CUB

One hand follows the other

to this place where bears scuffle

over huckleberries, deer flies

rule. Well dry, climbing roses

rest, wait out freak heat.

Gardens are to woodlands

what drag queens are to women.

I tend seedlings, bulbs, plots,

fume as my terrier, soft woofer, degenerates

into a baying Cerberus. I am expecting

no one. Then I hear gears,

wheels pulverizing the rutted gravel road.

I am expecting nothing. Nothing

is what I receive until your teeny foot

in my door, your arrival triangulating two

parties. Spoony offshoot, the final score

of recreational sex into overtime. A boy. To bore

into my nape and puke and suck hard.

I must have been a girl before. I forget history.

How many years we angled in the Tetons.

Buff. Randy. Flush. How many sappy

songs he scritched onto tree bark.

Our nativity, out here, on a bed of curling,

luminous white fungi. Or while I bob

in the pond, dozing between koi. Pains.

Suspended yellow hands will wave, cheer;

maple leaves ensnared in a web of bare boughs.

Alder trunks will lean over us,

black pencils graying, mottled, like soldiers

erasing interlopers, blending in to make peace.

The vegetable patch, with stalks of pink

rhubarb will fuel our labour. I hope it’s on a night

the mountain lion sleeps. You are born

in October. Know what you want. Know

that I have it. Zero in on immunoglobulins. Fat.

Sugar. I smell like you. The flow may slow

though we nurse until you are two, my nipples

tall, sturdy. Prissy finger wags. Hissy grandma tongue

gags. Perverts. Just don’t call me late for supper.

Junior’s favourite corny joke. Before I forget,

she was stacked, dreaded parent-teacher nights

and ran our household like an ant farm.

Not willing to wait, you nearly die from myth.

A believer. In Santa. Age eight. Lodged

in the chimney. Woody, sweet as a cinnamon stick

tender volunteer fireman work hours to heave-ho,

hand over. A smudge. Intrepid soot cub,

legs strapping my waist. Frightened, at last.

The challenges therein. And as I near completion, filled with doubt. Naturally. Firstly, shooting has been difficult. It’s fucken raining all the time. Started in March, figured that would be plenty of time for the May 2 deadline but at this point, my options are narrowing. I hope we have enough footage. I need to do a couple of shots over and of course, it’s pouring out. Fingers crossed. I nearly screwed up my camera shooting in the rain, trying to forge ahead. It started malfunctioning. Fortunately a friend reminded me of a trick; sealing it in a Ziploc bag with rice, which dried it nicely. I was relieved to say the least.

Secondly, no close ups! The lens is so limited, I am reduced to medium shots. Period. The damn thing goes out of focus at one foot. I wanted to isolate eyes, mouths, hands. Forget it. I tried to find found footage but matching it with ours didn’t work as my 17-year old son/editor pointed out. He’s been helping me on videopoems since age eight, but this is our first real collaboration, a challenge in and of itself but mostly highly gratifying. He kicks my butt! Will not allow shots that are too shaky or out of focus. So funny. I said, hey, I’m not trying to be Steven Spielberg. I will make choices you wouldn’t. We argue for a bit and he wins. ‘Cause he’s right. We have standards. That’s my boy. He amazes me; taught himself to edit video at age ten, began producing machinimas and has had his own YouTube channel since. He’s got a lovely podcasting set-up going too which he allows me to use sometimes. We’ve developed a system in the house so he remains undisturbed while recording. He places a funky beaded necklace—a souvenir of Hawaii—on the door handle. I’m so lucky, he’s a great kid  and he works cheap; the third major challenge, a zero budget. (I’ve spent fifty bucks on a dress and seven bucks on flowers.) We barter. I copy edit his fan fiction in return for video editing services.

Fourth; try being subject, director, stylist, costumer, make-up and hair person simultaneously. Tough. Onward and upward. Today we finish the titles and credits. I wanted to use the font on the cover of my book Three Blocks West of Wonderland, designed by Derek von Essen who kindly sent it along. Called Block, it only works on a Mac. So Junior and I delighted in finding a something similar. I knew it was reminiscent of a 50s font, reminded me of the titles from old science fiction movies, so of course we googled “50s sci fi movies” and found a great site,  Tack-O-Rama, Retro Resources for Designers.  Junior insisted on going through them all until we came upon “Jungle Fever” which seems so apropos, after working through a jungle of obstacles and setbacks.

