Large Sloped Claims
I
can't get used to what they've done with the Olympic Games. When I was a boy,
everyone was clothed, and these days they're entirely naked. I know it fairs
things up, but I worry about what it's doing to the garment industry.
I
go onto the Internet for my cake decorating hobby advice, and I hit a page
that's made by the greatest cake decorator in the world, who lives in
When
did fiction become so unreal, especially television fiction? I remember
believing whatever I was presented with, but nowadays I can see right through
it. It turns out that realism is only one part, or approach, to made-up
materials. I wonder if everyone else is in on it and I'm the only one who
doesn't get it.
Do
you ever look down on a city from a plane and wonder what's near all those
lights? All those people, and they're all up to something? How many murders,
how much lovemaking? And yet‑statistics and demographics in fact preceded
*
Her
desire said: "I've a basement of bargains from which everything must go.
I've cleared the attic out: that's where the costly stuff was. Up there I kept
all the things I didn't dare use for fear of breaking them. All my memories
were there: the good ones anyway. They're out of my hands now: they're
bequeathed. I suppose they mirror a lot of objects in other people's attics. My
engagement party for instance. Mine was grand, for me anyway, so I kept
everything in the attic. A guest maybe has put the memory on the ground floor:
but someone who had a terrible time, the memory is probably in the
basement."
My
desire asked: "So what's it feel like, this letting go?"
Her
desire said: "I'm drawing in my tentacles, you might say. Or maybe it's
just that nothing of anything counts much anymore. All the times I've waited by
the phone, waiting for someone to call: what foolishness. I was wrong. All I
have now is all my mistakes down in the basement. And I am well and truly
giving them away."
My
desire said: "Your mistakes are precious, though."
Her
desire said: "That's why they're for free."
*
She
was eighteen months old, and yet she wouldn't talk.
"C'mon,
baby, say it, say Ma Ma, say Da Da. Say it just once. Say Ma Ma. Say Da Da. Ma.
Ma. Da. Da."
Dick
came in the door while Jane was doing this. He hung up his depressed coat and
took off his sad shoes. He went over.
"Still
nothing, huh?" He leaned over. "Da. Da. Da. Da. Ma. Ma. Ma. Ma."
Jane
pulled at her exasperated hair. "Nothing works!" she cried. "All
the books tell me she should be speaking by now!"
Dick
patted her hysterical shoulder. "The books: those are just averages of a
sort. I'm sure she'll speak in her own good time." He jingled the jingler
hanging over the crib. "Jing, jing, jing. Da. Da.
Ma. Ma."
"Well.
How was your day?"
"I
got a promotion."
"Good
for you! Ma. Ma. Da. Da."
"The
Internet is really coming along, let me tell you."
"Wonderful."
"We'll
be writing to
"Oh
Dick stop. Enough for tonight."
"Supper ready?"
"Almost
there. The double boiler's double boiling. Ma. Ma. Ma."
"Maybe
we bought the wrong breed," he said, and stroked his puzzled chin.
*
VH1 Presents Behind the Poem
Wallace
Stephens -
I saw a
blackbird. I was looking at it. I thought about the different ways I could look
at it if I was so inclined. I wrote thirteen poems about the blackbird I had
seen. There's nothing more to say. I awoke in the numinous field.
William
Coleridge - The Ancient Mariner
It all
happened as I told it!! I didn't change a thing!! There he was!! Stopping me!!
To tell me his tale!! I was so fucking high!! T'was an ancient mariner!!
William Shakespeare
- Sonnet 18
This poem was
about the only time I really got the blue balls. Christ it hurt like hell. I
was like staggering down the boulevard. I was sure she did it on purpose.
Jesus! So I gave her to a friend of mine. I hope he suffered. The bitch.
Homer - The
Iliad
She came to
me, the muse, and she told me a tale I'd heard for years, about the battle
between my people and the Asians; she told me more, much more, and I wrote it
down. I can't really say much more than that.
*
In
my life the brown nylon twine from a tall spool which held probably several
miles I strung about my room, going from bed post to door knob to lighting
fixture to dresser handle to shelf bracket to closet hinge to bed leg to window
clasp to door hinge to curtain rod to lighting fixture to bed post to shelf
bracket to dresser handle to door knob to closet hinge to door knob, then up
and down and back and forth from tack to tack wildly and chaotically, climbing
as I did so through the centre of the web I was spinning for my own pleasure
and containment, merely for the effect of it, just to see how much chaos I
could create, with the brown nylon twine like a representative language
containing empty syntax alone, then I considered the work done and I lay on the
floor looking up at the patterns that had formed without any intentionality
whatsoever, with random manmade clumps hanging midair where twine crossed twine
across twine, then feeling accomplished I returned the twine from the end to
the beginning back onto the spool, such is my bred-in-the-bone atheism.
I
think I'll read Flaubert next.
*
"We
must go," said she.
"Let
us start to pack," said he.
"Here
is the small case," said she.
"Here
is the large case," said he.
"We
should start with the wet things. Let us put them in bags," said she.
"There.
Now they are all in bags," he said.
