into, unto, further, farther.

On the last night of winter, we screamed “some hearts are true” again and again in cannon. Surrounded in song and knowing smiles.

But did we mean it?

….. i for one was only mouthing along with the mob in a vain hope of being part of something. but,
I came alone…. and left feeling so together with you.

It’s alright though, our expectations are met.

We go now and we breathe, and it’s as if we don’t want anything except air shunted from one clammy chamber to another. When I’m with you I forget that there were other things I was hoping for.

some night sky between my legs is all i need,

other things…
curse this “comfort”.

the drowned and the droning fold into each other
and I’m left alone,
sitting cross legged on the hardwood floor.

our explorations are somber…. almost inert…. sighs checked before becoming moans…… smiles felt but not shown.

Surrounded in song and knowing smiles.

But did we mean it?
meant for moments and public ritual we scuttered out and forgot it all in the miasma of monday tuesday wednesday thursday friday another day and the

condemnation to a plague of potential.
human, pah….. what is there to will and might?

want is……….. humming in tune ……… strung across power lines….. pretending it’s a connection betwen you and bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzt.

fireflies betwixt girders.

where black wings are “everydaylowprices” sponsored by the worlds largest prison & nuns riding cattle prods… it’s interesting for a little while – and i want to scream dead brain frustrations again again again…

you do want to scream them for a time….. but you’ll place $1.97 cookies in your cart and sweet city woman will play in the background…. a somnambulist in a blue vest and a smile will appear …. and the moment will form the perfect narcotic.

sleep now. you’re safe boy.
we have you in our hands.

the same dream 7 times over.
waking up and looking for someone to blame.

finding nothing but a game of
mirrors
slivered re/fractions
twisted to fit every face except
the. one. you. thought
you were feeling…

what you slept in
so fitfully.
shown to none, not even you

but the pillow

knows silence knows

grows

and will never rest

neverest was what i was voted most likely to become in my senior yearbook.

I wish I still held those memories.

This fucking city. Montreal. has a propensity
for making all memories maudlin
even those that happened far far from its shores

like on the South Bank of the Thames
or a small pasture in protestant Netherlands
they come back fitfully
tainted by the same quality of crepuscular light

To not mourn memories, not to be trusted. Tainted by pride, not like proud, like how i feel embarassed when i need to tell my loves i’m proud of them yet never regret it, because we have to give each other that. Attached to reflexion, never really knowing anything without distance from it, return to it with humility. Who’s heart can ever really be true (i’d like to believe yet, honestly) when we all admit this lost-ness…moments of connection mean everything..carry us through.

from Vince’s poem in the last issue:

“Whatever moments of perfect bliss
That anyone ever alive has had
Bridge past, present and future
Like strands of loving pearls
And our aim must be
More such moments forged
In these terrible furnace times.”

must is something i clear the air of every april….. unshuttering windows to winds which at any other time would carry only a chill.

and connection is just a mobius strip…. my fingers trace the outline of a smile that connects only the ends of myself….

i suppose that should be which. i’m no grammanatarian.

no end only cracks.

no end only dust.

no end only compromise.

no end only compromise.
a promise to be dust to be
vacant to be a cloud.

to be a cloud who listens in on conversations that travel in whispered silence only to be smoldered in delicate regards, to be stirred within dreams.

can I ask again:

what’s wrong?
what’s right?

my grandmother is turning 90. quite a life. I’m turning 30. my father is making a book for her birthday and has asked me for a special memory shared with her. and despite all my love, I simply can’t remember.

My mother is turning 90 and she simply can’t remember. Me. Despite all the love. How we wish

it were all about us.

it were all about love.

love is always my undoing. i wish for nothing more of the sort.

