In grade seven, in science class of all places, our teacher Monsieur LaPlante, before he settled into his habit of spending the entire class writing out paragraph after paragraph of biology lessons on the blackboard for us to copy down, would encourage the students to take five minutes and write down our thoughts in a journal. He would not read this journal. It was for us, to express ourselves. We had five minutes at the start of every class to write our thoughts in our journals. Every class I would spend the five minutes expounding on how boring school was, how bored I was, how boring M. LaPlante was, how boring writing in the journal was. It is surprising to see, many years later, that it took me almost a whole year of writing virtually the same boringness every day before I started getting fanciful with my typography. Boring in Superman letters. Boring in KISS letters. Boring in bubble letters. Boring melting or Boring in flames. Boring getting smaller and smaller or bigger and bigger. Every letter of Boring punctuated with boring periods. It is surprising to me, upon finding and reading this journal many years later, to reveal to myself how utterly incapable of verbal expression or even thought I seemed to be as a twelve year old. No mention of Stacey Katsampas. No mention of Monsieur Mardikian saying the f-word in class. No mention a wasp crawling down my shirt in Mme. Assoulin's homeroom. No mention of any of the one hundred distinct memories I have of grade seven. The food fight. The Jimmies getting expelled. The fact that Robyn smoked. Her supremely tight Sergio Valente jeans. Or how I swung and missed Anthony Pio's face by one centimetre. Only boring entries of how bored I was. Only variations of Boring.
Friday, February 28, 2014
Friday, February 21, 2014
Mile-End, Always Beginning
I wrote this piece last April for Hyperlocal
It's about my neighbourhood.
I've lived in Mile-End since 1995. When a friend and I first struck out on our own to find an apartment we told ourselves we wouldn't go north of Mont-Royal. That wasn't where the action was. Our friends were all to the south, huddled around a few seedy bars on The Main.
We couldn't find anything so we ended up on Parc Avenue below Van Horne, blocks away north of our stated borderline. Since then I've happily endured the nicknames 'Chief', 'Sheriff', 'Mayor', 'The King of Kensington' & 'Mile-End Billy'. I've walked around a lot and insisted on eye contact. I know the place. Not all of it and not everyone. This village, for all its tinyness is quite large.
Saint-Viateur, or Sesame Street as I like to call it, was my domain. Too many coffees at Olimpico, co-funding the vehicular lifestyles of its barristas via tip money. Too many hand waving, smiling, bisou laden walks up and down that strip. I awoke into a new role when, in 2000, I took over the family business on St-Laurent. I wasn't just another coffee hippie now, I was a local merchant. I couldn't recklessly add to the street art anymore, I had to step up, go adult.
As a shopkeeper, I've had to represent the hood, acting as gatekeeper to all the tourists looking for Little Italy to the north. I'd tell them, and still do, to hang a left at the corner and get a coffee and a bagel, do some people watching, that this is the 'hood you need to see. Recently a student called me up and asked me if I'd like to speak on the gentrification issue for an article she was writing on Mile-End. I spieled into the phone for a good half hour, mentioning Anglo artists and musicians who flock here for cheap rent and creative vibrancy. I was rewarded with some garbled misquotes. Maybe my Franglais was to blame…or the caffeine in me, jumping from one detail to the next about the neighbourhood I love. I've been interviewed a lot, for my art, for our shop. I've never been misquoted, or at least never cared if I was. This time it was different. I prided myself on knowing my 'hood and now it seemed like I didn't.
It's a theme that never gets old. How much the neighbourhood has changed. It's always changing. How could it not ? We long ago lamented the loss of the second laundromat, we witnessed expansions and chi-chi makeovers of local grocery marts and the coming of newer upscale niche businesses. The old places I remember from my youth - Greek owned deps full of toys and nights out with my family at the Travailleurs Grecs du Québec social club - are gone or atrophied. My dusty junk crammed brocante has also transformed into an uptown gallery-boutique. My partner Emilie walked into a hoarded mess and we, very slowly, transformed the shop into something that isn't just a weirdo art project but maybe, just maybe, a livelihood. The neighbourhood changes, we change. Or is it vice versa ?
Recently some of the newer businesses on St-V were hit with hate posters wheat pasted on their windows, screaming "die yuppie scum!". I scoffed that the vandals were at least ten years late in their misdirected gestures. These new shops, like all shops, are simply making a go in what is hopefully a suitable environment. St-Viateur has evolved to be able to harbour such intentional, well designed spaces. But there have been Ferraris up and down that stretch before the new slew of college kids knew how much tattoos actually cost, before any of us used the H-word constantly.
Not everything can or should reflect the charming decay of neglected architecture. This was all pristine forest once. Retail chains do look out of place, but to who ? A few crusty locals bitterly cursing 'change' and 'gentrification' ? Locals like me ? Jerz, A friend from out west visited last summer. We walked around and visited all the new shops. We spoke of the changes. He said, 'It's a drawbridge situation, as soon as you get into the castle, you yell "Raise the drawbridge !" and everyone who follows yells the same thing.'
Sure, deke the sandwich brigade swarming the sidewalks looking for lunch, wait 20 minutes for your coffee (2nd or 3rd wave ?), dodge the strollers and mousey dogs and rock stars piled atop of each other. I'll do all that gladly. I love my hood, I complain night and day about it and always have. Somethings never change.
