Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Blog Clouds Sheep Breath Jack Frost

I had a dream last night where I replaced every blog post on this blog with a cloud. Each blog cloud slowly moved across the black sky of the page, out of focus, sheep-soft. They each floated off the screen and over my wife and I sleeping in our bed. As they passed over us, cirrus wisps, the sighs of thoughts, our white dog, sleeping beside the bed, and always alert to the slightest sound,  heard their small rain-like susurrations, their hazy pixel-small exhalations. Blog posts floating over to the window, balefully looking outside. A Jack Frost of breaths which never freeze.

At some point, I also dreamed that I should add a large disclaimer to the blog to the effect that most of the posted poems or fictions are posted as drafts and I eventually either discard them or work 'em over good and radically revise them. It's ironic to me that often the potential for the largest and most enduring audience for these pieces is here, on the internet, and not in the books and journals where the finished pieces often eventually appear, much improved. Still, I don't want to replace them. There's something about cracking open someone's braincover and looking in at the thoughts as they form, before they are polished into words. Or --hopefully -- looking into this blog and seeing the words before they are polished into more polished words.

Andrew Faulkner, he of Emergency Response Unit press (a chapbook press that does fantastic work) and a very talented writer has a begun a blog collecting sky images. I read a few and sent him one of mine. Then I ended up working on a poem using images of sky. Here it is. Unless it has, cloud-like, floated out of vision toward some blog horizon over which we may expect to arise a blog new day.

for Andrew Faulkner

sky is ape
heaven is monkey
I lie on my back and look at banks
they are clouds.


I am thrown from an airplane
grass is sky
commuter headtops: clouds
clouds I love your balding, your tinting.


between earth and space
sky sandwich
O jam of night
star seed my looking teeth


prehensile sky in sorrowful eyes
grip the brain like a water balloon
throw it far
thinking an explosive gag shower
the mouth open to visible throat
small bugs and surprise


bank bank bank star
bank bank bank cloud
bank financial instrument bank bank
seahorse bank bank bank


the sky is wheat futures
is legal tender
is an ape with a mortgage
is the limit
is pure speculation
a foreign market
a reasonable return
outsourcing heaven to the sparrows

Monday, November 28, 2011

Questionless Book Interview

Unquestionably, I have a lot to answer for in my questionable answers to the unanswerable as I answer George Murray. I seem to have dogs on (in) the brain! 

Thursday, November 24, 2011


I played ukulele
as if there were turnips everywhere
and the neighbours
came to eat and remember
we were invisible

Tuesday, November 22, 2011


infra-asemic writing: the ligature inside the letter: the connection of something to itself: ouroborosemia: asemic infra-writing. and when what is infra, inter too?

Sunday, November 13, 2011

Franz Santa or Mickey Kafka?

"…the deeper alchemy by which Kafka's comedy is always also tragedy, and this tragedy always also an immense and reverent joy… the really central Kafka joke -- that the horrific struggle to establish a human self results in a self whose humanity is inseparable from that horrific struggle. That our endless and impossible journey toward home is in fact our home."

-from David Foster Wallace's brilliant speech on Kafka’s humour

Wednesday, November 09, 2011


The Metric Season

My daughter and I were walking in the forest in early November. Hamilton, Ontario, just below the Niagara Escarpment. Light was filtered amber through the yellow leaves. The way it reflects bright off snow, it reflected from the leaves fallen on the forest floor. We were walking through a woods suffused by golden light, a continuous late afternoon honeying, as if walking through a leaf itself, some kind of Magic School Bus science trip.

If I believed in heaven, I said, it wouldn’t be the bright green technicolour spring of the Christian right. it wouldn’t be Webern’s boundless, directionless, infinite twelve-tone heaven. It would be this fall. The end of an age. Elves leaving. The mortal forest. The peat smell. No gaudy bursting of flower buds or impetuous birds. This lager-coloured light in a shuffling forest.

I don’t understand those who don’t like all the seasons, my daughter said.

Then we wondered about borders. Where are the borders of colours, when does red become orange, and when does grey  darken into blue?

Other places, there are only two seasons. Rainy and dry. And why four? What about the metric system. Maybe there should be five.

We could invent another season, try to find its source in our memory, associations, hopes.

What would we call it? When would it be?

A before-fall, an after-spring. A season of in-between days.

Perhaps it is there already like a silent letter, inexpressible and unspoken. A subtext between father and daughter. The dry season between drops of rain. 

Book launches for FRANZLATIONS, my NEW BOOK!

Wednesday, November 02, 2011