Category Archives: Journal

TALL MAN, WILD MAN, OUR MAN DAVE GREGG

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A towering presence in more ways than one, a true rara avis, I had the great privilege of knowing Dave Gregg since our punk rock heyday, when he presided over Fort Gore and played in Private School then DOA and the Real McKenzies. He became close to me and my family through my best friend Cathy after they hooked up. Cathy is my son’s godmother and Dave was like an uncle, an exceptionally jolly uncle and a wonderful role model with his indefatigable exuberance and generousity. Cathy’s an equally extraordinary individual and she and Dave complemented one another. They revelled in a symbiotic relationship, partners in business, life and love. The pair travelled extensively and we always looked forward to meeting up with them for a vacation or whenever they landed in Vancouver. I hold close fond, precious memories; celebrating my birthday on Molokai, kids indulged with kayaking and horseback riding, sleeping in tenatlows on the beach. During a momentous holiday gathering in Whistler, much to our delight and amazement, Dave and Cathy bestowed us all with commemorative white terry robes. One year it was cabins in Waimea Canyon on Kauai, grilling tuna steaks and mahi mahi for Christmas dinner on the Na Pali coast.  We shared many good times and bad jokes over countless meals together.

Three weeks after his departure I am only now beginning to navigate the void, assimilate the sorrow. The loss. He meant so much to us all. Yes, Dave was a consummate musician, a great showman, and a wild man who was as free as a man can be in this world. As bitingly observant and wickedly funny as he was, I never heard Dave diss anyone.  Truly benevolent, I’m certain the man didn’t have a malicious bone in his body, as they say.

Here is a poem that as I told Cathy, couldn’t bear to write in past tense. Dave will always loom tall in our home, hearts and minds.

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ROCK STAR

Head of fur.

Unabashed depth charger

Renegade

As a cascading river

Wilderness alive inside him

Night a badge

Over savannah heart.

Heroic trickster

Dutifully howls,

Coyote-like scatters stars

Unerringly sharing his light.

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Cat fight at the Clash show…”The Town Slut’s Daughter” forthcoming novel excerpt

Does he do this she wondered? Conjure up last night, the things we did, feel an after-shudder? Waiting to see Emmett Hayes, was . . . agony! Fiona couldn’t eat. Think straight. Gawd I hate this! Half an hour late. Again. She diddled her guitar, scanned a book, traipsed back and forth to the fridge, swinging wildly between anger and anxiety. Why doesn’t he call? That dink! She could have gone with Rita and Shannon. She could have spent her hard earned cash on something besides a new silk bra and panties. That bastard. Then, still cursing, Fiona heard his obnoxious Porsche engine out front and relief coursed through her limbs. She barely resisted the urge to run to the car.

“Sorry I’m late,” he mouthed, the Clash’s “I Fought the Law” blasting from his Blaupaunkts. “Did you hear? The Clash came out and played soccer with us!”

“Yeah! Who won?”

“They did, of course. My shins are covered in bruises.”

Emmett yarded on the gears pinball wizard style. Soon they were pelted with fat raindrops. He pulled over immediately to put the top up. They cruised the block repeatedly in search of the safest parking spot for his precious steed of steel. At last they entered the fading art-deco grandeur of the Commodore Ballroom, Emmett waving tickets at the doorman, breezing by security like a diplomat. Christ. He must have been left under a cabbage by mistake. Emmett surveyed the room, refusing Fiona’s hand.

“Fuck! Look at all the poseurs.”

Fiona spied Dennis across the room, stomach tilting at the reproach in his face. A young woman in a booth flanking the stage sat sneering.

“Emmett, who’s that girl glaring at us?”

He ignored the question, wandered off, Fiona following.

The Clash had an excellent DJ spinning a killer mix of ska, punk, reggae and dub. Fiona waved to Shannon and friends. The place was jammed with every die-hard in the city, slam dancing on its famous ballroom floor, originally designed to make any clodhopper hoof it like Fred Astaire. The Commodore had character all right and it was the perfect size. Fiona hated arena shows. The Dishrags opened. It was inspiring to watch fellow females wailing on guitar. They finished with a blazing rendition of “London’s Burning”. Next up, Bo Diddley. Emmett said the Clash brought the old guy along as a way to pay homage to one of rock and roll’s originators. Fiona shrugged.

“I’m too young for nostalgia.”

Unfortunately, the Powder Blues were his pickup band, old fart-guitar god wannabes and though playing with a legend, forced everyone to sit through a long, boring wank session.

“Fuck this. I wanna see the Clash!” Fiona was not alone in her sentiments.

Shannon walked over and pulled her aside. “See that girl? That’s Electra. One of Emmett’s girlfriends. He told her he was bringing her tonight.”

“Electra! Sounds like an Italian scooter.”

“She’s weird. Really mad, says she’s gonna beat the crap out of you.”

Laughing, they walked over to Emmett. He lowered his drink, deigned to look at them, insisting he hadn’t invited anyone but Fiona. Clouds of tension were gathering on the dance floor as well, burly security guards manning the barriers. Finally, the Clash emerged, a tidal wave of bodies surging forward, the band opening with “I’m So Bored With the U.S.A.”, Emmett off the hook. For now.

Beer. You only rent it. Fiona ran to the bathroom between songs, in and out of a stall quickly. Electra appeared, strutted over and squinted up into Fiona’s face like a Pekinese.

“Hey bitch! Keep your paws off Emmett or I will kill you.”