And as we work we are developing methods, infrastructure, process. Shoot. Render. Watch and identify clips, noting the best, most viable and figure out the right place for them in the piece. I make notes on a hard copy of the poem. Then create a rough cut. Experiment. Re shoot. Refine.

Using white Christmas lights to suggest stars, constellations. Doing Orion over but Cassiopeia came out nearly perfect. Serendipity. Yes! And as I was shooting, I had to back up into a rhododendron. Ouch. I’m getting to the point where it’s hard to figure out what to change, to be objective at all. I hope to have time to post the rough cut and get a little feedback but it may be too late for that, which means I will have to trust my instincts, go for it. Deadlines are harsh but very ultimately useful. So here it be, our new videopoem, Whore In The Eddy with audio from our AURAL Heather CD of spoken word songs, Princess Nut.

“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.” ― Oscar Wilde

Still completely immersed in videopoem production, verging on burn out so I’m a little slow on the uptake. I should have posted this 4/20. For the record, I oppose prohibition. Any American-style War On Drugs is a farce. Christ, smoking pot is a tradition in this country. And Stephen Harper is an asshole, on the issue, along with most others. But, hey, we keep voting for him. In any case, I’m happy to report this poem has been selected for Ooligan Press‘s Pacific Poetry Project: An Anthology of Three Cities. (Seattle, Vancouver, Portland.) It’s from my collection, Three Blocks West of Wonderland.

APPLETON

Hookah squats on carpet, Buddha

-esque. Undulating spirals of sapphire

smoke hula up her nose. That buzz.

That buzz that slows your blood,

calls you back to bed like a lover.

Soothes your inner asshole.

B.C. bud. Best bud

in the world. Worth risking jail for.

High-resolution satellite images.

Narcs’ warrant executed Tuesday.

Grow-op raided Wednesday.

Dozens of firearms. Five thousand plants.

Big bust for a small town, says Constable Cook.

For export, for sure.

Cultivation facilities dismantled.

Straight people relieved. Green party over,

but Zoe cried. It was the best job ever!

Dope dealers pay well. Her boyfriend

sold product at school. Their responsibilities

included digging a tunnel under the border,

blaming black fingernails and muddy jeans

on dirt biking at the gravel pit.

Parents were shocked. We thought she

was 
on Facebook, chatting. We thought he was

on the Internet, with her, boy’s father chiding,

it’s APPLEton, son, not Marijuanaton.

Fortunately my current videopoem project is going much more smoothly than the one depicted in this poem. Don’t hire crazy people, the moral of the story I guess. It can be hard to tell though; sociopaths are often charming and erudite.

ROUGH CUT

After enduring a gestation period
of eighteen months
and several bouts of incommunicado-ness
she dutifully reports to the clay eater’s

rat’s nest to defend her lump of art
before he nibbled away all the footage.
She sings his praises, pretending
the indiscriminate cravings

and grinding teeth do not exist,
do not wear her down.
Meth-heads don’t generate, they spin
scratched vinyl, shoot blankly,

regurgitate turbulence, gnaw and brew
dandelion wine because it’s free,
free as roadside blackberries
and meadows of psilocybin.

Pirate of his own ship-
bachelor pad bouncy house-
sleeping in a pocket on the floor,
close to the cache

when he isn’t busy
snipping, sniping.
Under the red toque
a mind’s eye so muddied

it can see nothing
move.
Bloodied images, frames, shots
blur unremittingly.

Recreate. Rework. Repeat.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
With no redress, no kind release,
she seriously considers murder.

I am swamped with the videopoem, in the throes of production and haven’t had the wherewithal to journal but what the hell, it’s National Poetry Month, so here you go.

A PIG WALKS INTO A BAR

For Sooke, AKA L112, killed killer whale
Naval exercises, Strait of Juan de Fuca, Feb, 2012

Need fuels catastrophe
But blowing stuff up is a hobby.
Just to see what happens.
In his spare time. For fun.

So, Pig wanders into a bar,
Mauling the first blonde he sees.
The one who’s heard it all.
Meek dick taker. Instant co-spiralee.

No-guff companion, quickly enamored
of her salient recycled mate.
Faithful ego extension, she waits
patiently, fourth in line.

