the purple one / & lost posts / fuck / purges go both way

---

& i'm think ing i may need to smoke one before i start
this / this / this / / ahem / writing? / story tell ing

please tell / me / / poet / tree


. . . (& off i go / to smoke & think /& hey / i just
realized / i can smoke right here / because). . .

he is / gone

again / off to hang with the purple one
& oh / what do i know of purple / except
my office is paint ed / that colour & there is
some thing / sooth ing / about / paint

of the right colour / & hector used to call this
the purple womb / but i think / that / the purple
one / may have out done me / this time & all ways



i say to big g / say high to him for me / & he won't
never does / i just want him to say hi / is that too much
& / oh / so unprofessional / / ahem


he says / oh / you're prolly gonna get a chance to meet
him soon / then you can say hi / your self / ah / fat chance
i think / i wonder / & who really cares /


fame can not / no matter how much you try / spill out
of your / their / hands / association / means


no thing / it's irrelevent / complete lee & total lee
irrelevent / al tho / i touch ed the purple one's guitar
once & fluff ed my hair in his dress ing room mirror

left / just a bit / of my / kootenay vibe / in his space

i wonder / did he know?




so the purple one / comes back
in to / our life / in a round about way /
& he doesn't even know it /

he's in my life
not the other way around / except / he has my man now
in stead of me having my man / full rapt attention / /

ah / give me peace / i'd try for quiet / but i don't think

it's gonna happen / /


so we settle on / seperation / time a part creates
space / of the desired kind / good space / / time to be
my own boss /


i like it / it being

be ing / be gin / / 2 wonder full words
4 amazing syllables



*coffee break * / smoke smoke smoke
not a cuppa joe in sight / / only / smoke
smoke smoke / time to really think



& so she loses / possible lee the best
writing done in a long time / some how
the window closed / every thing gone


except the top bit / which some how / ah
yes / think ing / always / think ing / / remember
this now


& it was such a love lee bit i wrote / about
time moving / i'm sure a great line or ten

some thing lost again / / & dare i ruminate
on what was lost / can i find it again / are the
words st.ill / in side / /



& out side / the snow / builds / gathers
in a slow / strange / way / creeps up / like
a good joint / or a / scarlet runner bean under
a hot july sun / except this is nt' july / & winter

falls wet / under a constant coat of grey / thick ness
of the season / & yet to day / one ray of sun fell
a cross / my face / blind lee / i turn ed my face up ward
take in those faint rays / of bare lee / not warm @ all


yet the bright ness / over whelm ed / pleasant
yellow / simplicity / of sun /



& i have not eaten / & i have not slipped in to tired /
morn ing a waits / all those that sleep / & all those
that / don't /

it comes / stealth / like the snow / this season of
i'm wait ing for spring now / where are those long er days

certain lee / i am convinced / of / more snow
up here / high on the mountain / just above /
the snow line / yes / there will be / more / of
this / season /

it does this every year / no surprise / not a trick at
all / / simply a mark of time




& yes / i lost all of the beautiful words / how my
little girl / is now a big girl / cusp ing on / woman hood
& how my big boy / is now a man / voice deep en ed /
facial hair / awk ward ness / in a body grow ing too fast

& how the 4 young est boys / st.ill so small / tender bodies
moving to ward / up up up / yes / we are getting tall er
now dear mother / we are big boys now / & they rough &
tumble & the house collapes under / drums & music & chatter
& of things / that go bump / in this
life

ah / i wish for quiet / like this / late night /



& for a moment / the earth be comes clean
tire marks disappear from the road / trees be come
out lined / not so tragic / snow fills the spaces

creates / a strange cozy ness / a comfort of sorts

& all ways / in the snow banks / where the snow
lumps up / i be come / dali / ah master of the hidden
faces / they look @ me / & i / @ them /

i've seen you be fore / i'm so certain / we've met
& every winter / it's like this / me / staring @
people i've never met / but i'm so cer tain / they
were / real / once /


faces are like that / probable / but not

& dare i / chain smoke / a third / in here
out of / the cold / /



& my office is thick with / smoke /
(big g would kill me)
but you won't tell will you / no / i won't
i never tell