It's about my neighbourhood.
I've lived in Mile-End since 1995. When a friend and I first struck out on our own to find an apartment we told ourselves we wouldn't go north of Mont-Royal. That wasn't where the action was. Our friends were all to the south, huddled around a few seedy bars on The Main.
We couldn't find anything so we ended up on Parc Avenue below Van Horne, blocks away north of our stated borderline. Since then I've happily endured the nicknames 'Chief', 'Sheriff', 'Mayor', 'The King of Kensington' & 'Mile-End Billy'. I've walked around a lot and insisted on eye contact. I know the place. Not all of it and not everyone. This village, for all its tinyness is quite large.
Saint-Viateur, or Sesame Street as I like to call it, was my domain. Too many coffees at Olimpico, co-funding the vehicular lifestyles of its barristas via tip money. Too many hand waving, smiling, bisou laden walks up and down that strip. I awoke into a new role when, in 2000, I took over the family business on St-Laurent. I wasn't just another coffee hippie now, I was a local merchant. I couldn't recklessly add to the street art anymore, I had to step up, go adult.
As a shopkeeper, I've had to represent the hood, acting as gatekeeper to all the tourists looking for Little Italy to the north. I'd tell them, and still do, to hang a left at the corner and get a coffee and a bagel, do some people watching, that this is the 'hood you need to see. Recently a student called me up and asked me if I'd like to speak on the gentrification issue for an article she was writing on Mile-End. I spieled into the phone for a good half hour, mentioning Anglo artists and musicians who flock here for cheap rent and creative vibrancy. I was rewarded with some garbled misquotes. Maybe my Franglais was to blame…or the caffeine in me, jumping from one detail to the next about the neighbourhood I love. I've been interviewed a lot, for my art, for our shop. I've never been misquoted, or at least never cared if I was. This time it was different. I prided myself on knowing my 'hood and now it seemed like I didn't.
It's a theme that never gets old. How much the neighbourhood has changed. It's always changing. How could it not ? We long ago lamented the loss of the second laundromat, we witnessed expansions and chi-chi makeovers of local grocery marts and the coming of newer upscale niche businesses. The old places I remember from my youth - Greek owned deps full of toys and nights out with my family at the Travailleurs Grecs du Québec social club - are gone or atrophied. My dusty junk crammed brocante has also transformed into an uptown gallery-boutique. My partner Emilie walked into a hoarded mess and we, very slowly, transformed the shop into something that isn't just a weirdo art project but maybe, just maybe, a livelihood. The neighbourhood changes, we change. Or is it vice versa ?
Recently some of the newer businesses on St-V were hit with hate posters wheat pasted on their windows, screaming "die yuppie scum!". I scoffed that the vandals were at least ten years late in their misdirected gestures. These new shops, like all shops, are simply making a go in what is hopefully a suitable environment. St-Viateur has evolved to be able to harbour such intentional, well designed spaces. But there have been Ferraris up and down that stretch before the new slew of college kids knew how much tattoos actually cost, before any of us used the H-word constantly.
Not everything can or should reflect the charming decay of neglected architecture. This was all pristine forest once. Retail chains do look out of place, but to who ? A few crusty locals bitterly cursing 'change' and 'gentrification' ? Locals like me ? Jerz, A friend from out west visited last summer. We walked around and visited all the new shops. We spoke of the changes. He said, 'It's a drawbridge situation, as soon as you get into the castle, you yell "Raise the drawbridge !" and everyone who follows yells the same thing.'
Sure, deke the sandwich brigade swarming the sidewalks looking for lunch, wait 20 minutes for your coffee (2nd or 3rd wave ?), dodge the strollers and mousey dogs and rock stars piled atop of each other. I'll do all that gladly. I love my hood, I complain night and day about it and always have. Somethings never change.
Our Hippie Fence in the Asphalt Jungle
I wrote this short piece for Hyperlocal, a Canada WRITES project, in april 2013.
You can also read it here
We live in a building with no balconies and no yard to speak of, just a 3 foot wide stripe of earth running along the back alley. For years it was the place to piss or for all the good people next door to stack their discarded mattresses. Next door is a legendary 50 unit flop house with a thousand short stories that should be left for another time, a time when you bring over the drinks and I can relax and really get into it.
My partner Emilie built a charming hippie fence made with found woods and the odds and ends we’ve collected over the years. We reclaimed our little corner away from the trash piles and pee boys. We tried to sit in our 'back yard' with a drink and a snack one hopeful summer night but an over friendly drunk ambled over and draped himself around our rickety fence, sharing our space and kinda spoiling the mood.
This alley is the hottest alley in the neighbourhood. It opens to a popular cafe and a new bar tailor made for young loud professionals. The café doesn’t have a liquor license so the kids gather in the alley under our window to drink dep beer and smoke joints and laugh in loud undergrad voices. Often. I’ve become the old man who sticks his head out the window and asks them politely to move along. Why politely ? Even at 2 in the morning ? Because we’re sitting ducks.