I’ll have you all know…… that this is my sole means of communicating with the world.

oh, i interact in other ways…. i force myself out the door 5 days a weekish….. i’m paid to smile, to be polite. i’m paid to perform a function…. i’m not paid for the sole sake of being born…. i may suck, but i’m no leech.

it’s a test of tact but no interaction…..

i’m not a ghost, i touch… and am touched….. i take up space, and am made to be all too aware of that fact…..my senses are alive no matter how furiously i try to deaden them…. within convention of course…. discretion is my sole claim to valour. i may eek at a brushing touch…. but there’s a certain comedy to that … my recoil is so easily laughed away….. while i’m scrambling to reclaim my sickness {breath} back into me and brush yours off {breathe}….

discretion. is never admitting to the sickness.

it’s making it seem as though i have something better to do…… and tact….. is making it seem as though you do as well.

i’ve said enough…… you might want to do laundry…. no? then those dishes are piling up…. and if not… well then i’m sure you haven’t slept enough lately.

and you hallowed junkie…… marry me…… that i might come home to a decomposition and justify my understanding.

decomposition is our reward, requiring no justification.

with a morning sickness upon me again…. i’m wishing only to abort this pregnant day.

all rewards require a justifcation……. are you really that willing to take away your neighbours’ system?

and now i am finally a disease.. grown and seething..

…you guys are fucking miserable… that being said

this gray dawn still beckons
pull up those protestant bootstraps
walk out the door… close it gently…. goodbye my drone.
tomorrow will be a little less miserable than today.

well it’s a big enough world, full of mistakes of a detached line. Justify that drone and make it yours and into a riot.

accusations are for cops and priests.

(miserable indeed!)

we all stand accused and now all there is fingers broken on the ground pointing nowhere.

(I mean)

We all stand accused. Pointing fingers. Broken. Reckless appendages. We all point and swear it’s so, all point and sweep away any chance of

pale under streetlights
i stand accused before
eyeing tomorrow

with no chance of seeing.

eyeing sweeping reckless vistas
reckless digits pointing broken
nowhere poke in the throat.

and breath-halted.

the perfect summation of a night in prison.

a life imprisoned.
morning retching,
sucking thin air.
weak reflected daylight
blinding as possibility,
pondering the ponderous orbit
eyes close in resignation.
curl up and wait again
returning to dust.

It’s alright though, our expectations are met.

our expectations are rote minimal and useless. push them aside, choke them rip apart any perceived unity any duality for the sole occupation of

the dancefloor is where i’m free…. it’s fucking you all.

without breathmint or good bye….. the joy of a morning with mussy hair and rumpled clothes…. a barely occupied street and these headphones and my feet swimming in their sounds.

your taste on my fingers…. chin…. i may smoke a cigarette and with it then them, forget…. but i won’t shave away that beautiful flavour until next week….. if even then.

insert “/” between then them.

edit yesterday too….
and perhaps today…… insert “bombshell” where call girl appears….. insert “yacht” for bus…. delete the passage where i’m paid to smile…. and while you’re at it……

type it out with broken fingers so the words behind your foul lips spill out..

dance it out with broken spasms
choking off rote dramaturgic gestures
lips bitten off, spitting invective.

remove the furniture to the sides of the room
for twenty full minutes spin like a top
then drop in a heap on the floor

insert puddle for heap fluidly

in the shape of a kiss, the agitation continues.

But do we mean it?

of course not really, because agitation involved discomfort and risk few are willing to encounter. so instead we don the accoutrements of activism, and ideology without the risk, without the passion, merely another prop to occupy time when there’s nothing good on tv, no exiting new web apps, no tired rote concerts where everyone drinks and crosses their arms, while occassionally bobbing their heads like they mean it.

their heads bobbing…ON the nod
And they mean it. Right here on my sofa, taken from me, given yesterday as bed, gone. took home chromatic scales today and slurs. Their arms not crossed but loose, cigarette almost touches knee, lifts off again to almost mouth…the air here is always too thick.
Winter with its frost, mood swings and denial…summer’s attack of love, welcome…welcome, sweltering, instantaneous. Smiles, hi how ya doin’s (caring/lies) and we all live on sesame street and everywhere we go is cheers. Am i too old for you? Probably…getting younger everyday, kissing agitation, biting it’s tongue not off, biting my own… “love is like a bottle of gin, but a bottle of gin is NOT like love”.