"Good,"
she said. "Let us put these bags in those bags."
"All done. We have the wet things done,"
said he.
"What
should we put in next? Oh, what?" said she.
"Clothes
should be next, for they are soft," said he.
"Put
in half the clothes," said she, "then half can go on top of the hard
things."
"Good.
Let us split up the parts to put in the bags the cranium, mandible, humeri,
metacarpals, femurs, tarsals, vertebræ,
sacri, and coccyx," said he.
"There,"
said she. "Now let us go on to put into the bags the duodenum,
gallbladder, pancreas, thymus, cerebellum, retina, cochlea, and pineal
gland."
"Done,
and in good time," said he. "Now we have more soft things to cover
those hard things."
"That
all took no so long as I thought it would take," said she.
"Let
us zip up our bags," she he.
"Let's,"
said she.
*
Drafts
Many
years later, meeting on the street in a foreign country and a foreign town, she
told him: "I wrote letter after letter to you."
And
he replied: "Oh really. What happened to them?"
"I
still have them. They're all ready to go. They're stamped, with you address on
it."
"Probably a very old
address."
"I
suppose so. Yes, that's when I gave up on them, when I heard you'd moved to
another house. The letters seemed instantly as outdated as the addresses on the
envolopes."
"That
was a very long time ago."
"I
still have them."
"You
told me."
"I
still have them. Still. The stamps could be worth a fortune by now."
"Probably not."
"No, probably not. But still. They're at least worth
their original value."
"They
haven't been franked so yes they still do."
"Too
bad they'd all be too insufficient funds and returned to me."
"It'd
be a shame to ruin the stamps in that way."
"Oh,
I'd never think of dropping them into a mailbox."
"If you could find a
mailbox."
"There's still post offices though."
"Yes,
of course. There's still post offices."
"It'd
be easy."
"Can
you tell me what you wrote?"
"No."
*
As
I was being escorted, with both high panache and grand tradition, to the
scaffold, I turned my gaze to left and to right, seeking out amongst friends
and enemies‑seemingly more of the former than latter‑the brown eyes
of my beloved Kate; for surely she had received my invitation, répondez s'il vous plait? And though it
was my Kate I especially wanted to spot, I was meanwhile also looking for my
other hundred guests, none of whom I could see either (though I did espy not a
few relatives of my so-called "victims").
I
would have stopped cold with an epiphany had not the gaolers been prodding my
with lash and sword, that I was surrounded by base ingratitude of high degree;
did those I had chosen for preference not recognise their privileged position vis-à-vis the οἱ πολλοί [hoi polloi‑‑ed.]? Why, did
they not realize I had freely and of will elevated them
into the notorious tome dubbed History? What was I receiving then? Not olive
leaves and sublime hosannas but rather the eructed phlegm and hirsute jeers of
those not even fit to ruffle my ruff....
With
great bitterness did I set my neck on the guillotine's frame.
*
How They Used to Make People
These
days, they've altered the language nearly beyond recognition. Example. Example. Example.
The
foods they're cooking and eating, why, it's all made of stuff that didn't even
come close to existing when I was young. Example. Example. Example.
We
used to change our clothes to fit the fashions of the day. Nowadays clothes
don't matter that much at all. They're all getting pictures on their bodies and
electronic implants. Example. Example.
Example.
They
don't get character-building diseases anymore. Time was,
rickets set you at a distance from your peers. Made you
special. No more. They have to fake 'em, you know. Example.
Example. Example.
We
took it as a miracle, time was, that the newspaper, all five pounds of it, got
to the door within a week of publication. The advertisements were most
marvellous. Kids these days say a word and the thing appears. Example. Example. Example.
We
used to have crabby old men who'd mock us for our idiocy and in return we'd
call them what they were. These kids they don't have that anymore. They think
they're the greatest things. Crabby old men are a thing of the past. Example. Example. Example.
*
An Inappropriate Story
I
looked menacingly into my blue-green eyes. I could see a picture of stark
raving fear on my face.
I
said to me: "Don't you think it's time to confess? Admit it. You murdered
me on the 7th floor of the Hotel Solus and dumped my body in a bin out
back!"
I
fidgeted and cried: "I've been framed! I set me up! That bastard! I
thought I could trust me; I'd murder me if I had the chance."
"That'll
be the day," I told me.
I
figured I had to go out in a blaze of glory. I deftly grabbed my gun from my
holster and pointed it at me. "Listen," I said: "I'm letting me
out of here if it's the last thing I do."
"Don't
be a fool, me. Give you back your gun and come along."
I
pushed me by the gun barrel out the door and into the alley. "Look
familiar?" I asked me. "This is where I did me in, and now I'm going
to do me in!"
Then
... silence. I had fled from me. When would we meet again? I was a whole mile
away by then. Oh, me!
*
My
parents were away (and I don't recall where) and it seems I had the whole house
to myself. I must have had the whole house to myself.
Even
that idea seems impossible. Where was everyone? How could I have done what I
did without having the whole house to myself?