It’s the reckless man
That underestimates her pale grip,
Courts the highly functioning
simpering angel face, dressed up

To impersonate a pure silk purse.
“Can I get a beer please?”
Here, have a cup of cyanide,”
Says the bartender, “it goes down quicker,

Delivers a merciful fate.”
That’s okay,” replies the pig.
“I’m the one that goes
Wee-wee-wee! all the way home.”

The accompanying image is from a Trojan condom commercial. Hardly an illumination of the poem but funny with a pertinent message; I couldn’t resist.

In creation mode. Senses heightened, sensitive to light, its nuances, everything framed, perceived as a potential shot for the new videopoem. Grateful it isn’t snowing, spring has arrived at last. Must strike while the sun is out. Need to find the exact right angle to shoot arm-in-puddle. Wish we had a longer lens, could get more of the background, create a more intriguing horizon but oh well, have to work with what you have. Or have not, tripod so flimsy it handles like a toy tripod. I lie on the ground. The things I do for art. Direct sun creates shadows and throws glare everywhere. Will shoot anyway and do over if necessary. I can see why nature photographers get paid the big bucks. I can see but can’t even capture a plane flying overhead though my hands are numbs from the cold. And I have to think that viewing hundreds of videopoems in my role as Visible Verse Festival curator has honed my sensibilities, crystallized vision.

Working with my boy, my teenaged son who taught himself how to edit video at age 10 so he could post machinimas on his YouTube channel. It’s been going well, better than I thought. He actually takes direction. We’re a good team, working through challenges together; rough terrain, crappy equipment and tricky shots, problem solving in tandem. He tends to rush through things so our process demonstrates process. He was only about seven years old when I produced my first videopoem Dying for the Pleasure. We shot it on a friend’s farm out in South Surrey and Junior was on location, helping. He refused to watch it for many years, found it too disturbing. Nowadays he banters with his buddies online, exchanging insults and cursing like a truck driver. Or gamer.

So back to work. We’ll be in shooting, then editing mode for the next month. Said to Junior that being an artist can feel like a curse, but at least I have the guts to be what I am. Which is what I’ve always encouraged him to do, be his own man, true to himself.

First new poem since I lost all my verse in a hard drive crash. This image is by my fabulous friend KAth Boake. It isn’t meant to illustrate the poem, I just like it and it’s new too.

A major windstorm and ensuing power outages have put me behind schedule and I’m still recovering from, and cleaning up after Saturday’s festivities, a tribute to Irving Layton as part of nationwide and international centenary celebrations. We celebrated my birthday as well, still substantially less than 100 years ago, and it was quite the bacchanalia, entirely fitting we all agreed. I made cassoulet, Thesa (Pakarnyk) brought butter chicken and Kyle (Hawke) brought a huge, fantastic pumpkin cake in the shape of a book, left page with Layton’s The Improved Binoculars painted upon maple icing, the right with the title poem from my book, Three Blocks West of Wonderland. I can’t stop eating the damn thing! I must stop eating the damn thing!

And I must confess it was for sentimental reasons that I hosted the event. Or perhaps pure nostalgia. As a teenager, Irving Layton was one of the poets who inspired me to write and then I met his son Max one summer while hitchhiking all over BC with my best friend Cathy. We were so resourceful, I swear I left with $50 and returned with $50. And I can’t believe we did that. Survived! Ah, the resiliency of youth, and if I believed in the supernatural, I’d swear that we’re blessed with guardian angels.

So the two of us wound up in Campbell River once. I recall meeting a crew of boisterous loggers in the bar. Are they called crews? Anyway, the lot of them snuck us into camp and brought us heaping plates of steak and potatoes. We were always hungry. A handsome, talented  young man appeared and serenaded us on guitar. A romantic figure, Max Layton grew up surrounded by artists and poets including Leonard Cohen, who gave him guitar lessons in exchange for one of his mother Betty Sutherland’s paintings. I never saw him again but thanks to social networking, Max and I reconnected. When he told me about the centenary, I was happy to participate, to gather with friends on Bowen Island, across Canada and around the world paying homage to an icon of Canadian literature.

Irving Layton may have been a bohemian, an advocate of sexual freedom, but let’s face it, the guy haboured a very bad attitude toward women. But, all grown up now I’m able to separate the man from the work, the poet from politics. I love his way with words, his lust for life. As with many other male writers–Henry Miller only one of my guilty pleasures—I must pacify my inner feminist for I am a sucker for language, its power. And obviously I’m a sucker for silver-tongued devils and troubadours.

