Tag Archives: Heather Haley

WINNIPEG DOWNS from Three Blocks West of Wonderland

Journal, poems, , , , ,

Ekstasis Editions, 2009

I’m finally coming up for air after 10 manic days of mania, albeit with a skewered neck and pain radiating up the entire left side of my skull. Occasionally it will roost in my temple or behind my ear. Well it’s true that the only out is through so here I sit, too messed up to focus or write so will blog another day and in the meantime share a poem from the new book, Three Blocks West of Wonderland.

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
of turtle that leaves the clutch in a lurch to hatch,
scuttling down to the tavern, I mean, ocean. To be fair,
she always returned to pour salt on our sugar
sandwiches or fry up some baloney. Midnight shuffle
back to our shack behind the white fence of birch
to catch me in the hook of her hand, give me something
to cry about. On special occasions
her bad nerves, moods, might recede.
Christmas especially mollified her.

A waitress—blinded by Chinese restaurant-light
brutal as the belly of an illuminated submarine—
she did not see us, our saucer eyes, our brightness,
so busy she was rubbing lucky charms
and rusty magic lamps. Telling stories. Lying
in bed reading True Confessions, liking her coffee crisp.

She can rest in her La-Z Boy, now that the little buggers
are grown. Against all odds.
Now that she’s toothless, painless and respectable
except for the plethora of aces up her sleeve.
In no position to coerce, she cajoles
us into playing gin rummy. Crib. I have to laugh,
the way she groans when dealt the joker,
as if she knows him intimately.

On the eve of my *new* book, Three Blocks West of Wonderland

Journal, , , , , , ,

Crazy week! Or two. Fighting a cold and losing, succumbing to aches, pains, fatigue, trying to ignore H1N1 fear mongering, largely by the press and government. I was just discussing it with my niece and she said a friend was in panic mode and saying, “Did you hear about the healthy young man slayed by it?” Niece saw his picture and said he must have weighed 400 pounds. Apparently obesity is a complicating factor.

I don’t know, my GP says everyone should get vaccinated, to reduce the number of carriers, my naturopath says you have to eat a lot of dirt before you die, it’s natural and I swing back and forth. Naturally. I ignored previous plagues, even in Romania, the rumored origin of bird flu and never worried. People die of seasonal flu every year. This year’s variety, the swine flu is getting a lot of press and a bit harder to dismiss.

I’ve been spending quite a lot of time proofing the galleys for my new collection of verse, Three Blocks West of Wonderland that I told new FB friend Timothy Taylor was completed over a year ago. My still unpublished novel, The Town Slut’s Daughter is nearly as old as my dog and her chin is covered with white hair these days. In the meantime, Continue reading →

The Proper Tool from “Three Blocks West of Wonderland”

poems, , ,

Heading to the printers soon. Woo hoo!

The Proper Tool

I’m raring. I’m keen. Keen on the job, keen on green

suede, pea soup green suede. Round mountains

of breast meat. The taste of breadfruit. I’m fond

of blue fin, the Nepali coast. On off days I mourn

road kill, vanishing tooth fairies, yell above the wind

in ironwood trees or run over wild boars. I try to decipher

your posture, sagging down pipe. Was it something I said?

Did I wing a wrench into the works of your Stoly-propelled,

part-time life of letters? Did my leaky duck plump

body mangle your shift,

the entire working class hero period?

You don’t know your Gatsbys

from your Kowalskis, pub-crawling from slumming.

I buy jade, Siberian tiger’s eye. Thyme

infused bath bombs. Glass beads. Silk and suede,

green suede, so much easier to stroke than you.

Go saw yourself in half. Go nail

it in, back against the wall. Paint yourself, or it,

black. Into a corner. Weld your metal. Meld

the two halves of your dark side. Screw yourself.

Gather the loose ones. Punch yourself out.

Brendan Mullen R.I.P. -One Life is not enough!

Journal, , , ,

Another friend dead! I’m starting to feel this race against time, hot against the back of my neck. In fact, it’s getting personal! Thusly, I’m crankin’ the tunes, drinking wodka, looking over my shoulder.

One of my dear LA friends, Brendan Mullen, with whom I exchanged FB messages only a few days ago has expired after suffering a massive stroke. I didn’t think of him as *old.* Brendan was working on a new book, had asked me to nail down the year of a Zellots poster from a show at the John Anson Ford Theatre we played with Faith No More and the Red Hot Chili Peppers. I said, sure Brendan, I’ll get back to you, no problem. We always assume there is time, a next time.

To say that Brendan was a vital part of the west coast punk rock scene-a catalyst-as founder of the Masque in Los Angeles is an understatement. He was an alchemist, who despite the ephemeral nature of the performing arts routinely employed his intuition, power and skills to conjure up radical, earth shaking events, and thus history.