Thus
it was to be a horny seventeen that I crept out after
I
never, dear reader, saw anything noteworthy. I saw some shadows moving behind
curtains, but they didn't appear to be close to having anything approaching
sexualizing.
But
it was the act of voyeurism that was
such a thrill. I pulled at myself under my bathrobe even though there was
nothing to see. I suppose it was the idea that others led lives of sex that was exciting enough to get me
(though not enough to make me come).
The
strange thing is that this happened more than once. Again: Where was everyone?
Why was I so alone? then and at all times, ever,
since?
*
An Hysteron Proteron
He
carefully slipped her high heel shoes onto her feet. "There. Finally. Done," he said.
"Allow
me," she said as she tied the shoes that were on his feet.
"This
is next," he said, adjusting her collar just so.
"I
believe your sleeves were like this," as she turned up his cuffs and
buttoned up his shirt.
"Such
a pretty blouse," as he buttoned it up to the third.
"Turnabout
is fair play," she said as she be-socked his feet.
As
he fastened her skirt around her waist he said, "Mind my fingers."
She
made him spin around as she silently put his belt through his loops.
She
turned around such that he could attach the clasp of her bra. "So sad to
see them go!"
"Let's
get these guys on. One foot at a time," as she put his feet and legs into
his pants and zipped gently.
"Step
into these. One last look! Step in," he said as he pulled her panties up
and touched some.
"I
think it will fit," she laughed while she pulled his underwear onto him in
such a manner he said, "We can start again if you want."
"We're
late."
*
Reynard
never learned to drive. "Who needs it?" he's say. "I live in the
city and I never plan to leave."
His
wife, however, wanted the freedom of a car. She wanted a driver's licence, and
he encouraged her.
She
took the test, got practicing, and had a licence in just two years' time; and
just in time, for two weeks later they rented a car and drove to a remote
cabin.
As
she drove, Reynard asked her all sorts of questions. Which is the gas, which
the brake? What's the 'blind spot'? What do you do in the rain? How do you turn
left safely?
The
cabin was nice. They made love outdoors. He cooked a couple nice steaks and
they drank a nice bottle of wine. Next morning they lazed about, a hundred
miles from any town.
Reynard's
wife said she wanted to go for a swim but Reynard said he didn't feel like it.
"I will later, I promise. I want to enjoy some peace and solitude."
"Suit
yourself," she said, took away a towel and dove
in.
And
that's when Reynard did it. He got into the car and drove off, never to be seen
again.
*
Noting
that humanity makes archaeological excavations to discover its past, I decided
to dig deep into my back yard to understand how I became me.
About
a foot down‑ten years ago more or less‑I found a receipt from Tim
Hortons, for a large black coffee and a bagel with cream cheese. I figured the
significance of this would be revealed the deeper I dug.
Two
feet down. A broken bottle. I remembered having seen
this bottle being smashed by M- B- in a bar. I remember he smashed it after I'd
complained about my inability to take action.
I
dug down another foot and I found a long nasty letter I'd written (hung-over)
to C- L-. I'd been in love with her at the time and she seemed oblivious to
that. So I decided to ruin everything with a big bonfire.
Four
feet down I found my old bicycle looking like it had on the day I got beat up. (Of
course I was shooting rocks around with a slingshot that day, but no matter.)
A
foot lower and there was one of my used diapers. I cried at this discovery.
I
think more digging is due. The neighbour's yard?
*
One
day in my blindness it started to rain; I ducked into a doorway to wait for it
to abate; the door was unmarked (though it looked like a shop's); I only saw
the rain, only heard the rain; plashes soundly splashed me as the air pressure
changed, for the door had been opened behind my back; I turned to see a woman
surprised to meet my eyes; she looked to the wet of the street surveillingly,
then back to me with a judgement best described inscrutably; "Come into my
parlour, I've a fire in my parlour"; I considered the falling rain and considered
the rising fire then followed her way through a door and a door; the warm room
took me in and set me at her feet; she offered me camomile and I gladly
accepted; we talked what the weather was the day we were born; we talked of
entrapments in snow and in hail; she lightly touched my arm as she laughed in a
gay way; I looked at my watch to estimate an etta; we went to the doorway to
see it'd stopped; I thanked her for the tea, and ta-ta, in my blindness one
day.
*
It
was a date with a fat skank I was forced to talk to because Dave had done lsd
and I hadn't so I was sitting out smoking and she said I wasn't like them I was
poetic;
So
three days later I met her, after having not bathing and getting a bit drunk,
at the Horseshoe Tavern, noting she wasn't such a fat skank after all, but I
had arranged it such that I had to go see a destist, and she whatever seemede
to get it ansd thst was the end of the date
I
didn;t' at allw ant to meet ith her in the first place
but I had to because \I said I would. She looked at me so pretty as I remember
but I wasn;t so acdepting.
And
so I saw no mopreo of her.
Mary;'s
fighting with me today becaue I dont tell her enough. I don't thing she can
deal with a genuine nigilist; she does nt see I 'm
that Fathers nd Sons guy who just wants to dies and get it ovver with. Thisisi probably in 1986.
Maybe
that fat skank was my goal. Maybe that fat skank was my goal.