Looking around, Fiona laughed. “Where’s the hidden camera? Hey, Eeeelectraaaa. I think you’d better stay away from Emmett.”

“Wanna fight about it?”

“Hah! I could squish you like a bug. Fuck off! This ain’t junior high, you know.”

What Electra lacked in size, she made up for in attitude, fueled by four-inch stilettos, garters, fishnets, black leather mini skirt, all of which had nothing to do with punk and everything to do with Emmett.

Electra spit at her. Missing her target—Fiona’s face—the gob splatted onto her clavicle. Fiona looked down. Nearly blind with fury, she handily hoisted Electra up by the lapels. Shannon barged in. Fiona slammed Electra into the wall, back of her head banging the paper towel dispenser. Electra yelped.

“You bitch. You fucking whore!”

Shannon grabbed Fiona by the arm. They walked out dogged by the undaunted Lilliputian. Fiona barreled over to Emmett.

“What were you thinking?”

“I told you! I didn’t ask her. She just assumed.”

Wee Electra was at the bar again, glowering.

“Get lost, you skanky broad!” Emmett hollered at her.

Snotty pose pierced like a balloon, Electra flumped away, people laughing in her wake.

“God Emmett you’re an asshole!”

“Hey, I brought you. What do you care?”

“I care because it’s the same way you treat me. Like shit!”

“Fuck this!” He walked away in a huff.

Fuck this all right! Fighting tears, determined to revel in this night to remember, Fiona formed two fists and shoved her way through the crowd, jabbing, elbowing, bashing. She glanced back. Emmett gone. Naturally. Though the faces on the floor were familiar, the horde formed one huge alien, reeking of stewed leather and body heat, Clash so loud they cloaked the clamor of thumping heart, roaring blood. Fiona was rammed. Hard. She heard the wind go out of her lungs, body boxed about as if by bulls. She slipped, nearly going down, floored by the vision of her fractured skull ground into the boards by dozens of tightly laced combat boots. I am too black in the heart to fall! She carved a line out of the crush to the foot of the stage, stared up at Simonon. He was perfect—angled cheekbones, mouth gaping open like a Lego-focused kid, long, lean muscles. An art student apparently, before hitching up with the Clash, couldn’t play a note till Mick Jones taught him. Like John Lennon. Must be a British thing, that link between art school and rock. So why did I let Trent talk me out of art school? Oh my God. Simonon! He’s looking right at me! Got a girlfriend, according to Shannon, some tart who writes for NME. Strummer strained against his Telly, snaking the mic stand with his body. Tossing his guitar onto his back, he leaned over the crowd, ranting, railing. Loose-kneed Mick Jones was running, leaping, boinging all over the stage, carving out notes with an axe, his golden Gibson Les Paul. Goofy booster Dennis vaulted onto the stage during “Career Opportunities”, ricocheting off amps and various Clash members, security goons giving Keystone Cops chase. Strummer even let Dennis commandeer the mic and bray out the chorus with him, Fiona feeling a twinge of envy.

Several encores later, Shannon and Rita caught up with her, the usual confusion about the party location ensuing. Fiona felt a tap on her shoulder, turned around to Emmett, eyes trained on the floor.

“Wanna go to the party?”

“Not with you.”

He threw his bead back, looked up at the ceiling. “Kee-rist! Get over it will you?”

“Where’s Eellectraaa?” Fiona couldn’t say it with a straight face. “Emmett and Electra. Electra and Emmett. Has a nice ring, don’t you think?”

“Look, are you coming or not?”

“Oh, alright.”

Rita couldn’t disguise her disdain.

Shannon watched as Emmett tried to open the car door. “You’re drunk,” she said.

“Hey, I’m the best drunk driver in the world. Just kidding! I’m not drunk.”

“I’ll be fine.” Fiona waved at Shannon and Rita. “I’ll see you at the party.”

Emmett handles his car the way he handles everybody she thought, knowing exactly when to switch gears, drop the hammer, brake. As in broken.

No stars. No moon. They stopped at a light, Fiona watching a man buy a bouquet of roses at a Chinese grocery. I wonder who they’re for? Lucky girl. Or guy.

“Hey, do you know where the word ‘anathema’ comes from?”

“No, but you’re gonna tell me, aren’t you?”

“Aren’t you interested?”

“No. But I am interested in history, theology, philosophy.”

“This is beyond theology. It’s goddess worship. God was a woman two thousand years ago.”

“Pagan.”

“You say it like it’s a bad thing.”

“I think you’ve been hanging out with that bull dyke drummer too much.”

“Hey! Rita’s my friend, you know.” Fiona turned to glare at him. “Anatha was the goddess the Canaanites worshipped, the fierce, bloodthirsty goddess of fertility. Of course Zeus banished her. Anathema’s the only sign she ever existed. Ever since, God has replaced the Goddess, and thousands of women have been accused of witchcraft, burned at the stake, etc.”

“According to who?”

“Whom. Forget it. You’ve never heard of them. All you read is porno magazines.”

“That’s not true!”

“Oh yeah. I forgot. Henry Miller. Misogynistic crap.”

Emmett clenched his fists round the steering wheel. “I read Nietzsche. Ellison. Phillip K. Dick. Kurt Vonnegut. William Burroughs.”

“Oh yeah. The junkie that murdered his wife in Mexico.”

“It was an accident.”

“Like their marriage? Playing William Tell with pistols. Brilliant.”

“You’re such a bitch.”

“You say it like it’s a bad thing.”

Emmett set his jaw.