I read from the same book I had back in high school, Periods of the Moon.  I am no less passionate about poetry and Cathy is still my best friend. Some things endure, the important things, like love and literature.

A lively group from various backgrounds, we featured a mix of Bowen Island and Vancouver poets and writers. Dennis E. Bolen is primarily a novelist but writing his autobiography in verse. He observed that he couldn’t lift the cake, so read what is perhaps Layton’s most famous work, The Improved Binoculars in his inimitable way and then If I Lie Still.

Bowen Island poet Lisa Shatsky’s first collection Do Not Call Me By My Name on Black Moss Press came out last year. She shared how Al Purdy introduced her to Layton’s work after meeting him in Montreal at the age of 18, having snuck into a bar. She pondered over Layton’s depictions of women, decided to find a poem that she actually liked and then write one in response. There was a lot of banter between audience and poet at this shindig; Julie (Vik) asked her how long it took to find one. Lisa said Berry Picking jumped out at her and read it beautifully. Her Letter to Irving Layton succinctly addressed his misogyny. Women as “muse and executioner at the same time . . . You must have longed to be delicate in another’s hand” and imagined meeting him at an outdoor café. She nailed it.

Sylvia Taylor, author of the forthcoming Fisher Queen and ever the teacher brought handouts featuring fifteen of Irving’s pithiest quotes and read Layton’s The Wave. Resplendent in fuscia pink leather Barbie driving gloves that surely would have driven Irving wild, Sylvia said,  “To commemorate how he equally adored and despised women.”

In a powerful voice, theatre director Don MacLean delivered one of Layton’s most searing and disparaging-of-poetry-and-poets poems, Whom I Write For.

My friend Thesa Pakarnyk hitchhiked from the ferry to my house with her friend Sabrina Prada (resourceful and independent) read a lovely Thesa poem, African Violets and then in stark contrast, O Jerusalem and Dialogue, both about Layton’s perspective on Christians and Jesus, (sent to her by Max Layton. Again, resourceful girl.) Thesa, a whirling dervish of talent, whose professional work includes animation and music, is currently putting together a live poetry/singing/performance jazz group. I’ll stick out my thumb for that show for sure.

Lastly, and by no means leastly, my dear friend, former band mate and fellow book lover, singer-songwriter extraordinaire Julie Vik surprised us with a reading and related how, like Lisa, she had been turned onto Layton by Al Purdy, who had come to her high school. She delivered On Obsession with aplomb, from a Layton collection she’d had since her teen years.

Then we ate cake! Amongst other things. A fantastic night. A night to remember. A la vida! Long live verse. And versifyers!

Yikes! No wonder I’m looking over my shoulder. The world is running out of redheads. We are predicted to be extinct within 100 years. And we experience pain differently. I knew it. I’m not just a sensitive artist as my friend Gretl so kindly pointed out.

Musings. Such musings are pretty much all I can muster today; struggling to shake malaise, the flu and my inner misanthrope, mood nearly as foul as the weather. Why bother? Why bother blogging? I am a barometer of the times if nothing else. A speck. A speck that can’t stop striving to be more than a speck.

“When you feel happy it somehow seems that you’ve always been happy and that you’ll always be happy. The same is often true when you feel sad, or lonely, or depressed, or broke, or sick, or scared. Something, perhaps, to remember.”-One of those silly albeit often prescient Notes from the Universe. What a relief. It’s only a matter of time. Not sure there’s much consolation in that.

Music helps. At the moment, I am listening to a favoured Internet radio station, Cluberry Chill, ‘cause I needs to chill don’t you know. Rest. Recover. They just played Laurie Anderson’s Mr. Heartbreak and are now onto some swanky 60s noir soul. Sometimes I move over to Mountain Chill where the DJ drawls song titles reminiscent of the classic, late night DJ portrayed by Clint Eastwood in Play Misty For Me, the original Fatal Attraction. “Stay tuned.” Old school. Who gets to program their own program these days? We are very adept at bringing back the tried and true way of doing things though. Rock and roll will never die and neither will DJs. My favourite rock station lately is AndHow.com out of New Zealand. I love Internet radio, its infinite selection. I cannot abide commercial radio and refuse to listen to it in the car, plugging in my iPod instead. I can’t believe they’re playing essentially the same playlists they played in the 70s.

