Political Rant Ginger

Aphorisms for the Ugly White Page

For two and a half hours I stared at you,
you sexy white thing. You endless white thing,
you blank, ugly fucking whore
of a blank, white, single screen.

I wonder what you were thinking
while I was tripping over a closet of memories
like a black out at a party
while everyone rummages to smoke outside
in someone else’s shoes.

Like people about to go down in a ship.

My step father rolling his oversized
cotton sleeves in messy pastry mixing up with the
coffee stained back office of his garage and the
coffee in white Styrofoam,

creating a place where none existed before,
but where nothing but smell and longing
are able to say enough in their statement.

There was good in here but it was
only ever enough to keep warm, singly by.

Even the character feels weak and goes head-first
into a plate of glass as some bad homage to something.
Not even the reference seems worth it.

But we do it anyway don’t we?
It’s the only dedicated relationship I have,
so it has to be like this sometimes.

Even when there is nothing to say,
we have to live like this.

I know you don’t like me when I write to Miles Davis,
but I do it anyway.

You know I veer toward a schedule only for you
to smash it into new mosaic.

But we work together somehow.

We block out the blindness,
bad line after cliché after shaky reservation.

We work in record stores and on buses and other random,
non-momentary states.

Got married back in high school.

Have nothing but boxes of us now.

Boxes and ticket stub match pack haiku’s.

Ann’I still love you now, for every
new white fucking page.

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axe, the question

The secret glances
between two musicians
the one that explains
a hundred jams that
preceded that moment.

This is what the
world spins upon,

this and dancing crowds
whose laughter,
and whose open joy, prevents
all out anarchy.

total destruction.

This,
the axe
and the question.

Eulogy for a Labtop

I Give You, A Laptop Eulogy

She was drawn from the earth
in silver and copper first.

Even some really crazy shit.
Like stuff entire continents
suffer through conflict’s over.

She is born of cultural impropriety,
and she is born of the Vaio-Sony Corp.

She has cradled over 100,000 movies and audio files
yearly now, but once she was just the cold,
precise sum of her factory-slid-into-place parts.

I got her in my place,
and she was ready to go.
I filled her up with every
piece of media we could raise.

She taught me all about feminism too
so don’t get bunched in your Haynes.

That shit is just year 4
so we have to behave.

My vaio deserves a full send off, ok?
So where were we oh yes, the first days…

How they went on and on,
I left you on all night a couple,
I fell asleep with you once
in the bed and woke up to you
screen-down, left to what I thought
might have been choked on your own bits,
face down though I re-lifted and
breath of button flicked you came out of it,
you were a champ even then in the
early virgin years, you know that Vaio?

Year two I, like all pc-men, got sloppy with how I treated you,
and we had our moments, a couple reformats if you don’t recall?
(hahaha get it Vaio-la? Because your memory was wiped and all?)

Oh fuck it, by year three we settled
in again like that was all nothing,
and we have some recovery discs now just in case,
right my little digital honey bunny?

Year four and I count every
day we still have as blessed,
we’re like Deckard and replicant
played by Sean Young, heading West!
Maybe we’ll freeze you awhile
and make a 7 year stretch?

What all I can I will do, to postpone your cyber-death
to this alone I pledge.

My (V)aiolo!
(insert Perry Ferrel reference here)

Love Letter to Laughter

Dear laughter,
the truth is
that all
I’ve got is you,

and all I want is that,
until I have it and then

I am throwing everything
up in the air, like diamonds
that signify hate and slavery and shit,
that I don’t want again.

The truth is you
are all marrow and
the most succulent dance
is just to look,
not stare or gaze,

just know
you, as friend and equal,
to experience the wretched
and the good through
your eyes.

I’m too in love to be a sociopath.
I’m on the margin kick always,
just filling in the time with notes.

You are a caricature that betrays definition
because you eat the original form
and recreate unique, irreproducible
mockery of that once thought impervious.

You are a kick in Plato’s “Honor,
de Balzac” and the Secret can’t
touch you with it’s big, ugly, white
finger of cable television decay
on either a good, or bad day.

Your chorus I realized my total
absorbed addiction to,
when I learned to be the joker
in grade school.

At first it was concerned with
survival. But eventually it transcended
into pure Darth Vader evil.