Fiona sighed. “As far as I’m concerned any woman worth her salt has to be a bitch sometimes. What’s the corresponding male term for bitch anyway? Guess what? There isn’t one! The closest might be asshole, which is a perfectly acceptable thing for a man to be. It means he’s self-assured, determined. A man can bitch all he wants. A woman asserts an opinion and she’s an evil hag. Not a nice girl.”

He accelerated. “You have me confused with someone who gives a shit.”

Engine roaring, Emmett pulled out to pass a little green MG, Fiona’s head jerking back, hands flying to the dash. The MG sped up. “Now that’s an asshole,” muttered Emmett, overtaking the car.

“Yeah, Emmett. Why should you care? You’re in the driver’s seat.”

“And you’re not. That’s no accident.”

“You can’t stand that I have a brain! That I might wanna do more with my life than suck your cock.”

Emmett slammed on the brakes. “You think you’re gonna bust my balls!”

Crash-test-dummy flung forward, Fiona’s head met the windshield with a loud *THUD*. She saw stars. The moon. The sun.

“Talk about assholes!” A warm, sluggish rivulet of blood trickled toward her eye.

Emmett sat dumbfounded, mouth open, loose as a cornhole. Fiona heaved herself up and out of the Porsche.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” she screamed, guts churning. “I’ll kill you!”

She delivered a mighty boot to the car door instead, turned and bolted, blundering along a row of cars, blindly seeking the sidewalk, cold air whirling around the base of her spine.

Emmett pulled up. “Get in.”

“I don’t think so!”

“Come on, Fiona!” His voice strained containing fury. “I’m sorry. I’m not even gonna get out and look at the damage.”

“No! You’re not sorry. Any kindness from you is just a fluke, as random as all the cruelty and bullshit. We are not going anywhere!”

Lips curdling, Emmett shouted, “Fine!” gunned it and sped off.

Boy, I really know how to pick ‘em. Where the fuck am I? Broadway and Main. Mt Pleasant. Yeah, right. Shit! Fiona couldn’t remember the address of the party. She wiped her eyes, slinging tears to the rain. Who can I call? Stumbling along Main St, Fiona trained her eyes on the North Shore Mountains, deep blue even at night. Nothing open. Fucking hick town! She spied a head full of pink foam curlers in a picture window, in an apartment above a shoe store, wondering what it must be like to live above a shoe store. A woman on a couch. Maybe some guy stood her up. Fiona sighed. If only. She saw lights on in a restaurant across the street. Yes! A Ukrainian restaurant. Hah! She peeked in to see the staff sitting at a table. Face smeared with blood and mascara, Fiona entered. She hated to ask.

“May I use your phone please?”

A hulking, meaty fellow and the cook, a large seasoned woman, frowned. His mother? She reminded Fiona of Grandma Koretchuck. They must think I’m crazy. I must look crazy.

“We’re closed.”

“It’s local.”

The cook shot Junior a No through narrowed eyes. They argued in Ukrainian. He grunted, rose and led Fiona to a red phone on the bar.

“Thank you!”

They sat in their white uniforms staring as she dialed home. Yeah, better watch out. I might steal something or run you through with a butcher knife. No answer. Everybody’s at the party! Having fun. With the Clash! She considered calling Rory. Forget it. She goes to bed with the chickens. God, this place stinks. Trying to make it look fancy but what’s fancy about peasant food? Fiona recalled Grandma Koretchuk, always miffed that her daughter-in-law, the French Mick Jeanette, cooked better cabbage rolls than she did. Of course, her mother’s were weird. They weren’t bland, greasy little green turds stuffed with sticky rice. Jeanette improvised, using an entire cabbage leaf for a single roll, roasting them under a pork rind with tomato sauce. Yum. God, I’m starving!

“What do you put in your perogies?”

The old woman stared blankly. Fiona felt like saying, take your precious perogies and your precious red phone and stuff ‘em up your big bohunk ass, lady. Bohunk. Jeanette loved calling her father a “bohunk.” And he called her “frog” or “pea souper.” What a pair! Nice family. No wonder I’m so fucked up.

She walked out and down the street, passing a derelict dance studio, a deli with checkerboard tiles beneath a shiny, paper machè bull’s head, snout painted on. Oh well, it’s closed too. She stopped at a crosswalk. What a fucked up neighborhood. No one around. What am I gonna do? Fiona found a one-dollar bill in the pocket of her jeans and a diner open. Relieved, she sat at the counter and tried to figure out her next move, ordered coffee. A pockmarked, mocha skinned man with a black eye sat fondling a young woman. Dying for a cigarette, Fiona moved over into his smoke. The man grinned and offered her one, flashing rings on nearly every finger.

“What’s your name young lady?”

“Fiona.” Shit. I should have lied.

“Hello. Perry Kashkouli.” Perry was Persian, neglected to introduce his girlfriend, who was gone anyhow, swaying, nodding off, lit cigarette in one hand, pretending to read the menu.

“So what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

“Are you serious?” Fiona realized he was as serious as the audaciously wide lapels and gold medallions gracing his furry chest. “How’d you get the shiner?”

Perry brightened. “Why, defending the honor of a damsel in distress.”

“That one?” Fiona pointed to the girl about to fall off her stool.

“Oh, she’s just taking a break. She’s a good girl. So what’s the lovely maiden doing out all by herself?”

“Oh, just taking a stroll.” Fiona leaned over an ashtray and wrung the rain out of her hair. The matronly waitress came over and topped her up. “Where’s Victoria Ave from here?” asked Fiona.