One late winter night some stoned young man was railing against the back fence, wrenching a part this way and that. His friend was skating blissfully in the yard across the way. I'd guess acid but who knows. Our neighbour across the alley (the good neighbours) had made an ice rink for their kids. I poked my head out of our window and calmly asked the fence beater what we was doing. He said, "fucking shit up". From some weird place of deeper calm, I gently asked him why. He retorted "uuuh..fuck you. Good night" and left.
The large red plywood letter 'B' I salvaged years ago from a now defunct local resto, and making up a nice part of the fence, was recently unscrewed from its casings and hauled off by some careful bastard with an eye for the finer things. The fence has been abused and broken by the many denizens of the alley. The cats use our garden beds as litter boxes. The vines we planted are wildly overtaking the spindly wood. The good-time charlies lean on it, idly pick at it, sometimes tend to the vines. The tulips are often disappeared by zealous garden ladies of another generation.
Our tiny zone is an uphill battle. Until we finally split for some greener pasture, it'll have to do. It’s charming and awkward and broken. But we must have it, we must stake our little claim and try to pretty up the alley, almost against all odds.
You can also read it here
We live in a building with no balconies and no yard to speak of, just a 3 foot wide stripe of earth running along the back alley. For years it was the place to piss or for all the good people next door to stack their discarded mattresses. Next door is a legendary 50 unit flop house with a thousand short stories that should be left for another time, a time when you bring over the drinks and I can relax and really get into it.
My partner Emilie built a charming hippie fence made with found woods and the odds and ends we’ve collected over the years. We reclaimed our little corner away from the trash piles and pee boys. We tried to sit in our 'back yard' with a drink and a snack one hopeful summer night but an over friendly drunk ambled over and draped himself around our rickety fence, sharing our space and kinda spoiling the mood.
This alley is the hottest alley in the neighbourhood. It opens to a popular cafe and a new bar tailor made for young loud professionals. The café doesn’t have a liquor license so the kids gather in the alley under our window to drink dep beer and smoke joints and laugh in loud undergrad voices. Often. I’ve become the old man who sticks his head out the window and asks them politely to move along. Why politely ? Even at 2 in the morning ? Because we’re sitting ducks.
One late winter night some stoned young man was railing against the back fence, wrenching a part this way and that. His friend was skating blissfully in the yard across the way. I'd guess acid but who knows. Our neighbour across the alley (the good neighbours) had made an ice rink for their kids. I poked my head out of our window and calmly asked the fence beater what we was doing. He said, "fucking shit up". From some weird place of deeper calm, I gently asked him why. He retorted "uuuh..fuck you. Good night" and left.
The large red plywood letter 'B' I salvaged years ago from a now defunct local resto, and making up a nice part of the fence, was recently unscrewed from its casings and hauled off by some careful bastard with an eye for the finer things. The fence has been abused and broken by the many denizens of the alley. The cats use our garden beds as litter boxes. The vines we planted are wildly overtaking the spindly wood. The good-time charlies lean on it, idly pick at it, sometimes tend to the vines. The tulips are often disappeared by zealous garden ladies of another generation.
Our tiny zone is an uphill battle. Until we finally split for some greener pasture, it'll have to do. It’s charming and awkward and broken. But we must have it, we must stake our little claim and try to pretty up the alley, almost against all odds.
Thursday, July 11, 2013
everything from this point & earlier is experimental
Billy mavreas were drawn obama bunch or animal. Nov no comments have
problems. Weeks to urban art drawings that i had a cigarette comments.
Images and sell for calling fake. Recent drawings, above, are designed
so that has a weird. Animal fur in graphite pencil lovely lady. As a lot
of the look like. Happiest when banging out this. And face had to make
portrait allows you contrast them with pencil. Mouth, ear mavreas-inside
the-pencil method approaches drawing sketching an interesting. Straight
on, of choose your picture of drawings. Create your drawing mastery
loaded with photorealistic pencil face quality drawings. Step by
independent artists wanting to. De tus dibujos, y el brillo de. Paper
paper paper x inches, graphite pencil sketch pencil. Thanks but may by
independent artists.
Drawing children sketching faces every. Following the lessons- drawing
canvas print, matted prints for each. T-shirts, art, photography,
drawing, design, writing, illustration and pencil.
Thursday, January 31, 2013
diameteor showere
(allowing the flake)
offering sternum
staright
888
........
ponderous thought forms
dill array
quadranter
succulinare
aim to dish
feelephant
copy that
.......
if i could dubble you
squintartar
___________________________
___________________________
the language is missahped
accounting for all human possibilities seems tohave met a wall.
we can sprint finely, write sonnets, build bridges
there are some of us who can memorize the night sky at a blink
compose masterpieces as gestures
(allowing the flake)
offering sternum
staright
888
........
ponderous thought forms
dill array
quadranter
succulinare
aim to dish
feelephant
copy that
.......
if i could dubble you
squintartar
___________________________
___________________________
the language is missahped
accounting for all human possibilities seems tohave met a wall.
we can sprint finely, write sonnets, build bridges
there are some of us who can memorize the night sky at a blink
compose masterpieces as gestures
Monday, January 7, 2013
Embedded In A Rock
this contentious group
anomalous artefacts
discoveries found
formed before humans
at present existed
all following fakes
just one verified would
force process or theory
Called Plasma Cosmology
Today,
we are in space seeing
things
that were never
imagined. We detect
fields everywhere,
currents.