Creating helps. Family affair. I’m writing songs with my nephew and gearing up to start production on a new videopoem, having recruited my 17 year old son to help shoot and edit.  We can play it by ear and work on days when the weather cooperates. I plan to use the audio from my AURAL Heather CD Princess Nut and the Whore In The Eddy track. I wanted to use a mannequin in some of the shots, tried to get one donated because as usual I’m working with a zero budget and did not succeed. So I’ve decided it was probably too overt, too literal an interpretation anyway. I’ll improvise.

Ridley Scott is on YouTube promoting Your Film Festival, though it obviously belongs to YouTube. Watched a bit of Blade Runner with my boy the other night, who is suddenly an aspiring writer. Will miracles never cease? He used to hate reading but is now asking for books, taking my advice, the same advice I share with every aspiring writer. Read! Read good writing if you want to be a good writer though lately I can’t focus, or read anything but biographies and verse. I can always read poetry. It bolsters me. I don’t understand how people can’t appreciate it. I mean, you can read two or three poems on your lunch break people. Little shots of literature. Heady stuff. Potent stuff that goes down easy if you ask me.

And people are asking me, more all the time. To mentor. I’ve been contracted to facilitate several workshops this spring. About time I guess, a natural progression. I’ve been here a long time, biding my time, taking it all in. I recently watched a film by Larry Kent called Hastings Street, taking delight in seeing the Cozy Corner grocery store. It had remained a landmark and stood across from the Smilin’ Buddha in my punk rock heyday. I remember Tony from the Dils was so chivalrous he escorted me across the street to buy a pack of cigarettes, hard to do when you’re swooning.

Death hovers closely. Too much. Too often. Our beloved Jim Green died! I played Vancouver city hall once, with my spoken word act Bent Tail. I think the program must have been one of his initiatives, as much an advocate for the arts as for the poor. Always kind and friendly and funny. R.I.P. Jim.

Find myself tallying the years I may or may not have left which can only be depressing. I think I must be working toward acceptance of my vulnerability, my mortality. Our mortality. Of course, it’s bittersweet but forces one to appreciate life. A friend shared news of his mother’s illness and death. A lump formed in my throat reading his raw, bare and moving account of her suffering and courage. I couldn’t talk about the way my mother had died to anyone, including myself, for many years.  Then I wound up depicting the strange and sadly sordid episode in my novel. So on the eve of my birthday, death pawing at the door, I’ve decided I must start taking myself seriously as an artist, before it’s too late. I can only write about my experiences with any authority, authenticity. My tiny spot in this vast universe. My speck of time. In time. It’s all I know for certain.

The Godfather 40th Anniversary marathon on AMC. Wow, Coppola’s daughter Sophia is so much better a director than an actress. Junior claims to like the third movie. We get semantical a lot lately and discussed the meaning of the word saga. So funny, he said, “Why don’t they call it a trilogy?” I said why can’t it be both? Because it is. A trilogy and a saga. I love the trilogy, and or, saga. I can watch them again and again, unlike most films. They’re textured. Lately I wind up observing the tabby cat the Godfather is stroking on the day of his daughter’s wedding, the streaks of grey in Michael’s hair as he sits the edge of Lake Tahoe, and marvel at Kay’s fury, her defiance as she spurns him and his son with “this Sicilian thing!” Christ, I sound like a fanatic. Must be the Catholic in me.

Speaking of death, the verdict is in. I just received the pronouncement that my hard drive is indeed toast, no data can be retrieved. I’ve effectively lost four years of work. Every poem, every picture, every document and every correspondence gone. Thank Christ for the Internet because some of it resides there. Interesting, we will be the first to leave a virtual self when we die. So that is one task ahead of me now, tracking down what I can. And I woke this morning thinking, how can I not be used to loss by now? Why can’t I roll with the punches better? Maybe I do. My friend L pointed out that I’m still able to smile and laugh. I can’t help myself. I always hope against hope that hope remains when I’d probably be better off dead, the only alternative to facing each day. So, I get up. Function. As best I can. Take care of business. Tackle my list. Organize errands, prioritize chores when all I want to do is run away. Flee. Pull a Gauguin. Find happiness.  I will try to go with the flow. I ain’t no hippie but that’s what I want to do for the rest of my precious life. Slow Down. Be deliberate, in the present.

If I can only stop censoring myself, sabotaging myself, I will preserve our story, everyone that I share this time in history with. We are a fraternity. I have something to say. As do you my friend.

And my son is reading. Writing. Reveling in his time.