“East. About 20 blocks.”

“Can I walk it?”

“I don’t know.” The waitress sighed and set the coffee pot down. “Can you?”

“Hey. We’re leaving,” said Perry, rising, smiling. “We can drop you.”

“Ah, no thanks. I’m fine.”

“No, really. It’s no trouble at all. I insist.”

“Leave her alone, Perry,” said the waitress sternly.

He smiled and bowed, handing Fiona a business card. Shangri-La Escorts. The waitress snatched his bill off the counter and motioned him to the till.

“Call me anytime,” said Perry. “I’m always hiring.” He gathered up his mohair coat, the girl.

“Here,” said the waitress, grabbing a handful of change out of the tip jar. “Go over there across the street, catch a 25 to Kingsway, then transfer to the 20 Victoria.”

Fiona read her nametag. “Thanks Joyce!”

“I’ve got a daughter your age. At home, where she belongs.”

Fiona paced for twenty minutes, happy not to be in a car with that pimp and his junkie whore. And thank God for weary old waitresses. She was relieved finding everyone out when she finally arrived at the house, cold and black as a cave. Icing her bump, Fiona huddled in a blanket in front of the TV wondering why she took shit from anyone anymore.

2013 VISIBLE VERSE FESTIVAL-Advancing kinetic poetry since 1999

Alright! I still reside within a whirlwind but the mania has ebbed enough that I am finally able to report on this year’s Visible Verse festival; unpacking but most of the boxes are gone. I worried that I wouldn’t pull it off in the middle of moving house but apparently I did, according to the feedback. “Magnificently curated” and “best one yet” typical of the response.

Well, I better know what I’m doing after 14 years. And I can’t believe it’s been that long! Visible Verse started out as the Vancouver Videopoem Festival and a program of the Edgewise ElectroLit Centre way back in 1999, our first outing at Video In, now known as VIVO. We moved to Pacific Cinematheque the next year and begot Visible Verse as the Edgewise ElectroLit Centre expired in 2002. Videopoetry and poetry film festivals and sites continue to pop up all over the world. In addition to the esteemed Zebra Poetry Film Festival in Berlin and Video Bardo in Buenos Aires, the Filmpoem Festival and Liberated Words have recently emerged in the UK, along with Ó Bhéal International Poetry-Film Competition in Ireland, Motionpoems in Minneapolis, Cyclops Poetry Film Festival in Kiev, Ukraine and the Body Electric Poetry Film Festival in Fort Collins, Colorado. Visible Verse is proud to maintain our position as North America’s sustaining venue for artistically significant videopoetry and film.

Organizing the festival is a painstaking process which involves previewing over 200 entries. Thus, the cull begins. We always get heaps of experimental film and many submissions that are too long. I can’t understand why people take the time to submit their work but not to read the guidelines, because it’s obviously a waste of time, for everyone. And money, if we charged an entry fee.

We’re populist and strive for inclusiveness but the work must must meet the criteria, a wedding of word and image, in essence. Innovation, authenticity and a strong voice are more vital than a big budget. Treatments run the gamut and videopoems are as diverse as the poets that create them. Every year we are in danger of getting bogged down in semantics and a long discussion of “What is a videopoem”? Doesn’t “videopoem” say it all? Seems pretty clear to me but hey, I’m no expert, nor arbiter. I just know what I like and always reply, when asked to define the term “videopoem,” that I know one when I see one. I could theorize ad nauseum but simply don’t have the luxury or time. Another question that came up; is it possible to convey a narrative through images alone? I think it’s difficult but certainly within the realm of possibility, though again, may or may not constitute a videopoem or poetry film.

The selection process involves more viewing to the point where I’m familiar with each selection. Only then can I program the programme. Bearing in mind the tone, theme and length of each videopoem, I put them in order, the most critical part of the process. With the festival’s growth it’s becoming more difficult to include everything that I would like, so, I agonize and make some very tough decisions.

The 2013 programme included national and international poets and artists  including Shane Koyzan, Kathryn MacLean, Taien Ng-Chan, CR Avery, Kirk Ramdath and Swoon Bildos. We received a lot of excellent work from the UK and Ireland. The visible word must have gotten out over there in a big way. We were fortunate to host poet, filmmaker and founder of the Body Electric Poetry Film Festival R.W. Perkins, who travelled from Colorado to facilitate Literary Movement, an engaging and informative artist talk on process and the integration of filmmaking techniques. Later we screened his more recent work,  Morning Sex & Blueberry Pancakes and Small Talk & Little Else, RW’s droll sense of humour enthusiastically received.

Maybe I’m getting better at delegating but I was relieved to receive a lot of support and encouragement. The staff and volunteers at the Cinemathque were outstanding, especially Shaun Inouye who made sure everything was transferred properly and looked and sounded well on the big screen. Several people volunteered to document the event. Tom Weibe kindly lent his talents and took photographs as did poet Wally Keeler, visiting from Cobourg, Ontario, who videotaped Literary Movement . My son helped immensely with the arduous task of downloading all the selections and edited the festival trailer as well.  We have our own website at last, thanks to Monica Miller. Visible Verse.com.