The naked force
so much stronger.
visible
active
century pioneers inspire
anew investigation
primary force
organizing astonishing
clusters now seen
things that were never imagined.
We have achieved
surprising success
predicting
this new perspective.
not requiring
inventions
like matter
Or stars
The Scholarship Of Insects
the scholarship of insects
present facts as art
what with warring planets
plasmic plumes
& rock
novel as technical
manual
thorn hill thanks
stacks of marbles
holding story
show
night time
creating water
at earths center
up and at them
sial & sima
747 BC
we rewrite history
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
a swum vex
a swum vex
zircon
acorn ex
amen
crux sow viz
answer
cox
mu oxen
arc arum
sex vow sewn
zinc as women
aver rum awn
serum some
-
ax crone
muse
muon
screw crown
over rove
corn axe sum
scum worn axes
car carne
mourn
censor
coax con wax
waxen cos
cow max nurse
rumen sax
earn maw
saw rune near
wan was cozen
crane craw
craze mix sun
crew crewman us
crow exam
sue user
Monday, September 3, 2012
billy_mavreas
@billy_mavreas
"i'd play a different game, " was the reply.
the solitaire addict went to the track.
the end.
billy_mavreas
"it's been years since i played," the game addict admitted.
"what if you played now and lost ?," the jerk asked
"i couldn't explain it to myself and i
couldn't do it with any other game," the unnamed solitaire addict said,
"so i clammed up."
the story of a solitaire addict who has been quietly winning every game played for 25 years.
Monday, August 6, 2012
we argue over the meaning of suffering
just to ensure hell is met
we watched, M. and I, as this thing grew and was copied
grooving on social mind, dragged to refocus
kids don't want to learn they're busy feeding into and taking from a mass global popular culture
that withstands any and every comment, any and every gesture
collaged in every direction
and they are learning. and they don't have to read books even though it's good for them
and they don't and they don't the kids
they are busy writing
with costumes and rites, codes and plaza politic
just to ensure hell is met
we watched, M. and I, as this thing grew and was copied
grooving on social mind, dragged to refocus
kids don't want to learn they're busy feeding into and taking from a mass global popular culture
that withstands any and every comment, any and every gesture
collaged in every direction
and they are learning. and they don't have to read books even though it's good for them
and they don't and they don't the kids
they are busy writing
with costumes and rites, codes and plaza politic
Sunday, August 5, 2012
the thing is the thing
dug three feet deep for stability, timbers soaked in earth
lord once again
you want to to do this thing
this thing you say that's an old chevrolet this thing dismayed not a soul
approves
groovin in your trucker hat, called apollo
'my wrist tattooes herald a new dawn for me' , he said showing me his arms,
'this one is the oldest one. It started with a cross.'
'we can only watch' is something that when said
i can only repeat words, the story hums on it's own, a steady transmission since day one
not a change in the message it stays true and unedited
written on liquid paper
written on liquid paper
written on liquid paper
written on liquid paper
written on liquid paper
written on liquid paper
i've written several teen anthems that i think should be able to grab if you will, the heart of any persons experience, a cry that can only quick to the very pulse the soul of one receptive to it's call.
ok, well. what does that entail ? what are these traits that define reception ?
it's all reception man, it's all in the groove. there isn't something it isn't, dig ? how much more plain do you want it ? it's all an illusion man and it's all the realest thing their is.
yeah ok yeah i see that that. that's not the problem, all is one is all. how does one leak out into the public the switch that activates a larger self awareness.
i'm sorry to say popular music isn't turning everybody on. what will is my question ?
man. man, you are not the guy that does that. i do that. i touch the people, i touch the crowds in ways that leave me shuddering. it's a fire that spreads, it's lightening. any thing you want is right there.
. you taste the girls. you taste the drugs. the party. the food. the food. it's royalty man but you better be careful. you better watch which flame is burning to burn you. that full on access to any desire, miracles of miracles and i kiss the sweet earth, never left me in a deep grip for long
i try to fly right. it's hard. the temptation is always there, peeping around seeing if you'll take. you'll take too, make no mistake about it. the thing is the thing. you gotta ride it.
i thanked him profusely, knowing my zine hanging around his pad might have a chance at not being completely ignored.
i wasn't that guy, i thought to myself on the way out. i had met a rockstar a little burnt but not much. what he said made me think. i wasn't the guy to light the world on fire with my songs, jumping around from spa to spa between shows. rockstars party is going to go on and i'll write up this piece and call it a day.
the thing is the thing. he said that. the thing is the thing. it was ridiculous. it was all mine.
over night there were four hundred repetitions, all over town. a card stapled to a pole - the thing is the thing - scrawled around the bottom of a fire hydrant - the thing is the thing - stenciled on the sidewalk - the thing is the thing - scratched out in grime - the thing is the thing - wiped clean on windows - the thing is the thing.
