Silver Carred

July 20, 2011

It’s crazy-makin’ hot at the Art Hospital, even though we live by the lake.

I was silver-carred on my journey to make it here . . .


Just Don’t Do It

April 2, 2011

Please listen carefully to the following announcement via the Provisional Avant Garde via Poetactics . . .

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 . . .

Furred In(ter)RUPTions

February 26, 2011

Dove out of the unblissful agony that is winter by Gary a couple weeks ago for the glories of Writers’ Rebellious In(ter)ventions at the Banff Centre. They’ve given me a music hut for my audio mischief and I love the witchy, blizzed and moonish trip out my res door to this sweet lil creative cave . . .

Out here I can breathe with this wee but wickedly radical group of peers I’m thrown into residency with . . . Nnn, yo, LO BEwholed, we’re into inter-everything – be it ruptions, actions, alities, relations . . . exploring writing and language through various media, OR the re-mediation of ideas and intentions from language into sound, jello, academic discourse re-imagined as playground, Facebook (so I have to re-activate my account to play along ;( ), embroidery, digitization . . . .

Found and lost on the path to the deeper woods to Hoodoos, to the elk pocket sleep picnics, to the sorrow of February twilight cast on icicle, to the slip and fall recover sway dance on the road to watch winter fall into the river tunneling down the mountain drive. I’ve got keys! in my hut to choreograph and beat-note neat my textual cravings.

And let me introduce you to my new radical pals who run presses, document collaboration –write life live line by line, and then flatline online biography, make beautiful sentences that self-destruct in post post-structuralist unverse and absolve us of about-isms

so we can conquer cold heads, case torn spirits and eye rogue land, rebel against the fallen hounded and dig ourselves out of context.

Note by noun, I’m floating these paragraphs out to mid-lake, post-dive from peer to intervening pier. We’re certainly having some stimulating con(ver)sations.

From real life,


November 5, 2010

Lost in the grasses by the road up from the Bow, I miss the dancers down the hall – and the goose-feather pickers, the fire-keepers and late-night runners, the musicians in the portable, the Gas Station, the orange Gibraltar cat, the ghost deer at dawn, the sparrow in the palm . . .

Back and forth, left or leaving?

PS. Tune is thanks to Mount Kimbie’s “Before I Move Off” – buy their music!! –¬†

PPS. Kids in vid = KB, Sarah Pupo, Jo Lathwood.

This Vagabond has had some adventures involving aquariums lately. Battlestar Galactica – who is our resident black goldfish at the Art Hospital – has been quite bereft since the loss of his tankmates. We had a kitchen table fundraiser and Barb and I rode our metal ponies to the Dragon City Aquarium to bring home some new pals for Battlestar.

This is our sucker fish after he was freshly selected from the tank. If he eats enough algae he will grow to 16 inches.

As you can see from below, we have a lot of algae. This is the tank before Battlestar’s new friends were released. You should see it now, it is so spotless we are going to have to get more fish to produce enough detritus/algae for the sucker fish to eat. I will document the evidence here shortly.

When Pat gets back from her transformation to visual art superhero, she is going to name these new gillwigglers. We’re hoping to raise funds for 5 to 6 tiger barbs, which will set us back $26. Feel free to send your loose change over on the ferry.


Last week I went to the zoo with my brothers and their better halves. The Metro zoo was quite disheartening – witnessing caged animals inevitably troubles our perceptions of self, our relationship to animals, and our interactions with the environment. We spent a lot of time at the zoo when we were kids as we were all animal obsessed. Patrick went to Zoo camp, no less. All three Brownies carefully amassed a home zoo out of abandoned and rescued and purchased pets of every variety (and a gentle doom was unleashed on the carpets, the yard, the Encyclopedia set, my parents’ sanity . . .). But this visit has me thinking that this zoo has a limited time on its use value for both its inhabitants and its audience – at least with its current habitats and practices.

Most captivating and shocking was the stingray exhibit, which was available for a limited time only – I think it tours to another zoo so it isn’t limited time for the stingrays. The audience (what to call the zoo-attendee? we are indeed audience to the performance of this construction of animal on display) is asked to thoroughly wash their hands and arms up to the elbow, and then invited to touch the stingrays, who swim clockwise in a large shallow saltwater pool. This is a cowtongue stingray:

We dig each other, me and the stingrays. I hypothesize that the electromagnetic powers which I possess (the ones that shatter computers and electronic equipment of all breeds) are a magnet for stingrays – they were superfans of my palm. A couple of them were leaping out of the water like puppies jacked up on jerky treats everytime they circled past me.

I’m fascinated by stingrays, they’re amazing marine creatures: they’re ghostbirds at twilight when they gather en masse. Manta rays make me want to get my scuba certification – I’ve got to publish a lot of poetry before I make that happen. In the interim, perhaps we should organize a jailbreak, Ric O’Barry styles. I volunteer to be the stingray-pied-piper.

Meantime, I’ll eat my miniature gluten-free garden-raspberry pie while I watch that little sucker fish clear his fish haven of algae in my art heaven. [Diagram that sentence.]

And ruminate on the human obsession with holding animals captive on the twilight boat-ride home to my tank:

Tamara Lindeman of The Weather Station provides some pretty perfect soundtracks for Island life –

Close the Lights

July 7, 2010

Transient once again but this time I’m not embarassed to admit I haven’t got a permanent address when people ask me where I live. I wonder why it’s a topic people feel compelled to discuss. Where you from? precedes or follows hot on the hooves of What do you do? as if the answers are definitive or significant.

And yet, it is a bit ridiculous to think I don’t have a home when I’ve been coming back and forth to the Island for over a year and a half now, and everytime I come back there is my strange and spirited family of friends visiting or living in the Art Centre. Welcoming.

And the beach shores the tide the same as ever. The ants haunt the plank of our thighs, we long to walk about but the mainlanders multiply and we play derby with their bodies on the road to ferry us back and forth, back and forth from the real objectified . . .

What we know goes sun split, longs with the days end and begins to gain on matter, and breath. And then we have to dance with stores, with banking bodies for warmth, with toiling over another chapter read or written.

The way we go is slow to roll forward, easy on back. We are so afraid of looking one another in the eye.

You want to tell me that we can’t go on this way. You want to tell me that you will never own a car.

I want to tell you I have already had things that don’t belong inside the body cut out of me.

No one knows how this ship is driven, and the bark is laced with acid, the gulf engulfs oil, the albatrosses bolus is comprised of plastic: not shells. Not bone. Aim and fire, targets ignite.

Close the lights. Fire ants bite in the night but in the morning we run the shore, renew the score, invent a warmer lore and mill the losses to thread we quilt to lilting.

Either I’ve run away to real life, or been delivered from it. Mos def same diff.

Sounds best on headphones . . .