We must work on promotion as well. Social media helps and the festival was listed well in the local papers and featured in the North Shore News, lovely weather and a pretty good turnout, “the best yet,” including featured artists, Blair Dykes, Ray Hsu, Michael James Park, Soressa Gardner and Daniela Elza. Poetry is such a hard sell and the festival is actually more well known internationally than in Vancouver where people tend to take for granted the city’s art and culture. And I’ll never understand why cinephiles and filmmakers wouldn’t be intrigued by the idea of a poet working with moving images. Surely it could inform their own work. C’est la vie. I persist. I’m stubborn, “weed-ish” as renowned filmmaker Al Razutis says. He also remarked that the festival and its rich content is an “amazing gift to Vancouver.” And that is one of the major perks, the opportunity to meet and work with incredible artists from all around the world.

Take a gander at the “wonderful program.” Most of these can be found on the Internet with a little googling. Enjoy!

Underground No One Famous/Blair Dykes Vancouver, BC 2011

Language of Desire Kathryn MacLean Edmonton, AB 2013

When Walt Whitman Was a Little Girl Jim Haverkamp Durham, NC 2012

Lapis and Centaurs Frank Müller Hamburg, Germany 2013

Something Keith Sargeant/Charles Bukowski poem London, UK 2012

Day Is Done Swoon Bildos Mechelen, Belgium 2012

Textual Assault Placards Wally Keeler Cobourg, ON 2012

Last Words of the Condemned Diane Arterian Los Angeles, CA 2013

1-poem-6′ Pablo López Jordan/Vangelis Skouras    London, UK & Murcia, Spain

Like So Alan David Pritchard   Isle of Wight, UK 2011

I thought I was more memorable James O Leary   Cork, Ireland 2013

Camel Matt Robertson Vancouver, BC 2013

Suburban Sylph of Crying Owls Gavin Jones North Yorkshire, UK 2013

PDA Kal Estrel   Kingston, UK 2012

Onion of Love Kirk Ramdath   Calgary, AB

Covered In Grass Aaron Samuels    Cranston, Rhode Island

expect something and nothing at once Michelle Elrick   Winnipeg, MN

Morning Sex & Blueberry Pancakes R.W. Perkins   Fort Collins, Colorado

INTERMISSION

On Meeting A Fox Janette Ayachi Edinburgh, Scotland

Full English Christopher Stewart Middlesbrough, UK

Not Death but Love: Tracing the Heart of Elizabeth Barrett Browning Gerard Wozek/Mary Russell
Chicago, IL

With Only My Hands Sergej Bezuglov/ Zakaryia Amatoya/Cece Nobre Bangkok, Thailand

Crow Morphologies Tara Flyn/Daniela Elza/Soressa Gardner Vancouver, BC 2013

Through The Eyes of the Wind Adam Jacobs/Forrest Casey Golden Valley, MN 2012

Futures of the Past Ray Hsu/Michael Parks/Chloe Chan Vancouver, BC 2013

To This Day Shane Koyzan Pentiction, BC 2013

Requiem for Lithium Jason Staggie Capetown, South Africa 2012

Small Talk & Little Else R.W. Perkins Fort Collins, Colorado 2013

Thief Behind The Mask CR Avery Vancouver, BC 2013

Love Gang Tara Evonne Trudell Las Vegas, NM

The Poet Is Artificially Removed Jordan Abel Vancouver, BC

I Love The Internet Kevin Barrington Dublin, Ireland

Rhythm of Structure John Sims New York, NY

Appraisal Melissa Diem Dublin, Ireland 2013

From Within Alexandre Braga Lisbon, Portugal 2013

Orange Taien Ng-Chan Montreal, QC 2005

Innisfree Don Carey Dublin, Ireland 2013

Visible Verse Festival 2013 programme!

from "Something" by Keith Sargeant

Whew! Alright, announcing the 2013 Visible Verse Festival programme! As with last year, we recieved a record number of entries, over 200. The little festival that could keeps growing and like we always say, we’re proud to remain the sustaining venue in North America for artistically significant videopoetry and film. This year will be our 14th!

We received stellar works from South Africa, Thailand, Germany, Belgium, Portugal, Canada, the U.S, Ireland and the UK. With only one night of screenings, I am unable to include a lot of video poems I like.

Fortunately the program does include Literary Movement, a discussion with R.W. Perkins on the process of creating videopoems and the integration of modern filmmaking techniques, Q&A to follow. We will be screening his videopems Morning Sex & Blueberry Pancakes and Small Talk & Little Else. R.W. Perkins is a poet and filmmaker from Fort Collins, Colorado. His work has been published in the Atticus ReviewMoving PoemsThe Denver EgotistThe Connotation Press, and The Huffington Post Denver. Perkins’s work has been featured at film festivals all over the world, including an 18-state U.S. tour with the New Belgium Brewery’s Clips of Faith Beer & Film Tour in 2012 and at the ZEBRA Poetry Film Festival in Berlin, Germany. Perkins is also the creator and director of The Body Electric Poetry Film Festival, Colorado’s first poetry film festival, which held its inaugural event in May of this year. For more information on Perkins and his work, visit www.rw-perkins.com. We’re thrilled to have him!

The festival is Sat, Oct. 12 at the Cinematheque in Vancouver. My son has promised to edit a trailer for me, I’ll post it asap. *See* you there!