secrets aren't secrets / if

every one knows / / / i'm count ing on
no one read ing / / the lost forum

oh black dog / / i bow down to thee

& to day / i feel light / might be
the coffee & the chock - oh - late

fuck ing hell /




why do i do it /

the first / second / third / rule is / /

don't drink coffee @ night / & the cops
roll by in their big white truck / mark ing
the road / spoil ing / the crisp ness of

this virgin moment / of an un mark ed road
in front of my house / /


time for kitty / to go to / sleep

& a day off to boot / /

as of to day

there has been 6666 hits on my blog since last may

that's cool / imo


thanx every one


i hope to be back to blogging soon / have been very busy
stage managing a theatre production this last while

too poop ed out to think / / /


such a strange expression isn't it ' pooped out' / lol




& january dis appears in to / long er days
& i feel re fresh ed / a gain


some how / hope has arrived / & i'm not too far behind it


to day / strips of blue thru the clouds
frozen wind / a slight melt / enough to create
ice during the night




ah / these funny transitional days / to ward spring

when i for get / my day / empty spots / heart /

& the dirty dog moves out side
for a breath of fresh air

we call it weed


& there are no words to write
no thing much to report

a life busy with / death


& the business of living

& i wonder why i get call ed up
in to / the business of death

i wonder / do deer just wonder aim less lee

as one walks heavy lee down the road
past / me

he's look ing for / diggings / some thing
to fill / a deer belly

& my dear belly feels sad / a bit empty

yes / once you die / the days will be
a bit empty / & i miss you all ready /
but i won't tell you that /


for now / i'm glad to wash your hands
& bring you cigarettes / & i wonder
about / death & poetry / why sad ness
brings on the words / /








yes / you are frail now / hard to eat
body / for gets / what to do


mind slips / for ward / in to /

what ever it is / we haven't really decided
yet / have we

/ / what / it / is / /


i name thee / death / /

& tho i walk thru the valley of
death / i shall fear / not


they say the earth is change ing now
time to pass it on / there will be other
hands / other points / in some other time

we won't worry about it right now tho
right now / it / is / out of our / hands


for now / we can / listen to the rain
talk about what's going on / tell dirty jokes
smoke weed / have a wee shot of scotch

we can do that st.ill / it's a journey to death
i can take it with you / right / to the end

i just can't / go thru to the other side with
you / that will have to wait for now / /

may be / some of you / will land / in side of me
a point of light / a spark perhaps / /






some things not finish ed /

poem / by margaret hornby

INSIDE PASSAGE


Yesterday we sailed into the clouds, to day we sail North to Prince Rupert,
the ship is a gentle rocking horse, back and forth , back and forth, but it
is the waves that seduce, like a poem that must begin somewhere to go
somewhere, even if it is just up and down, swelling subsiding, moving
towards lovely Islands, the rocks on the shore
the waves roar as if trying to enter into the trees quiet depths
The Lighthouse on Pine Island, standing guard -
standing guard on the side of the ferry
sailing by the entrance to Queen Charlotte Sound.
And Islands so thick with trees a thumbnail cannot cut through
Either evergreens or poems

The couplet Jennifer wrote:
Bad poet,
Bad poet,
Me?
It¡¯s not Jennifer
standing all alone on this voyage on this ferry
wisps of clouds, pale blue sky changing to

Bright blue sky
Dark blue sea


Margaret Hornby

a couple more thots / by jack

notes thinking about finch

---

To witness, to see, is to be a martyr.
It is to be devoted to what takes you apart
From yourself and thereby dismembers the see-er, the seer.
The sere seer.



To see something, to appreciate it truly
(“Absolute attentiveness is prayer”)
(Attention is love)
Is to let part of oneself pass out through the eyes
And attach itself, embed itself in the thing seen.
You lose yourself, a little, each time you look.
The sensation of splitting, here, can be painful.


