, is a border that drops
like the slumber of a remembered child, a white line, a stake that leans
beneath the paint. Only here, where things like reflection and mascara persist,
where the radiant face of imagination spares us
from entering the hazardous bliss, we wait for our tee time.

*** -- a poem taken from the edge of the seventh hole, for KA in BURLINGTON!

mon ami Emese...

So we met while running for an early train that was whistling to leave.
She lives in a faraway land (city), she writes often, has a boyfriend
and a beautiful sense of knowing what I'm feeling. I'm not jealous of him
nor filled with the multitudes of envious incompletion...
because... she is listening, she waits for someone who is lost,
she says, "I am the marigolds' stem, inhabit me".

commentary...

Why is the world so bleak?

Of course not. Why am I so sad? Ha ha... isn't it humour that delegates hope?
I'm not so macro-emotional with my questions (macrocephalous maybe), and I don't see the need to comment on the whys and whines of any understanding. As far as I can tell there is no reason for that final appreciation and no order to the randomness of global remorse.

Do I comment on those seemingly greater things?

Maybe, sometimes it's just an observation and a way to avoid the inevitable plunge, the cold heart of oblivion. Right now what I need (besides her :) is some pics from my long-weekend-fantastic... perhaps you've read the post below, and didn't understand any of it?

A bientot mes amis!

THE new NORMAL? or a gift?

Just a catchphrase basin, ravine maybe? Frenzy
of water and remedial light... they think it's all
so relevant -flashes- humid skies swirling above oceans
warmed and wrinkled by a humane breeze. Anchors skulking
away, below the surface! I would never know the bombing
gods ("we trust") could feel so helpless,
so divine in the mirror of their Opposition?
I'm confused, an epochal pool, (not liquid perhaps),
though stagnant as a recent flood... what if they
crossed our shallow fateful river, would this theme
have never occurred before?

I'm not at all political. I'm not corrupt
or bemused with the role of the catchphrase medium.
I work in a garden, I plant trees near a vacant
shoreline yet I'm not imposing any special change in habits,
dreams, or irony either. I prefer less revokable modes,
like knowing the hours of a village library,
the striations of an oak branch stuck in a forested tree.
I know a quote loosely translated from a Milosz poem,
a (Gift), he would say, on which to end:

"There is nothing on earth I wish to possess.
There is no one who knows the worth of my envy.
Whatever evil I have suffered, I forgot. To think
that once I was the same man who didn't suffer
any embarrassment. In my body I felt no pain.
When straightened, I saw a blue sea and flagrant sails."