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Underground No One Famous/Blair Dykes Vancouver, BC 2011

Language of Desire Kathryn MacLean Edmonton, AB 2013

When Walt Whitman Was a Little Girl Jim Haverkamp Durham, NC 2012

Lapis and Centaurs Frank Müller Hamburg, Germany 2013

Something Keith Sargeant/Charles Bukowski poem London, UK 2012

Day Is Done Swoon Bildos Mechelen, Belgium 2012

Textual Assault Placards Wally Keeler Cobourg, ON 2012

Last Words of the Condemned Diane Arterian Los Angeles, CA 2013

‘1-poem-6’ Pablo López Jordan/Vangelis Skouras    London, UK & Murcia, Spain

Like So Alan David Pritchard   Isle of Wight, UK 2011

I thought I was more memorable James O Leary   Cork, Ireland 2013

Camel Matt Robertson Vancouver, BC 2013

Suburban Sylph of Crying Owls Gavin Jones North Yorkshire, UK 2013

PDA Kal Estrel   Kingston, UK 2012

Onion of Love Kirk Ramdath   Calgary, AB

Covered In Grass Aaron Samuels    Cranston, Rhode Island

expect something and nothing at once Michelle Elrick   Winnipeg, MN

Morning Sex & Blueberry Pancakes R.W. Perkins   Fort Collins, Colorado

INTERMISSION

On Meeting A Fox Janette Ayachi Edinburgh, Scotland

Full English Christopher Stewart Middlesbrough, UK

Not Death but Love: Tracing the Heart of Elizabeth Barrett Browning Gerard Wozek/Mary Russell
Chicago, IL

With Only My Hands Sergej Bezuglov/ Zakaryia Amatoya/Cece Nobre Bangkok, Thailand

Crow Morphologies Tara Flyn/Daniela Elza/Soressa Gardner Vancouver, BC 2013

Through The Eyes of the Wind Adam Jacobs/Forrest Casey Golden Valley, MN 2012

Futures of the Past Ray Hsu/Michael Parks/Chloe Chan Vancouver, BC 2013

To This Day Shane Koyzan Pentiction, BC 2013

Requiem for Lithium Jason Staggie Capetown, South Africa 2012

Small Talk & Little Else R.W. Perkins Fort Collins, Colorado 2013

Thief Behind The Mask CR Avery Vancouver, BC 2013

Love Gang Tara Evonne Trudell Las Vegas, NM

The Poet Is Artificially Removed Jordan Abel Vancouver, BC

I Love The Internet Kevin Barrington Dublin, Ireland

Rhythm of Structure John Sims New York, NY

Appraisal Melissa Diem Dublin, Ireland 2013

From Within Alexandre Braga Lisbon, Portugal 2013

Orange Taien Ng-Chan Montreal, QC 2005

Innisfree Don Carey (based on the WB Yeats poem) Dublin, Ireland 2013

HOW TO REMAIN official selection @ inaugural Body Electric Poetry Film Festival as a Most Poetical Month Continues…

Woo hoo! My AURAL Heather videopoem, How To Remain has been selected as part of the inaugural Body Electric Poetry Film Festival in Colorado.

And as it’s National Poetry Month all month I will be doing another reading for FORCE Field on the 26th at the Shadbolt Centre for the Arts in Burnaby. My work is featured in three new anthologies! My poem Appelton was featured in Alive at the Center along with other Cascadian poets from Portland, Seattle and Voracious, Sechelt and Three Blocks West of Wonderland are featured in  FORCE Field: 77 Women Poets of British Columbia and Year of the Monkey will be part of the Bowen Island anthology coming out in June as part of the Arts Council 25th anniversary celebrations.

NATIONAL POETRY MONTH in Vancouver keeps us on our toes!

Photo: Tabitha Montgomery

Whew! Recovering from an action packed weekend; two launches for two anthologies. My poem Appelton was featured in Alive at the Center along with other Cascadian poets from Portland, Seattle and Vancouver. It’s a farcical poem, people laughed and we all revelled in the convivial atmosphere at the Rhizome Cafe. Saturday, I read Three Blocks West of Wonderland at the launch for FORCE Field: 77 Women Poets of British Columbia at the Vancouver Public Library, followed by a party at the Railway Club, which turned out to be a fantastic gathering of the tribe.

Well, it is National Poetry Month. I will be doing another reading for FORCE Field on the 26th at the Shadbolt Centre for the Arts in Burnaby. Couch surfing is a little rough but it does provide a wonderful opportunity to visit, something I rarely have time to do when I cross the moat (Howe Sound) and go into Vancouver with a long list of errands, meetings, appointments.

NEWS! I’ve signed with an agency! And here’s a novel excerpt; The Virgin Marries Do New York, or rather, New York Does the Virgin Marries

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I’ve just signed with an agent, Drea Cohane of The Rights Factory in Toronto. I’m pretty excited and boosted; such a boost to have a professional in your corner. Drea is smart, enthusiastic and encouraging. I will have more news in the near future. In the meantime, here’s an excerpt from the forthcoming Town Slut’s Daughter.

New York, New York, a town so nice, they named it twice. Nice. Yeah, right. And the city that never sleeps never sleeps because it’s rank and sweltering hot, baked sidewalks oozing blood, urine, spittle. Neither did things cool after sundown. Still, Fiona loved the city’s fascinating, ruthless nightlife and omnipresent skyscrapers.
The band had scored a sublet on the Upper West Side, not far from the Dakota and the Museum of Natural History, New York City a peeping tom’s paradise. The Virgins watched yuppie couples cook, cleaning crews dust and a working girl roosted on her toilet, a fine line between uninhibited and exhibitionist thought Fiona.
The plan was to sojourn in NYC for a month, play shows, make contacts, seek management and promote the EP. Everybody else liked the record. It got them gigs, which got them press, which got them a European tour, airplay on a string of college radio stations and a big time booking agent, Brian Kezdy. Most East Coast press coverage was favourable, though Fiona wondered why rock journalists could never come up with one original question.

