Sun instead of rain. Bonus. Writing quite a lot, most of which can’t be posted, about events personal and searingly painful. Too much grit, not enough lyric. A death in the family works to put matters of the heart into perspective though. I can say I’m fortunate to have compassionate, intelligent friends in my corner.

I’m so sad, weary, jaded. I wonder if anything appalls me anymore. I was more bemused by the antics—or tactics—because the Black Bloc is not an organization, Black Bloc is a tactic—at the G-20 summit in fair Toronto over the weekend. It seems their message becomes more obscured with each year of their annual bash-in, one reason I’m sure most people chose to watch the World Cup on Saturday instead. It’s all so predictable, tedious. This, a few days after a discussion of anarchy with Sean Cranbury of Books on the Radio as it pertained to punk rock and the Internet. I suppose that is their message. Anarchy. I understand that anarchy does not equate with violent disorder, that the anarchists have gotten a bad rap, but I don’t believe their utopian vision is feasible. Not in this world.

I have always been suspect of mixing art and politics and none of my comrades in punk rock were card-carrying anarchists. I suppose Gerry Useless of the Subhumans was the most radicalized among us and perhaps the only, at least to that degree. Zealotry is zealotry, something my Zellots band mate Conny Nowe and I were aware of as we chose a resonant name. Zealotry is dangerous, futile, often resulting in death. To me, being an artist is a political statement.

The information highway may be swamped with billboards these days but its essence is the same. Everybody and his dog has a blog. What could be more populist? Which is more democracy than chaos. I detest capitalism, abhor the yawning chasm between the rich and the poor—don’t get me started! —but until something better comes along, will not ascribe to anarchy, nor tolerate the chaos anarchists create. Take your Molotovs and your machetes and shove ‘em.

MINE

I find a message
via vanity plate,
a gearshift in the gutter,
an egg,
turquoise and high in a nest.
I make it my own.
Always.
Depreciation?
Not in my house!
It holds its value.
The toaster,
the red couch,
leftover lasagne,
my first stainless steel appliance,
the inherent drama
within
four walls.

And now I mourn.

Roots. Here it be, the latest work-in-progress. The “I, engineer” here full of bravado. It’s not *me* that’s for certain. This redhead is acutely aware that she controls nothing. Do you think the switch in POV works?

Dawning Consciousness

She wakes grimly febrile,
desperately nostalgic
for dawdling in ditches
of tadpoles,
wagering glass
marbles in snow lanes,
sewing mini skirts
for her Barbie,
mashed potatoes,
fried baloney,
the gag reflex.

She shuts her eyes,
snubbing the town’s lens
zooming in on her culpability,
incensed at the sun’s insolence,
rising despite the collisions,
the most recent death toll.

She groans, engulfed in tokens
of admirers, embattled by, Continue Reading »

Check it out! Here it be, our videopoem adaptation of Bushwhack, the book I’ve collaborated on with visual artist Tina Schliessler. Some images are colour, some are black and white. As I said, my old school punk rock cohort Chris Coon and I composed the music and he scored Bushwhack in the 11th hour. I don’t have it up here yet but you can watch it at YouTube in the meantime if you like, and I hope you do.

BUSHWHACK

Lofty
midrib splayed
dual cedar blades
soar.

Bare, pushing bare,
singing Be,
columns stand,
bear heat, stings, ruptures
to make sound,
bring form to mound
and limbs.

Lowering maven trembles.
Hourly swells
rustle spores,
life,
galloping life.

Heaven supporting pillar
in this below
regenerates,
unfurls
her hide.

Slattern in the grove
whisker in Eve,
flymphs and treasure within.

Twisted sideways for the sake of light
shedding, blushing lost in cinnamon.

Barmy birds eye pistachios,
fooled by flying V’s Icarus molting.

Sunlight mackled nub,
pert tummy truncated mute,
spread legs spring ovules.

Giraffe freckled legs,
whistling monkey mouth
sashay past vivisection.

Closely furrowed strut
hecklers scattered to the wind.
Power to divine.
Her brawn perpetual,
stance, a pledge.

Persisting many seasons
in lace bark
peepers penetrate,
ogle, wink.
Spy or witness?

Coarsely fissured bole
muscles in on a finite niche,
damp, narrow, coastal fog belt.
Hardy, assurgent,
frontal as weather
prehensile Pan grasps
blundering larvae.
Spared by the hand fallers
for his perceived charm,
multifarious bush ape
trounces rot.
Flourishes!

Unfallen, unadorned
unashamed hydra,
free of thorns, caprice.
Plenary femme sole
indulging in whorling,
forsaking heaven for nirvana.
Brandishing titties,
budding insurgent
claws Adamite armour,
grips the root,
embraces the earth.

Frazzled! I may not look it here but I am fried! Wiped out! Crashing post-wrap, but surfacing too, to all the tasks that have piled up back at the ranch. O isn’t it fun being an artist? Okay, I’m going to refrain from bitching, whining and moaning. For now.

O my poor blog! One Life is not enough! I’ve neglected it for the past few weeks, along with several other fronts, as I scrambled to finish up production on two videopoems in order to make Monday’s Zebra Poetry Film Festival deadline. How To Remain by AURAL Heather and Bushwhack, adapted from the book with visual artist Tina Schliessler. Both projects have left the building! In the post on their way to Berlin.

My old school punk rock cohort Chris Coon and I composed music and he scored Bushwhack in the 11th hour. We made several major changes in editing and worked through a mountain of snafus, naturally. Woo hoo! Josef and I were just discussing the incredible amount of work that’s gone into the 2:32 minutes of How To Remain and 5:07 minutes of Bushwhack. Lots of hoops to jump through for the application as well including the following synopses: Continue Reading »

Remember when you had to turn “Roaming” on your cell phone when you left your natural environment, vicinity, country? They’re pretty intuitive, universal now, right? I imagined a young rock luminary ducking rehab by fleeing to an island.

Roaming On

Stolen holiday. Far from rain flowers, unemployment,
asbestos, new town Basildon. Rangy teen virtuoso
activates Roaming on his mobile phone, eager
for a slice of country living, to court ravenous farmers’
daughters on Jersey, Guernsey, Alderney and Sark
and wonders, why do their cattle roam the earth?
Alfresco lobster lunches, no word for stress they say.
A tax haven. He scorns the salver of mini booze,

Sky Store catalogue, not in the market for pricey
cheap perfume, Gucci sunglasses. Not feeling
festive toward packets of party mix, he surveys
the movie, startled to hear a saw in its musical score.
Next to him, the butane-soaked Stratocaster he loves
to hump onstage. Bloomin’ airline won’t permit
his Marshal stack in the cabin though
despite his showmanship, dexterity.
Gobbling Valium, nicked from Mum, he drops off
to dream of hurtling through blue flame, ala Buddy Holly.

He survives to spy a Continue Reading »