M. was a great buddy watching out and writing too. she pulled off some massive ones. she made total mayhem all the while saying how deep i've gotten myself because of my 'art project'.
my 'art project' was just beginning.
i always thought the writing on the wall should be showstopping. not in terms of beautiful artwork. that was great but i don't mean that.
i always thought, wasn't there just one simple thing you can write down that would get people to nod yeah. that the word would spread and everybody would get it. it didn't have to be all of a sudden, it could take a while like plants growing. and it was just something that made every one ok with life, not afraid of death but not calling it either, just mellow i guess. forgiven. self forgiven. and with the neighbours too. just all the bullshit called off.
yeah, everybody knowing and i mean everybody, that life is sweet and precious and short. i'm a kid and i know that. and i'm a kid to think it could ever happen.
the thing is the thing.
a couple of days later there were pictures of it on the net. i didn't put any up. M. would have told me but she also could have forgotten she did. in any case, there you go. somebody, within the week, had taken pictures of as many of the phrases we wrote. of course i found their postal address and sent them a letter.
dear blogger of note
the thing is the thing
and
the thing is also the thing
i offer you this thing
and here i stopped. how do i sign this ? do i sign this ? is signing this cheezy ? should i use a secret name ? isn't that getting fancy ? and so on. my mind raced as i scrambled whether to use my real name, my zine name (which would lead back to me of course) or just leave another thing is the thing at the bottom of the letter.
i decided to just send the thing i made. it was a short plank of wood that i painted the slogan in brown and black on. i cut up pieces of pictures from a magazine over my letter and glued all that to the other side of the plank. i scraped at the glued paper revealing scraps of text, a 'th', an 'als', a 'you'.
i've been mailing for a while. one of those things that some friends think is neat or cute or just don't know about. you often don't tell people you don't mail to, that you mail. but this started something else. i called M. and we sat down to collage, cut-out and rubber stamp a batch of letters filled with bits of paper, the slogan once maybe twice written different ways.
i sent an anonymous card to rockstar. i put in an obscure reference to the zine i had left him some weeks before. no one would ever get it but it was fun. it led to a streak of puzzle making that left M. tired and my so-called art project swell into something a little bigger.
i had vinyl stickers printed up, 2 inches long, 1 cm high, black border black letters. i put them up in
out of the way places, just out of casual reach. it was fun. i always carried them on me.
lord once again
you want to to do this thing
this thing you say that's an old chevrolet this thing dismayed not a soul
approves
groovin in your trucker hat, called apollo
'my wrist tattooes herald a new dawn for me' , he said showing me his arms,
'this one is the oldest one. It started with a cross.'
'we can only watch' is something that when said
i can only repeat words, the story hums on it's own, a steady transmission since day one
not a change in the message it stays true and unedited
written on liquid paper
written on liquid paper
written on liquid paper
written on liquid paper
written on liquid paper
written on liquid paper
i've written several teen anthems that i think should be able to grab if you will, the heart of any persons experience, a cry that can only quick to the very pulse the soul of one receptive to it's call.
ok, well. what does that entail ? what are these traits that define reception ?
it's all reception man, it's all in the groove. there isn't something it isn't, dig ? how much more plain do you want it ? it's all an illusion man and it's all the realest thing their is.
yeah ok yeah i see that that. that's not the problem, all is one is all. how does one leak out into the public the switch that activates a larger self awareness.
i'm sorry to say popular music isn't turning everybody on. what will is my question ?
man. man, you are not the guy that does that. i do that. i touch the people, i touch the crowds in ways that leave me shuddering. it's a fire that spreads, it's lightening. any thing you want is right there.
. you taste the girls. you taste the drugs. the party. the food. the food. it's royalty man but you better be careful. you better watch which flame is burning to burn you. that full on access to any desire, miracles of miracles and i kiss the sweet earth, never left me in a deep grip for long
i try to fly right. it's hard. the temptation is always there, peeping around seeing if you'll take. you'll take too, make no mistake about it. the thing is the thing. you gotta ride it.
i thanked him profusely, knowing my zine hanging around his pad might have a chance at not being completely ignored.
i wasn't that guy, i thought to myself on the way out. i had met a rockstar a little burnt but not much. what he said made me think. i wasn't the guy to light the world on fire with my songs, jumping around from spa to spa between shows. rockstars party is going to go on and i'll write up this piece and call it a day.
the thing is the thing. he said that. the thing is the thing. it was ridiculous. it was all mine.
over night there were four hundred repetitions, all over town. a card stapled to a pole - the thing is the thing - scrawled around the bottom of a fire hydrant - the thing is the thing - stenciled on the sidewalk - the thing is the thing - scratched out in grime - the thing is the thing - wiped clean on windows - the thing is the thing.