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FROM CANADA—PURE ROCK ‘N ROLL—THE VIRGIN MARRIES

I must admit I’m a sucker for girls with guitars. At times this well-built punk thrash outfit from Vancouver, Canada, sounds like Bessie the Brontosaurus pounding the city’s pavement. You have to give them credit for being tough and loose, fast and funny, all in a femaleist way, as they steadfastly condemn tanning beds, silicone implants and Citibank. The Virgin Marries exhibit the introspection of a Steppenwolf in All I Have Is Me while Woman Driver reveals insights into the female psyche: A mother, a bride or a daughter / Now which one will I be/ Forever and ever is a long time/ To turn my back on me/ My parents ornament the hood/ My husband’s in the rear view mirror/ My children ride up on the roof/ I think I am behind the wheel. This is a seditious band and these provocative young women provide fine, if not frightening, role models.

New York City is not a good place for anyone with a jones for heroin. Dolores swore she was trying to corral her habit, but Jackie often found her in the bathroom, head in bowl or spike in arm. Rita kept an eagle eye on the band’s equipment.
“That’s the next step with junkies. They start stealing your shit and pawning it.”
“Aw man,” said Dennis, “don’t call her a junkie.”
They wanted to put Dolores into rehab but Kezdy had them booked to play the UK and Europe a month down the road.Despite a loud Virgin Marries buzz, a 150 bucks was the most money they’d ever earned. Friends and hangers-on volunteered to manage the band but Rita insisted on holding out for someone with clout. They did have a certain breed of chippy coming out for all their shows, new friend Poppy the ultimate fan. Poppy was an exotic dancer, a euphemism for stripper, Fiona learned.

“Poppy is sexually strident, cheerfully malevolent and a larcenist,” observed Rita. “Check her bag.”

A huge Plasmatics fan, Poppy had decided the Virgin Marries were her new favorite band. “I’d walk through Bed Stuy to see you girls.”
She often got off stage at the Galaxy Club in Times Square, covering her tits and track marks with feather boas to take a cab to Max’s, because “CB’s is full of bridge and tunnel people now.” Poppy spent all her tip money on drinks and drugs, indulging Dolores far too much. She introduced the Virgins to Dee Dee Ramone, Mink DeVille, Johnny Thunders and Gordon Stevenson, bass player for Lydia Lunch’s band, Teenage Jesus and the Jerks. They wondered why Johnny Thunders knew everybody. Why soon became obvious. Thunders was a desperate opportunist hustling anyone who showed even the remotest interest in him. Poppy had asked Fiona to come by her room at the Chelsea to pick her up for lunch. Fiona dutifully arrived on time and walked in on her giving Thunders a blowjob.
“Oops, sorry!” she sputtered.
The “living tragedy” looked up. Sort of. Poppy lifted her head of kewpie doll curls, Thunders’ dick at half-mast. “I’ll be right with you, sweetie.”
Yeah, right. Too bad she’s not getting paid by the hour.
It seemed the entire Isle of Manhattan fancied the Virgin Marries, including John Belushi, often showing up at their shows, entourage in tow. Club and record storeowners were bombarded with requests for the Virgin Marries. Major label deal rumors flew.
“Oh man! We’ve gotta get signed to Virgin Records.”

Revelling in their run of successful New York City gigs, Fiona sat sipping coffee, reading a Sunday Times article about John Steinbeck’s friend marine biologist Ed Ricketts, not only the inspiration for Cannery Row character Doc, but Steinbeck’s muse as well. The phone rang.
“Fiona, get over here!” yelled Poppy. “415 W. 57th Ave. Quick! Jackie OD’d.” Continue reading

PACIFIC TIME

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PACIFIC TIME

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Cedar jungle.

Left coast.

Mellifluous bees,

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Hummingbirds swarm

Morning. Teeming creek

Bows to the sea.

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Lisping hares,

Nipped chocolates

Consume the household

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Quickly. Mugs stacked,

We steep in me.

Fuse. Volatile

Affections lampooned,

Logic disturbed hourly.

Bursts. Snipes. Rants

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Compelling as a drowning cow,

Pert hustler rising in your skull

But see, Howe Sound

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Currents obviate

Previous episodes, ancient

Grievances, low levels.

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Ditch. Forget restitution.

Leave the old scow

To rot on the plain.

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FIONA DOES THE DESERT-“The Town Slut’s Daughter” novel excerpt

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Dennis convinced Fiona they had to visit Joshua Tree on their way to Los Angeles.

“I want you to see the real desert. This is the best time to go. Early spring. Everything’s in bloom.”

They stopped for gas, kitty corner to the Oasis of Love Wedding Chapel. Dennis pointed to an uneasy and checkered queue of couples clad in black and white lining the block.

“Let’s get married!”

“Are you crazy?”

“You still need a green card, don’t you? Isn’t that the best way? Marry a citizen?”

“You mean you?”

“Why not?”

“Because, green card marriage or not, you’ll take it seriously. Besides, I’m too young to get married. You’re too young to get married.”

“What am I to you?”

Fiona groaned. “You’re a friend, Dennis. One of my dearest friends. A friend with privileges. Take it or leave it.”

I’m such a bitch. A mile down the road, she slid her hand between his legs, stroking the denim taut over his balls. Moaning, Dennis pulled the van over. They did it in a plume of red road dust.