And finally, in the closing act,
it redeemed me, Scrooge-style,
and left me knowing that if all else failed,
I had friends whose guts I could make
sore for days, if I could just get
the material down, straight.

I learned everything the hard way.
Lippy in entourage, holes in jip rock
and a dozen dirty, hesitation marks.
I crept up on good and whispered my offer,
and got a good beating or two, almost asunder.

I lived in the grass of fool.
I emptied my friends bottoms into my chalice,
and I always shut it down.

I’ve argued with people for hours
but I’ve kept the crowds
heart on the bellowing ball
of you, unfolding like a trick,
like a con, like something
close to magic, and I lost
sight only briefly,
of the real point.

To let loose.

To effectively take
back the moment.

From bird of pain or bird of sorrow.

Come find me tomorrow.

All that jazz.

Monday’s Jurassic Park Poem Got Eaten By A Clever Girl

It wasn’t even her cab but she jumps into it.
We are all huddled in a tent on the front lawn,
it is Southern Ontario, warm night, and the
party is dwindling, the different fragrances of
each freak making their own way home.

We were chuffing a bowl, and it was chotched,
and we had ordered pizza, and I am not sure if it was
there yet but I want to say yes, must have been.
She didn’t know the five of us were in the one tent,
and she just gets in the passenger’s side and
suddenly the music is changed to dance,
and up much higher, and she is half throttling the
driver and some sort of negotiation seems to be
going on behind the glass underneath the bad music,
and then suddenly she asks as if responding,

“What do you mean you don’t got it?”
at which point she threw herself back out and
slammed the door while cursing him.

All of our eyes glistened in the moment.

Someone said, “Ah, clever girl”
And we just all knew the reference and
the laughter, that night, I keep it close.

It is a smiling velociraptor in the troublesome jungle of night.

Get Me To The Geek (or) Better Dancer Than Me

He would dance sometimes

high out of his fucking mind

and it would be like something

in the background of Mass Effect

or some character in the movie Strange Days.

He was free only then.

Other times it got sloppy like Kurt and Goldie in

 Overboard, more booze than uppers and maybe

a few too many nights in a goddamn (“I say God-damn”) row,

and he looked more like Elaine dancing on pain meds on

Seinfeld

Seasonally, a haggard rendition of Chevy Chases

Fred Astair and Danny “fucking” Kay rant

while twitching like something in the background of

Scrooged during the X-Mas party scene

where Bill Murray could’ve totally gone home

with the cute secretary and has to watch it

all in the Ghost-bleachers with that crazy cabbie fuck.

Maybe a rowdy alien at the Cantina, busting a Jedi-Funkified remix.

He would dance sometimes like the white kid

In The Power of One, but that was strictly for the purest high.

He would dance around a glass table and finish al the lines

like a champ. Like Rocky meets Hurly Burly,

On K he was MJ in Moon.

On whites he was schitza-a-shiva on a tilt a whirl,

an arcane hunter of shadows.

Bob Marley on 9 hits.

Enough of everything, and the mother fucker floated like

Powder, or that patented Spike Lee head/shoulder angle,

ghetto blaster over the other.

A big, bad motherfucker like Uma and Travolta in Fiction.

Like Carleton on Fresh Prince.

But no matter how blasted, how gone how other worldly,

how Sheen-i-fied or Scottied

he might have gotten he never,

ever pulled a Risky Business.

Dance magic Bowie? Enough shrooms and sure.

The classic Julia Stiles gets taught to dance “black”?

Enough pheromones and Beer from a brown paper bag,

and anything is possible.

Finally done, he’d head home.

Find something to watch.

A Series of Drawer Poetry

Drawer Words (i)

While its nothing as cool as
Ray Bradbury’s office on the show I ate up religiously
I do have a drawer that functions the same way.
Today seems like a drawer day.

You release your demons, your Kraken,
your ancient angels and your dragon girls.

Here’s a little flyer for the night
me and an artist buddy of mine
teamed up with this real smooth cat
“Lou” who used to work at a check cashing place
in the West End of Van City and he always told
such vivid and entertaining stories.

In one, this real jerk was giving
him a hard time,
but Lou, never one to be moved,
since he did have a couple
inches of bullet proof
between him and said antagonist
he very earnestly gave him
the international mime-sign
for “blow me”, even using
his tongue to create a phantom
cock protruding awkwardly out
one cheek at a time,
to which the asshole entered
fully-automatic fuck head mode,
and this just made Lou
all the cooler, a shit eating
have a nice day grin on his face
retelling the story, matching ours.

