“Paddling” from THREE BLOCKS WEST OF WONDERLAND

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Never panic. Post 9/11 angst and guilt here in the *safe* zone.

PADDLING

Clouds of tulle, hushed cavern
suite, desiccated starfish, muted
conch, hurricane lamp decor. Five hundred
thread count sheets lulled her,
triple-moisture night serum, pilewort slathered.
Twitchy sleep, the lie of white lace.
Central nervous system, slipper socks seek the floor,
grope for codeine, find scars, blue bruises,
source blacked out. Yesterday’s kayaking lesson?

Low PH, high FSH. Every bleary morning
tea, tottering on the balcony, a smidgen
of remaining suppleness to torment. How tempting Continue reading →

Tracking bear, deer, cougar, weasels; snaking past catastrophe

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Don’t tread on me! In a funk, discombobulated, plagued with a nasty headache and nightmares as I scramble to meet two hard deadlines, recovering from a low blow by our (former) collaborator who “terminated” our video projects. Terminal City? He might very well have succeeded but happily, I’m working with the inimitable Chris Coon, my Bent Tail-punk rock cohort. (Impatient Youth, The Sleepers, The Woundz, Clocks of Paradise, No Alternative.) It’s a relief as well, to drive 15 minutes to a studio rather than 5 hours to record who-knows-where, or how, which saves heaps of money too; no more travel expenses.

Do we engineer the crises in our lives? In search of authentic experience, to provide creative stimulation? Certainly, it’s something artists, writers do. Is Van Gogh not equated with tortured? August Strindberg is another example: “Of humble origin and melancholy disposition, Strindberg was consumed by an insatiable desire for knowledge and a need for authentic existence.”-New Foundations. “Strindberg created experiences and pressured situations in order to write about them; he inflicted pain on himself to gain extra material and he became suicidal when fiction and reality were interpenetrating so deeply that he was scared of finding which was which.”-Ronald Hayman. I know the difference and though I’m no longer no one’s victim, by associating with artists in various stages of evolution, conflict is inevitable.

Lately, a veritable zoo of of animals stampedes my dreams and reality. Fortunately, I am able to distinguish between the two! Bear, deer, serpents. Someone was holding the head of a . . . Continue reading →

The Humble Muralist and the Reproachful Buddhist

poems,

This island girl’s latest work-in-progress. I am reminded of the Jung quote Dennis E. Bolen used in his book Kaspoit! “Everyone carries a shadow, and the less it is embodied in the individual’s conscious life, the blacker and denser it is.” I’ve noticed a lot of islanders fleeing their shadows. There are no no shadows in Paradise, no darkness allowed and nothing bad ever happens even as the RCMP investigate the murder of a 17-year old girl. Hypocrites.

The Humble Muralist and the Reproachful Buddhist

Island roads are only as long as the island,
invariably leading to the vortex every island hosts,
the village or burg hugging the cove or bay,
the place where sweaty, unsighted, unrepentant
cocaine and alcohol abusers
gurgle down to, wind up in,
rubbing elbows with the vigorous
Tilley-hatted, swamping landowners
with their nasty habit stench.

Island roads snake lowly
through a bucolic landscape;
swaying grasses, expansive elms,
lambs, cows, horses, llamas.
Do not be lulled.
Anxiety stalks the Continue reading →

Who remains. Undead, unbowed, vital.

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Hairiness; much hairiness! Who has time for spring cleaning with all that’s been going on? I’m still recovering from the premiere of Susanne Tabata’s punk rock movie, Bloodied But Unbowed. I couldn’t decide whether, or how to wear the Subhumans-Incorrect Thoughts, Rock Against Racism and Avengers buttons I dug out of my collection. Hey, I didn’t brandish badges then, why start now? I didn’t shave my head or wear a black leather jacket either. I couldn’t afford one! I stuffed the relics in a pocket to share with my Vancouver punk rock homies.

I was delighted to see former band members Conny Nowe, drummer of my first group, the all-girl Zellots-who just happened to be visiting from Toronto-and The 45s Brad Kent and Randy Rampage. Conny’s been playing music, currently in an outfit called Swamperella with renowned bassist Rachel Melas. I marveled at how marvelous she looked as we chatted before the movie started rolling.

I’ve run into Randy a few times over the years but hadn’t seen Brad since I was nine months pregnant, my son, now 15. I’d been walking down the street near 12th and Clark in Vancouver when I heard a voice braying “Hollywood and Western,” the scene of a notorious east end rehearsal space the 45s used. I turned around and there was Brad! The meeting was a little awkward and fleeting but at Thursday night’s after-party, he came and sat with me, gave me a big hug and apologized profusely about breaking up the 45s on the eve of our gig with PiL at the Olympic Auditorium in Los Angeles. “I’ve been wanting to say that to you all these years.”

