Home: I want to be

March 30, 2011

City city bang bang:

Hot spring _____ ?

Uh oh Deer eyes. No sunset on the beach for us pataGrads.

Spun spring, dizzy steady, heavy weather ahead of us bowls our underovers, y’us cats rooting for slow mo strongholds with the mystic muck. We vote for the glory of sunset over the necessary pressing of our itinerary.

Books booked buckmudwicked. Time for a picnic before the tow, in the bowels of the beast.

Hitch up the axle for a below the belt tow . . . enh. Rats!

But we’ll kick mud’s ass:

Kelowna or Rust, bound for Word Ruckus.

What’s all th’ fuss? Connect the musts: so good to bust out of CarCity and get down to poetic nitty gritty with folks one province over.

We all just want to be feelin’ like we’re home tonight, and in Kelowna it sho’ felt like that home was right.

We’re all a long way from wanting to come back.

If only we could believe in Spring.


Bucked Off

March 19, 2011

Bronco digs, charted by 1500’s, delineated by dirt funds, streets lit by heat leeched from leaks in Northern patches, fit for filing under anti-social, anti-fun even in the Conservative cabinet.

We stumble awake, tumble down the yard back to miss the bus.

Rabbit in the hat acts in writing, writing text to end the start of climax instead of steadily feeding the Aristotelian machine: we’re making a new machine to rattle the anatomy of the academy (nod to Jurassic), pull out the rug outing the under writers in the avant garde.

They say the new guard is provisional.Where a door is a window is a page is a leaving, we want to want to wash our car at midnight because desire is a porthole to the self complete. Here: where we believe self exists. We fish for our feet and arms and build our bodies tits first. We have billboards so we believe in so much: such things as g-d thinks out of being. Things are no such thing as being.

Spring? All seeds flouresce, ream the shucking night flight. Too late to seam, twould seem. We’ve already irradiated our dreams.

The inventing part of

March 19, 2011

Frantic back tracking to relay the whole story of how the story goes. The story goes . . .

There were words and they were laid out in sentences that lined up laid out lines: were the(y) words there? Or story as holes relaying the tracking back frantic?

There’s nothing frantic about a Steinway. Language’s trip tricker ticked slick. Steady. Solidgrace.

Keying snow to swatch switch flickerpath quick, a mild descent to rend the final cut. With pro the work goes to sines and Xs, Ys

Trip quicker, no lollygagging – this is the schoolhouse call in from recess, the national grant deadline, the time to sign on the dotted line. We leapt and the way the pier laked midnight the shore recalled no chord and so we buried our afternoon.

And how now I miss those afternoons . . .