He continued propelling all that was raw and edgewise. In the beginning he provided a vital venue to bands like X, the Germs, the Go-Gos etc, etc, but post-punk he mixed it up royally as a consummate DJ and programmer with astute and eclectic musical tastes Continue reading →

Fantastic fungi, mortality, dream logic

Journal

I came across some fantastic fungi in the forest while walking the dogs. They resemble chocolate leather buttons! I know they’re not psilocybin, doubt they’re edible and since they’re not in my field guide, on the ground they shall remain.

I found a toad residing in the hot tub cover and two yolks in one egg this morning. We get our cackle berries from the local butcher, Alderwood Farms just down the road and they are always so lovely and nearly as fresh as having your own chicken coop. SamIAm just caught and devoured a dragonfly! He’s faster than he looks.

I’ve been in a real funk since returning from Los Angeles, feel like jumping out a window or going to live in the woods. I’ve said it before, I am always so happy to see everyone down there but it makes me nostalgic, melancholy even, haunting my old stomping grounds. You are forced to face your mortality when a friend dies. I was discussing it with Gretl, Peter’s sister. At 40, she said Continue reading →

Post-Peter memorial, discombobulated, sad

Journal,

Is it any wonder? I can’t focus, keep playing around with FB and email, skirting around the huge job I need to get done, curating the Visible Verse 09 screening.

I’m drained, keep listening to songs Peter and I wrote and sang together, going over it in my mind, all the things we *could* have done, the great potential we had, the promise, how we threw it all away. Well, I am apparently still trying to come to terms with it, never had to face it until losing him, our shared past. And I just plain old miss him! Hate the void…

Wednesday, Sept. 30

Lunch before I leave for the airport, Reuben sandwich in Beechwood Canyon with Teresa, right under the Hollywood sign. Odd how the fabled Hollywood came to be such a significant part of my life, moving here so young, playing in bands, hanging out with Hollywood punks. Like most of the rest of my life, I didn’t plan it. I’m no movie-eyed starlet. Certainly I arrived with ambitions but it just sort of happened, found myself in a band with Brad Kent who had played in San Francisco’s Avengers and had connections in LA, namely our drummer Karla Mad Dog of the Controllers.

Robyn Westcott, Byron and Maritza came by the hotel last night and we had a lovely visit. Robyn and I commiserated over those who were instrumental in Peter’s murder, those whose names make me Continue reading →

And the livin’s easy…

poems,

DIVERSIONS

Learn how to eat a kumquat.
Watch giant sink holes
chow down on suburban family homes,
or floods that force
a Fargo wedding party to improvise.
Giggity Giggity Giggity!
Bird dog with Glenn Quagmire,
noxious as hound’s-thistle
or do it yourself.
Right single-handedly
Dial-A-Lover.
Get a second life.
Come out.
All aboard
the tattoo parlour car.
Fly your freak flag
out the window.
Evolve by gradation,
colour or tone, your choice.
Master effervescent technology.
Ride a ride.
Tilt-A-Whirl,
tumult on the horizon
causing you to retch.

Bushwhacking with the Virgin Mary

Journal, poems, , ,

Man, am I ever a case of champagne taste on a beer budget. I adore modern design, came across an ultra cool chair, a Tom Dixon Wingback, a real Jetsons take on the traditional. I tracked down a store in Vancouver, thinking we could go take a test drive until I found out they cost 12,000. Wow! It’s hard to imagine the strata I would reside in to be spending $24,000. on a pair of arm chairs. I doubt that I could do it even if, by some miracle, I found myself in that bracket. White trash roots showing, I’d probably feel guilty, or foolish, or both.

Seems like everything is coming to a head. Roderick and I are picking up the AURAL Heather pace, rehearsing and working on new material. I’m not sure First Comes Mary will be ready for our show at the Media Club on April 1 but we are forging ahead. We are trying very hard as well to get a Continue reading →

When apps go sideways, haiku, hillbilly noble woman

Journal, poems, ,

Why, why, why? Why do applications go sideways, stop behaving normally? I need to make changes, update my web site, which is why I bought Adobe Contribute, and can’t because, the Edit Page field is gone and I can’t move the windows around. Arrgghh! And why do I have to spend so much time dicking around with this stuff? I just want to get in and drive. I bought it as a download and have no clue as to how to find the serial number or how to re-install, get to spend the weekend trouble shooting.I told my web designer John Dowler I’m amazed he has any hair left. I want to tear mine out!

I’m trying to write, despite a million distractions. So what else is new? I’m planning a retreat next month. My friend Pete has offered me the use of his place in Gibsons before he moves out so I think I will go over there and work on the novel, get it ready for the Mother Tongue BC novel deadline end of May. Just wrote a haiku for BARE, the art book with Tina though I’m not certain about that title. Most of the trees are bare though so perhaps it is apt .

lofty midrib splayed
dual cedar blades soaring
clear of high riggers

I’m beginning to wonder if there is something going on hormonally that is making me more sensitive to smell. I swear there must be a dead mouse rotting in the utility room. I keep smelling gas and all kinds of pleasant and unpleasant aromas around the house. I have always been acutely sensitive to smell though, my mother said I used to Continue reading →