like a child overwhelmed
by the incense
flowers and devotion
emotion, wondering about
the marble’s cold gravity
the slabs of flowers
new fresh, but dead anyway
narrow paths to negotiate
barely under stood
bare under ground
bare souls torn apart
per se and from each other
to a person is
to a place
must not let the reel run out
must not let the celluloid fade
must not let it fa
must not le
a sentimental Polish romance film in a minor key
At 12, I walk
—ggage in tow
a faint trailing accent
heavy guilt of disconnectedness
something dear now far
I fear I no longer comprise
of the homogenous
a tourist brochure
like a child left to discover
the beauty of non-attachment
her heart never able
to recapture the moment
to attach self to past
citizen of all nations
member of none
from now until All Saints day is going to be an eternity of madness. here comes the science.
FRIDAY, 26 OCTOBER 2007
the SkyTrain party:
followed by Dubforms 5 done by the LIGHTA! crew), which is always a rocking all-nighter, with hot people, massive bass, and much dancing. ‘times.
SATURDAY, 27 OCTOBER 2007
Parade of the Lost Souls:
…followed by another all-nighter at Open Studios in the form of Deadbeats666 with world-class techno wizardry of Jeff Milligan AKA Algorithm:
SUNDAY, 28 OCTOBER 2007
sleep all day and all night and pick out outfit for…
MONDAY, 29 OCTOBER 2007
Dead Poet Slam @ Café Deux Soleils
I thought to myself, I know a bit of Prufrock thanks to Lauren, so I’ll get my tweed on and go as T.S. Eliot… until Barbara Adler said she’s going as him, so the quest for uniqueness continues. Erica Jong is not yet deceased, so that can’t work. Then, a flash:
You’d be surprised how many lesbians have never heard of their patron poet or of the adjective “sapphic”. Which is a shocker here, in Little Clitaly.
TUESDAY, 30 OCTOBER 2007
Zombies flash mob at Granville Island, 5pm to 6pm:
Now if i could only figure my way out of my various outfit crises:
…or this one:
And which outfit at which party?
too many belongings
to no one
not even myself
to no notions
not even nothing
to no nations
not even the mother/father land
to no one
i went to the theatre to see An Inconvenient Truth with someone who just doesn’t like Gore and his politics. she spent the entire movie huffing and puffing about him, totally ignoring the content. all the actual content of the movie was made irrelevant to her by her image of him as someone with a political agenda she didn’t like as a whole.
eventually i gave up on trying to convince her otherwise (even though she clearly couldn’t explain her irrationality away). but she made me think about what it must look like from her end, and what it would take to break through that to actually be able to communicate instead of taking up trench positions and sniping. suffice it to say, i think it would take some kind of paradigm shift in rhetoric that i’m not sure humans are capable of in their current state of enlightenment.
and the Nobel prize… i don’t think it is going to do anything more than make the choir even more moist in the loins about their fave preacher.
i fear to check out the flamewars on Fark about this topic. i actually want to get some work done today.
Around the corner, along the rough and tumble
cobblestone bike route,
a woman is pushed out of
the passenger door
of a Kenworth truck—
—so hard that she misses all the steps on the way down.
Her body slams the sidewalk with a hollow thump,
concrete on concrete.
The truck drives off in a huff,
the clanging of the rapidly-shifted gears
evoking the metallic taste of hunger.
Around the corner, a block down,
a little Asian girl is running down the street,
on a cellphone,
chased by two slightly older boys, her entourage.
Around the corner,
the meatiest of meat restaurants
shares a wall
with a most enlightened,
Around the corner, in a lengthy line at th’ deli
desperate throngs long
GOOD OLD DAYS OF EASTERN BLOCK FOOD STAMP FRENZY
WITH NOTHING IN THE BELLY
It’s their chance to take home
in a fancy bright orange bag
a chunk of mortadella,
(a fizzy 15% fruit juice beverage in a nostalgic bottle)
and a piece of bread resembling a flattened penis of a camel
or some other such mammal.
Around the corner, across the street,
warn each other sternly:
“hey, you betta watcha your house, huh!”
And crusty old men
at the passing lipstick lesbians.
Around the corner, downhill,
bend themselves over a splintered soapbox—
—and pour their heart out, trying to score.
(It’s tricky, but the break-neck quickie brings them over the edge each and every time.)
Around the corner, on the other side of the hill,
the best jug band in the world
plies the drowning Liquor Store patrons
with the creakiest licks of sorrow.
Around the corner from there,
in an alley,
a found note:
To the dude in need of a helmet,
I can’t seem to find one for you,
I guess they’re pretty scarce
what with the construction boom and all.
Also, Dick’s Lumber on Gilmore is hiring.
The note has a rough drawing of a cute lil pink helmet.
Around the corner from where I live,
a stylish woman in her 30s
emerges from an unkempt Vancouver Special,
yelling back at the occupants:
Thanks Joanna, some friend you are!
I’ll just go and see Chris, give him head.
Hopefully he’ll have some dope.
Around the corner, by the docks, seagulls mingle with cranes.