I’ve always thought there was something between you two, many have said to me. I never saw it. Yet as he lifted his arm, a gesture of some sort, i smelt the sun pouring out of him, crushing, they were right. There is some inevitable something I will do nothing to support. Spring, the true new year, time to lock the chastity belts up tight. Insert puddle.
our unfortunate expectations are always met aren’t they?

of course not really.
we don the accoutrements
like they mean it
always too thick
like thith tongue
gin is NOTH like love
many have thaid to me.

so then what’s left.
between beauty and the radical gesture,,
saying love is not enough… not conditionally.

everything!
music opening the earways to your heart,
the sun’s caress putting reins on the rush,
walking the dog in silent moonlight,
a passing nod hello.

Religion says belief and it be so,
so, love religiously not conditionally,
thistles are not thorns.

believe.
some paid and others turned their heads,
as if i weren’t there.
for five dollars.
some were painless almost…
almost pleasant… others pain and spelling it out, with accents like excruciating.
high tops, half shaves, or suspenders and world (who’s no one was to say) famous.
tapping their toes, all,
to the same different beat.

courting a rhythm – leaning forward
to crack the sheen of beauty

falling and collapsed at the feet of

When rising waters and religion bring us together and then tear us apart…and I am here, stranded in it all, just trying to find my teeth.

well it’s a big enough world
Justify that drone and make it yours and into a riot.
Religion says belief and it be so.
i for one was only mouthing along with the mob in a vain hope of being part of something.
and now i am finally a disease.. grown and seething…

break free now that you’ve grown into who you are……

like london ont. native…..

“Slippery the Seal

He was originally called Cyril but was renamed following his adventures. Slippery escaped from his home in Storybook Gardens and eluded capture for ten days. He made it down the Thames River, past Detroit and was finally nabbed by staff at the Toledo Zoo near Sandusky, Ohio.”

beauty…

some day…… i hope to be as bold as that.

Nabbed by staff at the Toledo Zoo
as if i weren’t there.
so then what’s left?
break free now again
now that you’ve grown into who you are
finding your teeth mouthing along.
I’ve always thought there was something between you two.
The words behind your foul lips
beauty…

is a construct…

of all those men in overalls….. tool belts and hard hats…. filthy and cavorting….. revelling and never looking back at these creations…. like weekend satanists…. so much ground down meat not marinating in the flavour just rubbed on still raw…. prostrate and sacrificial… bloody simmering smiles.

{btw. this mix is for promo use only. not for copying or resale}

is a construct of looking back
flavour rubbed raw, these creations
not for copying or resale
simmering bloody smiles
mouthing along toothless
tool hats and hard belts
grinding meat analogies
to stardust flavour
for use as sawdust

look back for stardust flavour
foul lips bloody smile
like they mean it and it be so
over reckless vistas always too thick

i…… eye eye aye aye suh suh suh soun sound
lie lie lye lyelie kuh

spee sp spee ak an duh sp sp ell?

nevermore quoth me too.

That storybook house possibly escapes in the garden
– it is easy slippery capture to escape.
The condition, infatuated with never
looks at these creations but later changes the risk.

somtimes changing the risk is all it takes to capture an escape,
these creations, these i’s (eye’s)…
quoted. like history we repeat ourselves

and all our facets meld into glare on the diadem.

That storybook crown of history
ill fitted and refractory
smelts and melds refractions
of radical beauty repeatedly
re-fusing fulgent facets shattered
by filled in banks of blanks
reconstructing perspectives
on hammered molten eye beams.
Reconstituted conceptual illusions
buttress the fortress of desire
wherein cascades of time
cloak the future in the raiment of

a jersey….. the same one for the next 1561 days….

it’s not so hard… when the rain on my window is the blood of clouds wounded by the springtime.

