Laredo

Gonna take a trip to Laredo
Gonna take a dip in the lake
Oh, I'm at a crossroads with myself
I don't got no one else

And possibilities at the door
I won't be needing them anymore
Oh, is this the first time in your life?
It's hard just to get by

radio

Repeat it until it becomes mythology

Show, don't tell

The cold sunlight flickered like lace against her face as it passed through the metal fence the next day. She had gone to the sushi restaurant, as planned, the night before. Having sat for over half and hour, waiting with a cup of hot tea in her hand, she left, walking into the snow. Standing in front of the pink, blinking fortune teller sign across the street, she smoked a cigarette and still, watched the restaurant. Holding hot thoughts in her hands, she went home to face this silence, watching the snow.

signatures have been cut off

Archange Meredith, at your post. I read you in chronology, but you move in circles. Your Halifax fog and rain, they hang over Napoleon Bonaparte as he rides towards your shore. You spend weeks crossing the Atlantic, your three children in tow. Archange Meredith, you’re at your post.

12 Apr 2007

St. Andrew, 11pm, die Zauberei

I stepped out from the Goethe Institut into the rain. The street was drenched and the lights shone off its slick like Christmas lights through honey. Despite the dark, I found the subway and rode home through its warm tunnel, passing all the pastel coloured names of places drawn up in tiles along the way.

19 Apr 2007

Trade: Lullabies for Lenny


I read him, you read his wife. We sleep in separate beds, you with your painting beside you, me with the row of cigar box nails that will have to hang it. We dream of each other.

from Tanglewreck:

'What's a mistress?' asked Silver.

Micah hesitated. 'A mistress be the woman you love even though you not be married to her...The whole of London be digged with such Lady Lanes, so that a man may travel in secret to his mistress. Some be deep, some be shallow, some be creeping for miles through the gloom of the pit, some be connecting two houses that rubs next to one another, and all lit by love.'

23 Apr 2007

Get over the fear and dance

I'm not in London, I'm not in France.

I'm not in London, I'm not in France.

I'm not in London, I'm not in France.

I'm not in London, I'm not in France.

I'm not in London, I'm not in France.

driving south: song

How can one single bass line make me miss those hills, those stones, those tin cans filled with mercury, the smell of you at my front door?

Colloquium

When mimetic desire becomes creative, reconciliation and active flourishing occur as individuals or communities consciously create alternatives to scapegoating.

a. rich

23 Jul 2007


Adrienne Rich

A VALEDICTION FOBIDDING MOURNING

My swirling wants. Your frozen lips.
The grammar turned and attacked me.
Themes, written under duress.
Emptiness of the notations.

They gave me a drug that slowed the healing of wounds.

I want you to see this before I leave;
the experience of repetition as death
the failure of criticism to locate the pain
the poster in the bus that said;
my bleeding is under control.

A red plant in a cemetery of plastic wreaths.

A last attempt; the language is a dialect called metaphor.
These images go unglossed; hair, glacier, flashlight.
When I think of a landscape I am thinking of a time.
When I talk of taking a trip I mean forever.
I could say; those mountains have a meaning
but further than that I could not say.

To do something very common, in my own way.

china shop

Yesterday I felt like I'd been sold something only slightly faulty. I couldn't quite make out the faults but I knew they were there, like a second from a china shop: still beautiful but somehow off.


An ice cube in hot tea. A pigeon perched above the tins.

copy&paste

cinérotic

from

ONSUPER8

With dates across France and Europe and a possible trip to Canada therafter

Jamais 203

01/19/2007

for Penelope and Odysseus

Let's switch roles.

You are the piece of rock, the land, the island; the gulls and planes circle around your beacons but never touch down; and the fruit falls, always west, in your direction.

I am the cord let loose, the balloon that travels on the winds and circles the tops of the temples, the one who sees your tears as I retract into the seas above you.

Isaac de Bankolé

I run toward your Côte d'Ivoire
with blackened heart
and fingertips.

Looking for man-made harbours,
I run toward your slanted beach
and find nothing but palms in your hands.

The beach is like a stingray
and so we float, sails in our hair and
rudders the length of our feet,

along the strand.

Quasar

I don't want plot, I don't want characters, I just want a moving painting on the screen.

about me

It is no accident that we sometimes walk from right to left: