-- about th'only way
to describe the noisy human highway
of rue saint catherine.
today (march 15th -- 9:22 AM) it is
full of hurried to'ing & fro'ing of general populace.
myriad hums of conversation. honking. shouts. ringing --
mixed w/belching of big trucks (freights) rollin' along
rises up 5 floors
and washes over me like a wave
while out on the balcony christening
the new season with a fresh pack
hacking a little (ah that crisp smoky air of dying winter!) for all
the ants to hear while the mists rise & ride & rise.

1)*  *MORNIN

lake glass-still/somewhere a loon is calling;
coffee smells spiralling upstairs.
my bed (piled mattresses/wood floor)
is warm & the little birds
trill in the frontyard by the dodge
while in the woods
foxes/are wakin' up.

2)  EVENIN

[dock beers] . . .
on the water
shadflies squirm,
ignorant & simple & doomed.
jackfish tack lazily up and gobble
--taking their meals.
heron stands in the shallows
and from downlake the wind blows
sweetly/and in my head
i hear girls singing.

i am on the beach /
waiting for my resurrection
with the sand in my bad eye and
the smell of goose **** pungent and intrusive, uninvited.

2:30 pm , friday of may 24 weekend;
the beach is flat and empty of girls
(for whom i am waiting)
                                                (will they know
                                                          **­w to save me ??)  .

so far i have avoided sitting on a 3.5" nail, rusted, protruding from the duneside,
and several shards of a broken bottle beer,
keen to shred my winter-softened feet with their angry brown fangs.
i will pick up as much of the glass as i can find and go home, calling myself
a good samaritan.

"you're a ****." some seagulls say from the lake.
i pick up a rock and let fly; they are just out of range.
"you're a ****." they repeat as i walk back towards the footpath.

and yeah, they are probably right.

AQUA PLS GRENAD EP 2.49
SALADE NEPT RP 7.24 FP
**TPS 5% #122235922
TVQ 8.5
ARGENT 20.00
NOMBRE D’ARTICLES : 2
Vous auriez pu accumuler 110 points PC

2011/04/10 13:32 8341 02
GAGNEZ JUSQUA 2000 AU

last night i dreamt
a tooth of mine (maxillary canine)
could simply slip in & out of
                                                    place..
of­ten at times of
great personal inconvenience:
interviewing for a job...
making kitchen counter love to a gorgeous new woman (it fell out & down t'ween her *******/O horror!)
during a presentation in ancient architecture on Ghulguleh, Afg.
-- poor Ghulguleh destroyed by Genghis, wreathed in flame!
(truly i come undone/as did that ancient city!)

found myself thinking
"this is no blessing!
what purpose does creating a horrid gap
between incisor & canine serve but to repel?"



when awake it became clear
i shall never understand my own mind.

after many months of sleeping
i awake in the mountains of navarra:
dusty & feeling like a grain sack:
limp & weary of travel.

sometimes a girl comes & gives me a little water
--as much as her family can spare.
i thank her each time but note the distrust in her eyes.
perhaps it is the length of my hair,
or the folksongs i sing in my sleep.
her father sits in a corner, smoking, cursing me in spanish.
(things like "**** americano")
i contemplate telling him i came from canada
--but i don't think it would matter much.
they've already burned my clothes,
or sold them, maybe. (novelty items.)
i think the girl brought me a robe of some kind
while i was sleeping (it's loose & very comfortable)

night falls w/liverspot clouds
broken
               stars . . . deep blueness . . . fat-full moon.
nights are that autumncool again
(week of +20° unseasonality)

basement stone wall coolness
cigarette *****---
                                a smokestack!
peepings &
oo-ings &
                  cracklings
                  in the woods.
the ceiling creaks . . . creek runs
             bedroom lights a-burnin'
             & m'tired dart is down to the filter.

FEB 8 2013 -- i swear there is a good 6 feet
                        fresh powder outside.

mountain of blankets in my bed & i don't know why i even got out of them. one more
bad decision.
half-*** coffee and club songs to try and get into some kind of (productive) zone but
feel like any semblance of true rhythm is practically impossible,
given current situation (i.e. general vida) , won't really get into it.

feeling also great need to desist with all this
introspective poetry
and move into non-diaristic phase. successful phase. difficult when so preoccupied
with issues (doubts, too, i suppose. though these could easily be done away with, if i could get
a steady pattern going once more. regular output.
creativity buried by oppressive, continuous snowfalls.     //     excuses.

                                                       ­                                          think often on verses written
                                                         ­                                        in Spain.

-- verses written on THE BALCONY or THE OPEN WINDOW COUCH,
(surrounded by a beauty complex in its simplicity. by beer and cigarettes and
people who truly know what it is to be unsure in almost all things,
yet are satisfied and grateful.)
-- verses now sitting on a shelf unread by anyone.
my "best work", to-date.

i wonder sometimes if i am losing my party face ..
simultaneously want to hang out with Crystal Castles or Justice but
drink bourbonne (hah) or OE and listen to Ray Price.
putting on something like the Steve Miller Band or Sam Cooke often helps. lifts.
just need to stop moping round like a sad old dog. in all honesty i have probably been
mildly depressed on & off for about two years. months in Spain excepted.
having said that i can't really think of anything else worth saying at the moment.

anyway, i wrote something today, i guess.

back home there is a garden ,
it is small & unimpressive & sits in front of my house.
i grow simple things
and send all the tenderness i can to their roots
(with a thumb that is steadily turning green)

sometimes insects come & gather round me
like a strange ritual, worship circles of ants & beetles
--antennae waving.
chanting in silent language.

there are some roses growing on the verge,
which lend rich reds & whites
to the arrangement of my plantings.
each morning as the dew rises fresh & hot
i pick the aphids from each flower
and they bloom in peace.

"the ways of God are
       strange,"* said a bishop once  ,
                                                              i read some
                  where,               in large
compiled             scholar-
ly    tome of e. language — thick,
like long, dark legs of
                                                   exotic dancers two
                                                   nights past,
spinning ,
                     while i drank &
drank   ( & drank) .

  . .
       all morning i
have stared at Maclise's 'Madeline after Prayer'
         &
i think sadly i
                                          may be in love ..

noon grass, gin & my eyes.
heart attack
in back of a fancy/long/black/car.
fall skies & sun thru the trees.
(ashes in a bowl)

loud now but fading
                 in-&-out,
one big long shhhhhhhhhh
taps of water on leaves                                          (the spirea bush)
as they bend more & more.
big cat in a dark porchcorner
yawning. tired but up she gets
for a quick pat.
porchsitting/my cold bare feet in the night.

you know,
not all poetry has to be about
love, your sad heart, entwined destinies
or how much you miss that boy
or girl.
if you stop thinking about all that;
say "**** it"
and let the words come to you
you might be awfully pleased
at the simple rawness of
what comes out.

outside my apt. ,
life passes
one bus at a time.