Yet, behind all this -- behind even me -- the “me” that sees --
Behind my own disillusion and worry of the past, the
Future, which pretty much makes up my daily
Nerve-felt being -- behind all that, I dimly
Sense an “it” -- the it is free and cheerful,
See how it slips thru being and being
Comes and enters what is sunny by it --

There is a ceaseless addition and loss at the margin, the verge,
Which is finally, at its furthest snow-filtered flickering edges,
Wonderful and peaceful.


To see is to be a martyr.
But to see and write what you see
Is to let yourself go, and let it
Enter and open and see through your eyes
Its own.

Poetry is devotion.




To see oneself as a drift, a trace, is never pretty.
The self that witnesses this is drifted, torn apart.

However, the scene of the drifting, the tracing,
Is itself beautiful, hopeful. This
Is the constant paradox.









Buddhism speaks of the necessity of stilling the mind,
Meditating, allowing silence, as a way of gaining and
Entering peace and calm.

It appears that desire causes pain and anxiety, because
Desire connotes separation from what one needs.

What, then, is language, but an expression of
Desire for the world.

The price the poet pays for any insight which
He or she has, is to drift in anxiety, depression.
The choice is between being and knowing. By choosing
To drift in words, to think, to know, the poet resigns
Herself to the fact that she becomes separated from
Pure being and she sees the fiction of all things,
Including herself.

The poet feels sadness, but may not believe in
Sadness. The process of poetry itself is
Hopefulness.

by jack / /

variations on a theme by finch

---

To witness, to see, is to be a martyr.
It is to be devoted to what takes you apart
From yourself and thereby dismembers the see-er, the seer.
The sere seer.



To see something, to appreciate it truly
(“Absolute attentiveness is prayer”)
(Attention is love)
Is to let part of oneself pass out through the eyes
And attach itself, embed itself in the thing seen.
You lose yourself, a little, each time you look.
The sensation of splitting, here, can be painful.


Yet, behind all this -- behind even me -- the “me” that sees --
Behind my own disillusion and worry of the past, the
Future, which pretty much makes up my daily
Nerve-felt being -- behind all that, I dimly
Sense an “it” -- the it is free and cheerful,
See how it slips thru being and being
Comes and enters what is sunny by it --

There is a ceaseless addition and loss at the margin, the verge,
Which is finally, at its furthest snow-filtered flickering edges,
Wonderful and peaceful.


To see is to be a martyr.
But to see and write what you see
Is to let yourself go, and let it
Enter and open and see through your eyes
Its own.

Poetry is devotion.




To see oneself as a drift, a trace, is never pretty.
The self that witnesses this is drifted, torn apart.

However, the scene of the drifting, the tracing,
Is itself beautiful, hopeful. This
Is the constant paradox.









Buddhism speaks of the necessity of stilling the mind,
Meditating, allowing silence, as a way of gaining and
Entering peace and calm.

It appears that desire causes pain and anxiety, because
Desire connotes separation from what one needs.

What, then, is language, but an expression of
Desire for the world.

The price the poet pays for any insight which
He or she has, is to drift in anxiety, depression.
The choice is between being and knowing. By choosing
To drift in words, to think, to know, the poet resigns
Herself to the fact that she becomes separated from
Pure being and she sees the fiction of all things,
Including herself.

The poet feels sadness, but may not believe in
Sadness. The process of poetry itself is
Hopefulness.







They drove up the toll road,
He threw a quarter into the metal
Pay-toll funnel. It had a white plastic
Base, with small drainage holes. For the rain.
So there were already two times where one was.
The rain pounded on the glowing yellow light
Of the rest stop center.
Now they were past the toll
Gate. He was in love with
Her. Bookstores
Glistened. Now they were in a
Driveway. His attempt at a
Life, a short story.

He drove that way every Monday-Friday,
Up the pay toll road past suburbs of Baltimore.
The postindustrial cleansed gray blued the dawn.