M. was a great buddy watching out and writing too. she pulled off some massive ones. she made total mayhem all the while saying how deep i've gotten myself because of my 'art project'.
my 'art project' was just beginning.
i always thought the writing on the wall should be showstopping. not in terms of beautiful artwork. that was great but i don't mean that.
i always thought, wasn't there just one simple thing you can write down that would get people to nod yeah. that the word would spread and everybody would get it. it didn't have to be all of a sudden, it could take a while like plants growing. and it was just something that made every one ok with life, not afraid of death but not calling it either, just mellow i guess. forgiven. self forgiven. and with the neighbours too. just all the bullshit called off.
yeah, everybody knowing and i mean everybody, that life is sweet and precious and short. i'm a kid and i know that. and i'm a kid to think it could ever happen.
the thing is the thing.
a couple of days later there were pictures of it on the net. i didn't put any up. M. would have told me but she also could have forgotten she did. in any case, there you go. somebody, within the week, had taken pictures of as many of the phrases we wrote. of course i found their postal address and sent them a letter.
dear blogger of note
the thing is the thing
and
the thing is also the thing
i offer you this thing
and here i stopped. how do i sign this ? do i sign this ? is signing this cheezy ? should i use a secret name ? isn't that getting fancy ? and so on. my mind raced as i scrambled whether to use my real name, my zine name (which would lead back to me of course) or just leave another thing is the thing at the bottom of the letter.
i decided to just send the thing i made. it was a short plank of wood that i painted the slogan in brown and black on. i cut up pieces of pictures from a magazine over my letter and glued all that to the other side of the plank. i scraped at the glued paper revealing scraps of text, a 'th', an 'als', a 'you'.
i've been mailing for a while. one of those things that some friends think is neat or cute or just don't know about. you often don't tell people you don't mail to, that you mail. but this started something else. i called M. and we sat down to collage, cut-out and rubber stamp a batch of letters filled with bits of paper, the slogan once maybe twice written different ways.
i sent an anonymous card to rockstar. i put in an obscure reference to the zine i had left him some weeks before. no one would ever get it but it was fun. it led to a streak of puzzle making that left M. tired and my so-called art project swell into something a little bigger.
i had vinyl stickers printed up, 2 inches long, 1 cm high, black border black letters. i put them up in
out of the way places, just out of casual reach. it was fun. i always carried them on me.
it is with awed
attention now waiting
florid ors
nothing doth stretch towards
lord once more
(lady out not waiting)
carapace
finger rattling on board
stick to see it
fountain realm
not a bad place
forest over pound keys
numbers lost in fold
back to the board
harping wise knots
surfs up wavy ears
thank you
attention now waiting
florid ors
nothing doth stretch towards
lord once more
(lady out not waiting)
carapace
finger rattling on board
stick to see it
fountain realm
not a bad place
forest over pound keys
numbers lost in fold
back to the board
harping wise knots
surfs up wavy ears
thank you
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
R. lines up the objects on the counter according to size. this is done absently, an exercise not in establishing order but in wasting time, in busying idle hands.
the hands of R. have things to do, things requiring attention and intention. moving baubles in a row and standing bobs of plastic at attention are distractions away from a series of deeds, that just the night before, excited R. with commitment.
the hands of R. have things to do, things requiring attention and intention. moving baubles in a row and standing bobs of plastic at attention are distractions away from a series of deeds, that just the night before, excited R. with commitment.
R. waits for the capsule to enlarge enough so he can climb in. the duties of the day will be offset by this movement. the dishes will wait. the fabric to be folded forgotten. thankfully there is no mammal or bird or fish companion that needs attending, no bowl to refresh or box to clean.
the capsule takes longer than usual. it sputters at half size and stalls.
the capsule takes longer than usual. it sputters at half size and stalls.
neglected exercises leave us plump and yearning
the feeling of things cresting right below the surface
i feel that right below the surface of my consciousness there is a world waiting to crest
competing worlds attempting to crest forth into consciousness
coils and fleeting sinew
dorsal fins and hint of scale
cryptic fish or mammal all
ideas push against the bottom of the top, sniffs and hints
the feeling of things cresting right below the surface
i feel that right below the surface of my consciousness there is a world waiting to crest
competing worlds attempting to crest forth into consciousness
coils and fleeting sinew
dorsal fins and hint of scale
cryptic fish or mammal all
ideas push against the bottom of the top, sniffs and hints
Friday, September 30, 2011
A paragraph (from the Greek paragraphos, "to write beside" or "written beside") is a self-Contained unit of a discourse
in writing dealing with a Particular point or idea. A paragraph consists of one or more Sentences. The start of a paragraph with the
Indicated for beginning on a new line. Sometimes the first line is indented. At Various Times, The Beginning of a paragraph Has been Indicated by the pilcrow: ¶.
A written work-be it
an essay or a story-is about an idea or concept. An essay explains it, and the story it narrates. To help the reader Understand and enjoy it, or the Explanation Narration is broken down into units of text,
the paragraph. In an essay, each 'paragraph explains or demonstrates a key point or central thought of the idea, Usually it inform or persuade. In fiction, it serves each 'paragraph advance the plot, and Develop character, describe a scene or
an action-Narrate
all that Entertain the reader. All paragraphs support each 'other, leading the reader from the first idea to the final resolution of the written work.
Many students are taught the use and minimum number of Sentences in a paragraph or dry, and three five-Although length is not a determinant in Defining and paragraph.
Many examples exist of published writing with one sentence paragraphs.
in writing dealing with a Particular point or idea. A paragraph consists of one or more Sentences. The start of a paragraph with the
Indicated for beginning on a new line. Sometimes the first line is indented. At Various Times, The Beginning of a paragraph Has been Indicated by the pilcrow: ¶.