He ran his own promotion company
which consisted of
him and his token white boy
(as much a necessity as a partner)
and I remember dropping
my words on him
(literally a binder full on his lap,
I was so young and no decorum at all)

And he had a look like
“ah, you’ve got rhymes, but can go freestlye?”
and I likely gave a returned petrified, “Nope”.

I did my best that night,
my friend was experimenting with some
slide projection art,
and as I gave my best anti-Bush poem he
drizzled red paint on a slide of his face,
I realized performances
are often much more effective
in your mind than they ever are,
but still we managed to shock
an Arrested Development-style band
from Georgia who I will
never forget the look of fear
said they’d be
too afraid of getting shot
to ever pull a stunt
like we just did,
back home.

“Fucking Rimbaud!”

You decided nothing was sacred?
And we stayed all night and chalked
lines of poetry all over the city walls?
Do you remember?

The gorge we jumped into
And how water shot into my ass and had
me crippled for like a week and we laughed?

You screamed “fucking Rimbaud buddy!”
as I leapt off, and that was hilarious on its own,

(I’d rented the VHS copy from Videoscene in
Preston heights and decided I would be a poet.)

We had our crow bars in station wagons at the
junkyard so we would always find them,
and dance around smashing windows like
“The Mask” or “The Joker” just casually
mocking the possibility of our detection.

(I secretly always wanted to be chased by
A dog named Chopper I think, it was my
fave part of the best movie I had ever seen.)

I keep them all in my drawer, these snippets-

It might not be Ray Bradbury Theater,
but it’s a start. Now, let’s go make some more magic.

Must Be Nice

Enough?

I Don’t Understand This,
you say, you’ve had enough?
Of the stuff?

I’ve never heard of this “too much”.
It sounds pretty fucked.
Like, why would you be at in the
first place if you could’ve said no to start?

Like, how you gonna shit on addicts
when you can’t experience that your
self. Like, how many rejects you

think it takes, to get a Hunter Thompson
or an Irvine Welsh?

It takes millions to produce nation
and one mutant to tell them all
“Go to Fuck”

It’s like a feeling of satisfaction
you say, and I would love
to empathize
but I’ve done, would do
anything in a bag
any size
any way any time
when I was laid back
in the dark of that shine.
That “Mine.Mine.Mine.”

What the FUCK is enough?
Never had it,
Not one time.

But you enjoy the comfort,
That shit sounds divine.

Best Friend

My Best Friend

for HJM

When I needed someone
to protect me from the car
of angry Mexicans I
drunkenly slurred at one night
by merely getting out of
the car while I shivered
a bit in the back seat with
scrawny ginger shame,
it was him.

When I needed someone
to grab me by the throat
and push my face into
a desert of glass on my patio
after roughing me up and
letting me struggle a little,
it was him.

When I need someone to
goad me into picking up the pieces
when all the whore has run out on me
and all the drunk still in me

writhes and whimpers
“like a little ginger bitch”
Again, I am indebted,
to him and him alone.

You can talk on and on
about the myth of masculinity.

You can talk about male hegemonies,
and about the patriarch.

But I still dig having a best friend
like Christian Troy, you know why?

Because the world is filled with Kimbers,
and nobody wants to be Sean McNamara

All the time.
Anymore.
Or ever.

When I come across
The newest picture of
someone having done something
too stupid not To be
internet-mummified
by way of meme;

a ghastly old woman painted
to look like a demon
or one of a ginger zombie
Ronald McDonald making love
to a deadite dressed as a nurse
while in the background
various characters from Hellraiser
and Event Horizon do foul things to
stuffed people with stuffed animals,

It’s his wall I copy/paste it to.
Not even my own.

And that is what a best friend is;
the person you excitedly take
a new piece of discovered darkness to.
So you can both laugh at it, in the face,

And try to find something to top the others
recent post. Another heaping handful of hell,
to pass the hours with.

Anything else would be healthy and balanced,
all that other boring shit reserved for those
earning their way into heaven with
public displays of pompous charity.

When we find people like that we just nod,
look to one another with bug eyes on the side,
knowing full well that shit is just for show.