My biggest regret . . . Continue reading →

A Larcenous Groom’s Cooling Off Period-new poem

poems,

Or, a work-in-progress, more accurately.

A Larcenous Groom’s Cooling Off Period

He filches
tunes. Fuck copyright, its owners,
downloading steamy nude pics,
porno,
providing a market
not Paypal.
Fuck that shit.

He pilfers
pop for his hottie Charlotte,
slotted into the fridge door,
stacked in the pantry
enough Coke to fuel a militia.

He boosts
street signs. That’ll stop their godamn
touch-the-sky routine,
bestowing his buddy Guy
with a shiny, green Jackson Street,
a little glory for the double-wide.

He lifts
century-old chairs,
stuffed wildlife
from a leaning farmhouse,
fence thanking him for the laugh.
Now get the fuck outta here!

He pinches
his sister-in-law
in the pocketbook.
Emily, who mourned the loss
of her younger sibling
before being Hearsed away,
thank Christ.

He gives!
To the church
indirectly every time he mows
Our Lady of Sorrows’ lawn,
’cause they ain’t paying me enough
to do this shit
and it’s fucken hotter ‘n hell out here.

He ponders
his situation, odium state.
Heh heh.
How to beat the heat,
weather big bust backlash
all effen summer.

Bloodied But Unbowed-Jazz cats on stage, old school punks on the big screen

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Canucks won their do or die match against Chicago! I don’t understand why they can’t play that well consistently. I suppose beating the Hawks in two more games is within the realm of possibility but seems unlikely. Funny, I try to ignore hockey but you know you’ve got it bad when you find yourself actually reading the Sports section. I always manage to get caught up in the excitement, recently and entirely sucked into Team Canada-Olympics games. I can’t help it; it’s in my DNA according to my long gone mother Corona Beliveau, second cousin to the great and beloved Montreal Canadian  Jean Beliveau, still going strong, last I heard.

They do share the same thick, dark hair and good looks but I took everything Ma said with a grain of salt. She was also Irish, a real queen of blarney and consummate storyteller. I’m convinced it’s one of the reasons I am a poet. She also said my grandmother Genora Beliveau, would throw empty mickey bottles at the opposing team’s players, ejected from more than a few games. Grandma was quite the spitfire, sadly dying of cancer when I was just a toddler. On that note, Happy Mother’s Day! My boys took me out to dinner, a nice break from the routine.

I did go out Saturday night though, to W2 and Jamie Reid’s book launch for Prez, his Lester Young book, Prez being Billy Holiday’s nickname for the legendary saxophonist. Kim Goldberg opened with a performance of poetry from her book Red Zone, shining an unerring spotlight on Nanaimo’s homelessness and urban decay. Pete (Trower) read some of his musical jazz poems and Jamie read from his lyrical homage, backed sublimely by Craig McCaul on guitar, Niko Friesen and Jen Hodge on bass. I met fellow ROCKsalter George Payerle and got to visit with pals Daniela Elza, Kagan Goh, Warren Dean Fulton, Shannon Rayne, Carol Reid and Kedrick James, a superb master of ceremonies.  A fabulous evening and as Jamie said, “Dancing until the dust rose in clouds from the floor, / they put sweet rhythms into Lester’s horn.” Pete remarked he was happy to see young people playing jazz. It’s not going away. Jazz will always have its aficionados, just like punk rock, the Vancouver breed immortalized in Susanne Tabata’s Bloodied But Unbowed, premiering at DOXA Documentary Film Festival this Thursday. I’m sure to run into some of my punk rock homies though DOA is on the road, not surprisingly. Susanne got in touch with me at one point for an interview as I was in the 45s with Randy Rampage and Brad Kent but the meeting never happened. Story of my life, I swear! Surely I’m not the only one. Reportedly there are over 100 hours of out-takes.

Oh well, it’s a . . .

Continue reading →

My life in verse, or rather, OUR life in verse

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Thus far, and including my poetry inside a bomb. See below.

I have several comrades in verse with whom I like to commiserate. We delight in bashing the already fractured literary scene, or scenes, belittling ourselves and our vocation—beating detractors to the punch—while bearing in mind it’s a shared passion and we’re damn good. Sadly, a way with words won’t  necessarily pay the rent. Despite the reality of the situation, my real and virtual friends keep composing the stuff. I’m currently enjoying Miranda Pearson’s Harbour and Clara Blackwood’s Subway Medusa, having recently completed Michael O’ Keefe’s eloquently and variously tragic or comic Swimming From Under My Father.