A written work-be it
an essay or a story-is about an idea or concept. An essay explains it, and the story it narrates. To help the reader Understand and enjoy it, or the Explanation Narration is broken down into units of text,
the paragraph. In an essay, each 'paragraph explains or demonstrates a key point or central thought of the idea, Usually it inform or persuade. In fiction, it serves each 'paragraph advance the plot, and Develop character, describe a scene or
an action-Narrate
all that Entertain the reader. All paragraphs support each 'other, leading the reader from the first idea to the final resolution of the written work.
Many students are taught the use and minimum number of Sentences in a paragraph or dry, and three five-Although length is not a determinant in Defining and paragraph.
Many examples exist of published writing with one sentence paragraphs.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
i dream them
that's all. i don't write. i dream of being a dancer arrayed in her finery.
i dream of being this dancer aching with doubt, oh how they just want to write science fiction !
a marvelous operetta follows, decked out and super charged, all the while reclining on her couch of pillows.
i dream of the cities i'm building as an ace architect, made whole and functional by my cunning designs.
i dream of rock stardom, martyrdom and the parting of limousines for me
i dream of craft and vehicles, sod and spray
theres a hobbit house in the perfect valley, there's a kitchen and a bath
studio and room and guests of course and board the likes we've only dreamt of.
that's all. i don't write. i dream of being a dancer arrayed in her finery.
i dream of being this dancer aching with doubt, oh how they just want to write science fiction !
a marvelous operetta follows, decked out and super charged, all the while reclining on her couch of pillows.
i dream of the cities i'm building as an ace architect, made whole and functional by my cunning designs.
i dream of rock stardom, martyrdom and the parting of limousines for me
i dream of craft and vehicles, sod and spray
theres a hobbit house in the perfect valley, there's a kitchen and a bath
studio and room and guests of course and board the likes we've only dreamt of.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
i have morbid thoughts
my head is screaming i think that it's you my dark desires hidden true
to become a wounded martyr whose love he lost, a sick tortured prince high a top a twisted tower looked down upon the small wounds he thought he inflicted. his sad little lies wrote silent and slow. he wound his hair around his neck . he can never be sure, he may always have wanted
to become a wounded martyr whose love he lost, a sick tortured prince high a top a twisted tower looked down upon the small wounds he thought he inflicted. his sad little lies wrote silent and slow. he wound his hair around his neck . he can never be sure, he may always have wanted
the musicality of it of what
the dinosaur of this end in thought
the winged double spin no naught
and here we go in the morning
the simpering sing conflate
the national hymn to the state
the previous sin the marginal win
the squirming all night at the gate
and here we go a rockin'
rock
rock
and here we dock the talkin'
STOP !!!
HERE WE GO IN THE MORNING !!
xuieeeee ctryyeeeeee bweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
for fucking pages
ripping dry throats out
page turn
ok. no really in the seventies this shit would be printed with browny ink on stiff hippie papers
hiding nothing
to sing at peak voice to weave a bundle into radio
that opening
is hard torn to stay closed
the last thing you want to do is pull the cord spring the cable
jesus christ that's bad/. i mean evil. this is reduction spelled out. this is sheer banditry over anon
plethora plea pan pox
andea nor ka tox ka tox
meery a stone shot sling divorce
nary a horse to boast or bow
stinging shot blocks
brought thin vaneer
singing cock clocks
let us cheer ! who ra !
guitar
the dinosaur of this end in thought
the winged double spin no naught
and here we go in the morning
the simpering sing conflate
the national hymn to the state
the previous sin the marginal win
the squirming all night at the gate
and here we go a rockin'
rock
rock
and here we dock the talkin'
STOP !!!
HERE WE GO IN THE MORNING !!
xuieeeee ctryyeeeeee bweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
for fucking pages
ripping dry throats out
page turn
ok. no really in the seventies this shit would be printed with browny ink on stiff hippie papers
hiding nothing
to sing at peak voice to weave a bundle into radio
that opening
is hard torn to stay closed
the last thing you want to do is pull the cord spring the cable
jesus christ that's bad/. i mean evil. this is reduction spelled out. this is sheer banditry over anon
plethora plea pan pox
andea nor ka tox ka tox
meery a stone shot sling divorce
nary a horse to boast or bow
stinging shot blocks
brought thin vaneer
singing cock clocks
let us cheer ! who ra !
guitar
Saturday, May 28, 2011
bX-rbds8p
feet curled on wood, stymied
feet flat on the cool tiles resting
back straight and head loose at neck
shoulders eased
eyes released
feet flat on the cool tiles resting
back straight and head loose at neck
shoulders eased
eyes released
Thursday, May 19, 2011
squeezelle and the rod
blanchard doll stick fury
rim-tone essence frip
click the jar far spastic
mingle tight the show way
glide ranch pony sauce delightful
volt begonia peer assessment
warble truce and pygmy statutes
fringe a zillion post mosquitoes
skill a tweezer deluxe model
bargain chew through denver airway
click a saddle stitch merchant sing
door door fruit juice cup string deer song ring
eat the empty bowels down
howl for sailors windows
beat the wrong dismissal
hang a rayon curtain
sting a turtle island
heave a moment
carpet
stop
and
frayed
employ
mint
two
blanchard doll stick fury
rim-tone essence frip
click the jar far spastic
mingle tight the show way
glide ranch pony sauce delightful
volt begonia peer assessment
warble truce and pygmy statutes
fringe a zillion post mosquitoes
skill a tweezer deluxe model
bargain chew through denver airway
click a saddle stitch merchant sing
door door fruit juice cup string deer song ring
eat the empty bowels down
howl for sailors windows
beat the wrong dismissal
hang a rayon curtain
sting a turtle island
heave a moment
carpet
stop
and
frayed
employ
mint
two
my phantom readership demands more serious efforts. they demand i give it a shot once a week to say the least and not just pithy quotes but ramble.