He drove up the toll
Road, every morning.
Was his job now one
Letter, two letters in
His name. what was
Her name. he is with her then --
The house gets to be more wan and
Interesting. Supremely beautiful.
Ghost facing dances. Crystals. Ribbons.
Yellow ribbon round a red oak tree.
Red oaks. Vesicles. Round bout
Midnite, round out man. Es . Cape ha . Tch

* ] * ‘ * , * ] * ] *
A mentholated production
Of a beenie babies special
Of a Phil Rickstein Production

“The Oddfathers”



starring

( in order of appearance )
attached to your eyes
In order of appearance
Nexzel
Tecktron
Versignio, LLC
Beckatrix Poinzer Impolit cvbc
No Hano Ltd. 50
Dancing dragoons five hunnert infantrymenTch

Big old-fashioned news.
These days never seemed to end.
Then one day we were over.
Others, however, now incite mischief,
As inflicted with you as ambergris by damage.

* ] , ] , ] , ] *
Of a bent heaven production
Of a balanced irony simple heart throb
Minuteman picnic
Of an upturned green grass
Summer mystery miracle pickle green juice
Bubble grape jelly alien. S . in ..sp.ace hel.met.z

Here
Emoc*ereh*ew
CwOeMhEe
RSe COMwEh ea.tr
COM*E\I\n ..

sp.ace hel.met.z

Spill
Spill it into grape world
Rinse
Rise it into split whirl aov vegg
R]I]S]E],]R]I]S]E it into hardness --
Soften it down into malleable pulp.
Suckle it to children. Shove it to lovers. Show it
To the sun, sea eye, it land / it frake now/
Iot frake now]a]n]c]h]o]r]w]a]r][d]

See it as buildings . . . .












What we see is so /as is/quaint/so given/


Could be twin voxes birthing
Boxes burning. Try it as:
I could have been 1
But instead it was 3 --
Fire, rouge and azure --
Of these were --
It -- saucered round --
White cliffsides -- of renown --

It star -- scarred -- as in tree trunk --
w/ silenced as its sound:
This little from outside me
Drips, sips . . . We drove
Under the turnstile
What did we
We drove
Rode
Patient
Music
We drove
Swam
Waved
We made toward
We caused more
We ended less. We grew interest --
A quality that looked like marigolds
In a highway median, that changed
Three times a year -- purple
In May -- azure in September --
Brown in November -- barely grayed,
Just so barely slippaged outside myself,
How I drift for a moment in the calm level
Gaze of wuiet men with oval foreheads in
Their gray pilgrimages, in those old
Farmer pictures in their albums, they
Who stare at it, who glance at the
Rhubarb, who spear the olive with
The tin tine of a salad fork, where
Love enters its verticals, they widen
And settle, yet you are ended, yet Rome


Your work was largely senseless, old man.
You lost your teeth in your fifties.
One died. Another was born --
The birth seemed far off as winter:
Could this be the distant way outdoors
Was yesterday.

*

It filtered in the mirror.
It misted in, crystallized, tensiled
It glistens, scented scorpions

“why have you walked here,”
Vader strikes at Helgo with his saber.

“I have walked here . . . To be prince.”

Vader hurts Helgo. “I . am . Not .
Listening.”


Dream warriors

i am static / / neither for ward
nor back / a day full of circles

Not moving, our brains suddenly splinter --
The small immaculate bird hops,





*




I saw seagulls inland --
500 miles from the coast,
They circled the dumpsters

In back of the Taco Bell
Where the wide earth glistened
And the spaces

In my mind. In [my] mind
It packaged me

And placed unit 402
Far from you.







*




















i wish for paisleys / & fractals
why can't i be broken down / like that



I wouldn’t even bother.
None of them could possibly
Understand or really enjoy
Listening to one of us
Talking live -- why not get more
Miniscule than that -- just fingertips
Tapping along the silent piano keys . . .


to night i read to 7 people / the bar
empty / crowd less distraction

The crown goes to the buzz ingest silence.
You would not go to a bar
To hear a poem. I would
Go to a bar to hear a
Poem, if I was in
Atlantis, or
Paraguay
In the time
Of the florescent
Indians





i am / ask ing question / every one
cold /


Who knows why? They are plainly
A bunch of fat brained trolls --
Alkies, one and all. Kids,
They only wash their faces
One time a year,
And they regularly masturbate
Or *gasp* regularly do not
Have any sex at all . . .
And not even talk about it . . .
Mama mia!