Other lunatic poetical friends go so far as to take it on the road! Coming to a (U.S.) town near you . . . My pal S.A. Griffin has cleverly devised THE POETRY BOMB Tour Of Words 2010 and according to my commemorative t-shirt, will be leaving Alburquerque, NM to play Austin, TX tomorrow. With all the years I lived in Los Angeles, S.A. is the only actor I befriended. Hmmm. Well, acting is his profession and like the aforementioned maniacs, verse, his obsession. This isn’t the first time S.A. has hit the road. He and the Carma Bums (Doug Knott, Michael Mollet, Mike Bruner, Scott Wannberg) toured relentlessly some of the most undomesticated, unsurpassed performance poetry I’ve been privileged to see.

Lately I’ve been working with my son on his Distance Ed classes, tutoring him in his poetry unit, using verse from my own collections to illustrate simile and metaphor. He detests it, naturally, but we’ve managed to write haiku and free verse and he knows the difference between a couplet, a quatrain and a stanza. I tried to persuade him there’s a close relation between song and verse, appeal to his passion for music but he’s not biting.

I’m spending less time on Facebook (the honeymoon may be over) and more at my own website which is getting spammed regularly, through this blog and WordPress I suspect. Our videopoems-Bushwhack and How To Remain are nearing the final stage of production as I prepare to go to Salt Spring Island to work intensively with my collaborateur Roderick Shoolbraid. Three Blocks West of Wonderland book launch parties are in the works. We better rehearse our AURAL Heather act as we are planning to perform at said launches. Yikes! With all this behind me soon, I intend to spend the remainder of 2010 focused on writing, though I will be working hard on our Visible Verse 10 year anniversary festival and celebration coming up in November. No rest for the wicked, or the poet, apparently.

SKY BUSTING from “Three Blocks West of Wonderland”

poems,

I’m working on a new one about Haida Gwaii while sucked into the Plath vortex again after finding a volume in a used book store. Not good. As moving as her work is, I wind up feeling weak, pathetic and unworthy. Still, I persist. Surely I must be mad as well.

SKY BUSTING

To the hillbilly born
a cursed monarch who swore
this pothunter could not be her blood
with his short gait, sight, temperament.
They must have abducted her
from a conclave of columned nobles,
the bastards, and this she declared
into her black lab’s ruff. Unless her peeps
traded her for gasoline in a time of war?
Splitting dog hairs, she knew this much;
she would never know.
She must adapt and learn. She scrubs
and sweeps though never convincingly,
swift clips to the noggin ever reminding her.

Neither was she popular with him in the marsh,
standing as he knelt next to her, shotgun
between them, instructing her how to squeeze Continue reading →

Sage Hill

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I’ve applied for Sage Hill Writing Experience Fiction Workshop in Saskatchewan this July, hoping for ten days of writing and critiques with facilitator/author Terry Jordan. After my book launch parties and my videopoems are completed I want to focus on writing and new works for the rest of the year. I’ve heard only good things from Sage Hill alumni and it would be such a boon to my novel, The Town Slut’s Daughter. I’d stand a good chance of completing a final draft at last. We shall see. If I’m not selected, a friend has offered his cabin in the Nicola Valley for a writing retreat. It’s really the only way I can get a leg up on such a big project, to flee the domestic front.

WINNIPEG DOWNS from “Three Blocks West of Wonderland”

Journal

When a mother prefers cards and bingo to cooking and childcare . . .

Winnipeg Downs

Games of chance. Sleight of hand. Games invented
to wash us out of her lush, chestnut hair,
setting little sister and me off to stoop and scoop
discarded tickets. Plucky as yard hens. Two bags
full. Staggered, not by one-too-many beers
but a winning wager, she whooped I can buy
you girls supper! Dragged around like carrion
in a diesel-rank yellow Beetle, we fought

to hide in the nausea-inducing verboten slot
where balled-up fists could not reach.
Dutifully she ordered a Mama burger
though professing to prefer the Teen. Two bites. I bet
she had no appetite after six months of whiplash prescription.
Her lumpy thumbs hefted fivers, entering the weekly lottery,
blowing crumbs of crud off a scratch & win ticket between pulls
on a machine-rolled fag, corduroy car coat pockmarked
with cigarette burns. Bingo-lottery-horse-and card-playing loser.

My hand. A mother rather like that species Continue reading →