The lovers gradually eased into au naturale mode, more serene with each mile of desert highway kaleidoscoping past. They motored through gorges and coulees vaguely familiar, like a Roadrunner cartoon, SIDEWINDER CAFE, BORAX, LOST HORSE MINE road signs riddled with bullet holes. The Mohave was a shock of alien beauty, teeming with life. In bloom, indeed. They stopped, got out, waded through bellflowers, asters and fuchsia sand verbena, beavertail cactus sporting coral red blossoms like hats. Dune primroses reminded Fiona of the Alberta wild rose. Dennis laughed at her wide-eyed, gaping mouth astonishment.

Finally they reached Joshua Tree National Monument. She’d been expecting a phallic wonder rising off the desert floor but realized the Americans used ‘monument’ to mean ‘park.’ Dennis photographed her in relief against a horizon of softly sloping stone hills, sporting her new, fifties-circa straw flying saucer hat. She struck a Bono pose under a Joshua tree, which was not a tree at all. Lightheaded and languorous in the balmy air, Fiona stretched out movie star-style, hands on her hips, looking directly into the lens, studly paramour documenting their euphoria for all posterity.

They came upon a thick stand of Bigelow chollo cactus harbouring nests of Sage sparrows.

“The balls of their spines break off and stick to your skin like magnets,” warned Dennis. “Don’t get too close.”

The Yucca plant produced strange fruit, clusters of pale blossoms exuding a warm, waxy scent, but the most sublime desert plant must be the ocotillo, she thought, a tangle of towering, quivering green stalks like tentacles, gilded with scales and topped with scarlet arrow tips.

Dennis’s sharp eye spotted all manner of lizard; banded geckos, iguanas, chuckwallas. They saw silver spotted grasshoppers and a Walking Stick suspended from a Mormon Tea branch. Down the road, they were forced to stop the van, agog at the sight of kamikaze caterpillars crossing the asphalt in a shuddering river. Dennis bent down to examine the freaky, fetid stew of yellow, black and lime.

“Man! This was a wet winter. This only happens every seven years or so.”

They climbed Jumbo Rocks, huge boulders suggesting rising dough or the granite buttocks of sleeping elephants. At the crest, the rock face resembled skin, lined and pockmarked. In close, the surface was pebbled, filled with cracks and crevices. Elated, Fiona photographed Dennis beneath a large, round boulder miming Atlas supporting the earth. He snapped her standing inside the huge eye socket of a rock skull. They nearly fell into sinkholes, perfectly rounded basins carved into rock by water. Dennis invited her to sit.

“What about scorpions?”

“Nocturnal. We probably have more to fear from rattlesnakes. Just don’t put your hands on any ledges you can’t see.”

They sat, nestled, gazing down the valley of saltbush and smoke trees. Dennis pointed to a jet etching contrails upon a gradient blue sky. Cap Rock jutted out, a visor of stone.

“You can see all the way to Mexico from here.”

It’s easy to see why this place became sacred.” A breeze cooled her skin, prickly from too much sun. Fiona turned. “And the air up here is making me randy.”

“It is?” Dennis was hard in an instant. Panting.

“Yeah.” She avoided his eyes, resting her chin on his shoulder as if studying the lengthening shadows. Fiona allowed a few seconds to pass, then Continue reading

LIFE AND DEATH ON THE SPECTRUM

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This is a difficult subject, raising a child on the autism spectrum, especially painful in the wake of Newtown. I was heartbroken by news of the tragedy and dismayed to learn the shooter had Aspergers.

I felt both great empathy and unease watching the PBS Frontline documentary, Raising Adam Lanza, about the relationship between Adam and his mother Nancy. Though experts agree individuals with Aspergers are no more prone to violence than people without the developmental disability, I worry the public will characterize kids on the spectrum as aggressive, a huge setback in hard won autism awareness.

My son is two years younger than Adam Lanza and finding a proper diagnosis was a long, arduous struggle, finally achieved at age 10, about the same age Adam was when he was diagnosed. Initially Junior was erroneously perceived as having a “moderate to severe language disorder.” I still don’t know what the heck that means but he received years of speech therapy, which as it turns out was the last thing he needed, being highly functioning and beyond verbal to the point of verbose. It’s body language he doesn’t get. More details on this and our desperate search for information are at this previous blog post and the only other time I’ve publicly addressed my son’s ASD.

Adam Lanza had initially been diagnosed with SID, Sensory Integration Dysfunction, also known as SPD, Sensory Processing Disorder. It’s not a recognized diagnosis nor included in the DSM-IV-TR Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. As reported by Susan Donaldson James, “Whether SPD is a distinct disorder or a collection of symptoms pointing to other neurological deficits, most often anxiety or attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD), has been debated by the medical community for more than two decades.” Adam Lanza’s lifetime.

My son’s sensory issues were well documented, considered part of his ASD and certainly challenging. He abhorred particular fabrics, ripping out tags and discarding the socks with “stupid seams.” Refusing to wet his head, hygiene was a serious concern. It took years to overcome his anxiety and get in the shower on a daily basis but he still doesn’t know how to swim and refuses to take lessons.

Unlike a lot of kids on the spectrum, our son’s motor skills were fine. He began walking at 10 months, was a prodigious golfer with a beautiful swing everyone envied. Though shy with strangers, he had no problems with physical contact and was always affectionate with family. He’s less demonstrative as a teenager but if I ask for a hug, he delivers a hug with no qualms.

I may seem anxious to point out how my child with Aspergers is different from Adam Lanza, but because it manifests in a seemingly random but singular fashion, every child on the spectrum is different. Unique. Our choices, options have been dictated by how ASD has affected our child.

I got the impression mother and son were becoming Continue reading