Critical Questions

How is the text marked by desire?
excess?
gender?
love?
secrets?

How is the text marked by fingerprints?
fingertips?
jam stains?
coffee breath?
lettuce?
all of us?
taxi drivers?
grandmothers?
ex boyfriends?
mimosas?
junkyards?
string theory?
lines?
other spots?
interstitial fluid?

How is this text marked by secondary experiences?
chopped liver?
coats and a fedora?
strangle hold?
mochiattas?
liminality?
luminosity?
single space?
double spaced?
double time?
placards?
bad haircuts?

How does this text negotiate symptoms of boredom?
symptoms of depression?
symptoms of the flu?
symptoms of intrigue?
symptoms of lovesickness?
symptoms of heartbreak?
symptoms of a bad diet?
symptoms of modernity/post modernity/post post modernity/revolting modernity/turning back to tradition modernity/ancient modernity/Shakespeare's modernity/Marx's modernity/tomorrows modernity/elaborated modernity/sylphlike modernity
symptoms of incessant smiling like a fool?

Recurring themes within the text include shoelaces.
tic tac toe.
pierced ears.
lipstick stained collarbones.
warm rooms filled with sunlight.
leopard print.
self-creation.

The text creates parallels between language and decoration.
dreamscape and footsteps.
tiger eyes and rabbit tails.
transcripts and gravestones.
love letters and graffiti breasts.
envelopes and envelope.
stuttered responses and downhill skiing.
ring tones and feathers falling from an old tired bird.
full time and a hungry vicious winding road that ends on a cliff facing away from the sun.
tender wolves and a giant empty space filled with yellowed hair.

This text depends on the rhetoric of a lady on a road bike in the Montreal sun. She's sweating a little bit. This rhetoric is self dreamt, and struggling in conception.

Everything is Smokier in Montreal

This little I-don't-know-what (rant? purge? plea? hallelujah?) manifested itself one night during a three day debauch that occurred back in November, after a few friends from Toronto decided to drive up at 3am on a Sunday morning. It's more interesting and dysfunctional on the original pages, I've scanned them, you may be able to make some stuff out. But really it's not interesting at all except in a sort of study of the mind - after not sleeping for a few days, having a cat die and visiting with strange friends old and new - kind of way. And even then, it's probably really only interesting to me. I just thought since I'm liking the idea of a content filled website, I should practice with content, and quality may come in its own time. If you don't like to waste your time, direct your browser onwards now.


A ghost lives in my house
She's killing my cats
Stray down
Standard
If I could see so far,
I'd stand out straight
outside all these circles.
Carrots breed freshness, shredded cheese and flies.
Avert your Eyes!
There will be reputations
take the good wisdom to the middle of your stomach and hold it down like a badly taken shot
These are the only teachings that count
And may I add, Fire, of wood, is perfectly natural!
but may I destabilize my faith in nature
with my life in culture
Frustrate standards
Hold out the truth scale,
what comes after value judgments?
I'd place three consecutive hours in history,
and apply the meaning of that time, after the fact.
Shiver through unheated flats
wear a sweater and a hat
Not a revolution. Revolting.
I'd force my way through but situations have consequences
which may contradict future aspirations
or our future as pirates
Squirt Faith!
Strange hues startle.
Take me to my Belmont Milds.
Dear SPCA. You've lost my trust, and caused a rupture in everything kind.
Drink Green Juice Adrian! Stay off the tobacco!
So tired, do try to hold those wide eyes open.
Rockstar or Pornstar?
Posers! Rogers! I'll kill you Rogers!
Daring to litter my mailbox, and my future
by charging me for communicating.
Ma vie sans l'air. C'est extraordinaire
I'd chart out the appreciations
then swallow whole views of the city.
Everything is Smokier in Montreal
I'll try for style
then cough on pretension
Some angel has you dreaming of clouds and magic,
don't stop short at the castles and towers.
The world you strike out would simile
towards sunlight

.

Slander

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and you're face burns from to much cold, darling

I've had it, had it, had
it all and coming down
It seemed all wrong

Times; times are changing
with this wind
urging my bells to ring.

I've roamed around and looked
through windows too high to climb
And not. I've felt I haven't had
enough. Two, three coming down.

Sound son. My bells are ringing
Im coming down from this high window
I haven't heard enough

Sound son.
Said it all
I've said it all

its always a good moment-
to late for sounds, son.
Get my bell we'll go far in this town
with this sound.
Son.

Come down from that high window
Come down from there. I'm calling you out.
Come down before the winds change
and you're face burns from to much cold, darling

Writing Poesy

I was writing poetry, and you were writing poetry.

It moved on your fingers and my thoughts fell in the space between us.

I couldn’t say these things that held like anchors to the fathoms in my brain.

I mixed too much metaphor, and choked on the figures.

Your fingers continued to make music. Music that was your poetry.

It was my heartbreak, and heart stopping and beating for further strangeness.

I couldn’t decide your love.

I couldn’t decide your reality

I wouldn’t decide your love

In truth, I'd always had to choose.

But in choice, I wouldn’t take a side

And float with my thoughts in the space between us.

I was writing a song, and you were writing a song

Songs of ourselves, and all we knew

Our temptations danced as from other bodies. Ourselves floated beyond that physical space and smiled from the ceiling.

The song held breaths around our heads, and we waited for our respective solos.

I couldn’t touch your heat, you burned so strongly.

I felt that you were the first person I had ever met.

I still feel you are the only person I’ve ever met.

I’d mapped out our route from town twice, and in the country, at the fork, we’d always get lost.

Sense of direction skewed, we rolled the windows down and just let our floating hands guide our way.

We made it to the world, again and again and again.

We made it, and the world scarred us, so we took more than our share.

At least I did.

You always deserved more than I.

I was writing a story and You were writing your story

Mine lost its ending to the snow.

I couldn’t dig it out from under the coffee stains.

You only drank tea, and your story brought home bread-

I sulked in my lazy bed.

On the third trip out to the country we found the way past the turn all right.

Unfortunately the car flipped; your foot always too hard on the pedals.

Too heavy on my chest.

Bloody but excited we followed our broken limbs down to the valley below.

This time the world escaped us, and the track so meticulously planned, like a grocery list, had rearranged itself in patterns too subtle for our perception.

Dismayed, tired we returned to the City, where lights never left us in the dark.

I want to save my soul. That timid wind.

Sontag