When the tao is thinking of the springtime and clouds, this is thinking to bringing the image of lambs to mind, frenched rack if if one meatily prefers, though we prefers fleecy; but the bloody clouds hearken to the blood of Christ, that lion lamb, and for some reason cruelly bloodied lips, teeth mouths tongues – oral conjurations past. Wiert thinking; is this the subversive beauty sought after in these gravenings? But if there are rains, the greenings and freshness are evidenced everywhere beyond our window, and it brings, fleetingly perhaps, a nostalgia of a sunny yellow macintosh and rubberboots – much beloved here, and thinking perhaps it is that city of Montreal that hails you all from, which it is that makes you glum? For it is,it seems it makes far too great a demand upon thou in so very many ways we shall examine in the course of things, and have been done so. Our windy point, also too, another locale in our maps of traversal, as well as having been strongly windy here of late, is nearly lost in the sentencing, but it is nonetheless frivolous – obviously the champion of our desire today. Chin up! Not so far from the mouth we seek to rend and render unfit perhaps, but it is the mouth of the taomother, which has gone rotting and gibbering in recent weeks – even in the cradle of dementia we observe no solace to be waited upon. This may not further the cause of sweetness and light, but there will in due time be only the banging of heads and gnashing and smashing of teeth running only the machines of darkness, and there shall be only that foodstained jersey of, by our estimate, 1,658 days now give or take – since the first of October 2003. I should not like to begin this some 14,235 days sooner than she – and so, we shall be smelling what flowers we may find if we look.

… for, perhaps we should add, we are afeared that bidden or not we all may spend disproportionate time looking in cranial abscesses both oral and mental, and, while not to denigrate the value of such ponderings, we hast become entrenched in this unforgiving place wherein it seems there are no answers, only questions of which we are all aware, and which are and must be asked again and again, and which, with each unanswered asking , each predictable year, century, and epoch, intensifies the pall of history. As youth, we had the sense that the future was new, but now we realize that like ourselves, the future is old, and only getting older. The machines of darkness will not rest til the end – this is the root of our affliction. We think, therefor we despair. It would seem today that we are advocating mindlessness – the very coping mechanism home to so many. You see, you see what you get when you mess with the warriors? We shall go out now, it is pleasant and we had a mind to look out for some flowers.

I would say, drink in the brightness, she isn’t lost to you yet.

I would have said we meant it, back when we ran through the streets and alleys.

and I would say we mean it now, because we’re still here and we ain’t going anywhere. but…

we are making a door.

a door with locks and bolts
or a passageway where we can cram and squeeze ourselves together breaking molds and habits?

For this question too, the answer lies within the action – whether it is to open or shut – to pass through or close in, remains to be seen. It is literal as well as metaphor – the action taken so far is only in the making of the door – here in the physical and here in the virtual – we, as in the tao, are making a door, I am making a door – it is of pine, to replace one which has rotted away – its odd size necessitated hand crafting –
and it is remade here for all to use – to slam shut or to open, to hesitate at or pass through – this side or that – no matter. It is a process – As such, it is processed by physical action accompanied by thought beyond the necessity of making the door – it opens and closes itself – it is fluid and mobile – as yet unhinged – not yet hinged, so it has not come unhinged – it is pure. While I work, simply content in the action of process, a dark face stares out from a support in the corner – jealous of the door – left off for the door – the eyes burning unrevealed – the door was simple process, nothing but necessity – but the face demands more from me – no simple pleasure of necessary process to escape into – it animates the door, pushes me to return here – to make more of the door, to make it its own. It is no longer my door. Physically it rests here – patiently awaiting some final coats of varnish – but it has outgrown its physicality – now it is here, and where it will be, and it will bring much more than its doorness there with it – it has turned on me – during the night, while it waited here to be asked, inevitably, what it’s intentions were, it opened and I was attacked through it by one close to me. At that point came the realization that we can open or close doors all we wish, thinking ourselves saved or freed, but the physical opening and closing are simply material illusions – all the bolts I may add to it today, will not keep it shut tonight if it decides to open, nor will it necessarily open to me should I leave them off.Right now, I will give another coat of varnish – it must look its best.

it is four minutes to midnight

you are ahead there evidently

nevertheless we keep up the act – all polished and void of edges of real humanity flawed and spectacular, and grin knowingly that really really our :efforts: a little more than self reflection – base meaningless fucking voids