a day spent cook ing / i day / dream
thru the steam / about stand ing on

I was, too, I was standing,
It was standing, he, it,
Was was standing, was,
It was you, it, you,
Freshen,

Stage
A heart
Strange
A
Protest
From the gauls
Of thyme,
From right by the Hampton Inn
In Carson City, right there
On the taco -- there officer --
There/the taco explod.es
FINCH************************
INCH**************************
NCH**************************
CH**************************
H**************************
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i do not /

******************
feel good /**
**************** /
this flu / is bad
& so i reel ******************

in my mind / euphoric / ************
******
confused
& i am******************

full / of for******************
get full









scares me




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stage /

Stage
Tage
Age


Ge
E

Shadow Queen: Smoke already, see
It/get behind the margin///rime/////
Slice///////pastor//////////devil////
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[ ] . [ ] . [] . [] . [] . [] .
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[ ] . [ ] . [] . [] . [] . [] .
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[ ] . [ ] . [] . [] ///////willingness//////// /////////////////////////// ///////////////////////////// /////////////////////////////// //////////////////////////// ////////////////////////////// /////////////////////////////// //////////////////////////////// .[ ] . [ ] . [] . [] . [] . [] . ///////trust///////time/////// /////////////////slides////////// ///////////////////its/////////// /////////////////////slow////// /////////////////////////tides/// //////////////////////////////// /////////////////////////////// //////////////////////////////// ////////////////////////////// /////////////////////////////// //////////////////////////////// [ ] . [ ] . [] . [] . [] . [] . ///////door///////freeedom/////// ///////////////////////////////////// ////////////////////////////////// /////////////////////////////////// //////////////////////////// ////////////////////////////// /////////////////////////////// //////////////////////////////// [ ] . [ ] . [] . [] . [] . [] . ///////d.o..k.///////f..a.k./////// ///////////////////////////////////// ////////////////////////////////// /////////////////////////////////// //////////////////////////// ////////////////////////////// /////////////////////////////// //////////////////////////////// For Derrida, all life is stretched out in time and diced-out in space in such a way that phenomenological self-identity is an illusion. “So this means, when I walked to the park with her . . . ?” Must I live to watch your death “When I kissed her, and held her hand . . . ?” Or you watch mine It must be very high indeed “So this means, when I walked to the park with her . . . ?” Very high and very “When I kissed her, and held her hand . . . ?” Fuckingly a-ok But, a breeze blows in the screen window. Grace is not to know what is coming, But to say that is naïve. Paradox is Its lemon, mystery its radish. You could also have this phase of all these labels. They’d be big and they’d be fat. They wouldn’t like that for long however -- Soon enough we’d revert to our falling stasis, They’d fall away vanished matchbox cars Derrida calls life a “text” or “writing” because life is like writing: life on the phenomenological level appears holistic (much as a word-meaning appears self-identical, i.e., arising all at once), but life is actually a time/space “drift.” Speech is always world is but illusion or construction of our egos, Zen for me centers on a constant undercutting of that which we may deem "knowable" including notions of authenticity of the self, it tells us the Speech is always, like, fucked up and postulates a moment in which a break might reveal a more essential understanding of reality, yet one that has always been present, and is not otherworldly. undercut by an inevitable drift that subverts intentionality and foils our attempts to make speech our absolute “property.” COMPLETELY fucked up//Speech is always, like, fucked up I mean, 100% completely every void every voice every time “Every voice is the voice of Buddha, every form is the Buddhaform.” every time voice

other wise / known as / my life

 

the morn ing crew /

 

day one / rest / of your life

so the nite / late / ah /


happy new year


& i sit with pauline lamb & hector the crow
they make music . play piano / crzy / pauline sings
i wish / i could sing / like that





jd sings too / he knows all the words / mars volta/ you should
see his fingers move / this late january 1st / ah good morn ing

& we drink red wine / we smoke kootenay green / / cigarettes
for got to smoke / for got to quit





& i for get all the words


a gain / no thing new there / not even this new year


& i leave my man @ home / cranky / i left / i went out
after the clock turn ed in to this / day / this year



& such a funny place we all end up / & i can't complain
i'm not
dying yet