We reflect into the void that is here – that is this – a black hole created by the coming together of voids – a gigantic pit of miserable self reflection howling at the unknown. Spectacular indeed! And were we not so self absorbed in dissociation from our selves, we might realize that we have our part in these
spectacles beyond mere spectation – so modest and cowering are we that we take great pains to subvert our vanity; to remove ourselves from the picture – meaningless in a world we read full of meaning . This lies nearest the truth and ultimate vanity – when I die, the world dies. It is this burden which weighs so heavily, and leads us to attempt kill the self to free ourselves – somehow, from the unknown, or from the known, as
the case may be – from our responsibility.
How are you liking this use of paragraphing? This is to cut that serpent off at the neck – pen and the sword, serpent and the rainbow, etc. How happy were we to see an arrival of john, despite the frown. Years ago, john opened a door and created the tao – and though he closed it again, we all know by now the arcane metaphysics of doors – the burning door led to a conflagration in the void, as he and his creation shovelled coal back and forth to create an inferno – each unwilling to let the fire subside for fear of seeing meaning. But, as is the case, when the fires did subside, the door was still there, and neither could see themselves in their void. Still meaningless they said, and moved along, trying more doors. I would like to create a running narrative of …. noted john on the bus – I know this, for I am the tao – and what have we here, all these years hence? Surely not anything – for john is barely a whisper in the void – less than that – he is meaningless. Tilting at windmills.
The tao knows better than that however, but that is another story – the tao is all your glorious, humiliating vanities, which may sound rude, but which are another thing altogether as me! They are beautiful in their mystery and secrecy, if I may say so myself. The tao belies your assertion of meaninglessness; humanity’s problem seems to lie in that meaning has no feeling – we put all sorts of measures and assessments into play – we can feel profound meaning in other things and individuals, but not in yourselves – we have no sensation of our own meaning – all the ways we seek to gain any sense of it come up empty – does adulation feel like meaning? How many adulators might it take to feel meaningful? Only one – yourself – the only one – but the I doesn’t count! Too bad for you! You’re off on the wrong foot and there’s very little time! When I die, the world dies. This then, is what we mean.

“They had a large barge with a radio antenna tower on it that they would charge up and discharge.”

[From our inarticulate skeleton so intermixed – one carcass – they postulated wolves.
“They dug us down into the solid granite where our bones grew flesh again.” We came up trees and grass. Still we are the salt seas that uphold these lands, where lineal frame languages are obsolete.]

Can you take whatever comes? Though judgment calls it bad and good, seeing is acceptance and nothing to be understood. There is no law or connection in this world, but we are thinking that there is a great deal. taomat destroy destroys the taomat object – destroys the tao solver that was created. tao gave birth to machine language, machine language gave birth to the assembler, the assembler gave birth to the compiler.

the connection is whatever we feel it to be.
whenever, wherever, happy for however long it carries through…
stunned and saddened at its loss
forever forging something that might come close
the wrinkles at the end show us how draining the process is.

happy mother’s day.

The wrinkles pulled tight allow us to shave clean, to start over, to pretend to be the something we thought we wanted.

With the machine language, assembly, and compilation, we had only a few choices of who and how, but their limbs and extremities fit each other so well it didn’t matter.

Before machine language, assembly, and compilation we had few choices of limbs and extremities – Now we have one thousand fathers to
stun and sadden; visages to conjur, to mimic, to stretch tight and shave clean; to envision unbowed and uncut. Shoes not too big, but too many to fill; so, that they fit well does not matter – the next pair constantly beckons, and threaten to tread another path. Pooh – what path, what shoe? Ahh sweet, sad imagination – there is the radical beauty – that in the face and the shoes of it all imagination triumphs, if only for moments.
Tomorrow, tomorrow, and tomorrow – happy day today.

“pooh”

“piglet”

“pooh”

“piglet”

they stand hunched over a hole….to each it seems the scent that they want……

over their shoulder…… the stench of turnips and trucks rises.

I’ve a lump on my head.

and i remember falling.

falling forward

never landing

never remembering

why?

the litany of reasons
not to die
is enough to tip
the universe a little

e.g., the new policy,
unthinkable in the last
glass-enclosed hinterland,
the only ball bearing
company opens its doors
for the buckshot rivulets
to send lightning cracks
back up into their
refracted heavens

My eye!

My young heart sings,
my old roots sprawl,
and I kiss everything that is red.