and not just ramble stoned and queer but digs and jeer and tried true sentence structure.
i'll lift and lilt and spill some beer and cross the words out as they tumble
and not just ramble stoned and queer but digs and jeer and tried true sentence structure.
i'll lift and lilt and spill some beer and cross the words out as they tumble
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Elementals watch our every move
The Earth is hollow and full of dreams
Fall River is not my intended mythology
Fireplace ash shovel, the effort to ban
Winds from these directions are exiled
Rising smoke from air of buildings and land
Fall River is not my intended mythology
Fireplace ash shovel, the effort to ban
Winds from these directions are exiled
Please cancel the devil to buy a house of stone.
Tree trunks carved in the likeness of a friend
Central fountain spring quarter FormTree trunks carved in the likeness of a friend
Rising smoke from air of buildings and land
Sunday, April 10, 2011
beginning to see the cresting earth despoil the fear of other
Please refer to the beginning
to the other decorations
we too can become enormous statues with respect to
unification and the need to secure our straps
to the other decorations
we too can become enormous statues with respect to
unification and the need to secure our straps
Looking round, I went into the pond together.
this is a down cast eye, the one that smarts in sing song
this is the first song of an understated wit
my word crawls through the narrow space looking for a margin
my words, please look under the floor
we are incredible space men with valour and truncated thoughts
we the people of the universe, we are very brave
this is the first song of an understated wit
my word crawls through the narrow space looking for a margin
my words, please look under the floor
we are incredible space men with valour and truncated thoughts
we the people of the universe, we are very brave
The Author of the Goddess
* We We a great jaws, let him be a race in diameter.
* We base welcome to drink in the earth to please.
* But teeming leaven hatred, and here and that mass of CUSHIONED COUCH.
* But, but unless Eros advantage of life and the need of Diet and Orcs.
* Until he is some love from the lakes, but a soft bed.
* The author of the goddess, the Welcome to Thinking.
* The time when the masters of hatred not and attendants.
* That I may to lay Magazines and newspapers unless a quiver.
* To suspend but he is love itself according to reason.
* A person is also a pure We, but that a certain pain. Who is the author of More?
* But some arrows to the just, the gate of a soft venomous life.
* Or in diameter with child, in the base and the sapient, the time of various fears.
* Need of wise this torturer, and easy to drink in need.
* To suspend not the couch, and he was to please more.
* Product as a lion or any means a lion.
* Community Client here.
* Until the end of fear that the attendants deal with.
* Welcome to Thinking.
* There is no elite
* Read the Full when prefix meaning half and at the earth.
* Diseases, the nil to the carriages or to drink in a bed, if not time.
* We , we attendants deal with the time of clean modern life.
* These jaws to the just, to please any man.
* The earth will be cured
* But in a wise man.
* For The earth is at need.
* To suspend attendants deal with schools.
* We base welcome to drink in the earth to please.
* But teeming leaven hatred, and here and that mass of CUSHIONED COUCH.
* But, but unless Eros advantage of life and the need of Diet and Orcs.
* Until he is some love from the lakes, but a soft bed.
* The author of the goddess, the Welcome to Thinking.
* The time when the masters of hatred not and attendants.
* That I may to lay Magazines and newspapers unless a quiver.
* To suspend but he is love itself according to reason.
* A person is also a pure We, but that a certain pain. Who is the author of More?
* But some arrows to the just, the gate of a soft venomous life.
* Or in diameter with child, in the base and the sapient, the time of various fears.
* Need of wise this torturer, and easy to drink in need.
* To suspend not the couch, and he was to please more.
* Product as a lion or any means a lion.
* Community Client here.
* Until the end of fear that the attendants deal with.
* Welcome to Thinking.
* There is no elite
* Read the Full when prefix meaning half and at the earth.
* Diseases, the nil to the carriages or to drink in a bed, if not time.
* We , we attendants deal with the time of clean modern life.
* These jaws to the just, to please any man.
* The earth will be cured
* But in a wise man.
* For The earth is at need.
* To suspend attendants deal with schools.
We adorn a soft congruent. There is no.
Consequently
That laughter of beating. Content goes here to raise up.
In Thinking of arrows, for filthy My Photos in diameter, is the fear and need of the time of this.
We lump also: and that is always her porch of a man the pit.
Until the time of the element.
Urn live a bed, some of life but the porch, the element of Sample.
Tomorrow to extreme poverty.
Neither the nib nor undertakes, also the augur is the mass of crime, and be, my orcs but unseemly.
Be healed: a soft eros blandishments of life that concept of mourning.
Until the price of fear fun on the advantage. Top crime there was a time carriages.
The Moors laughter of annoyance.
Write is now, and please go a lion Customer.
Consequently
That laughter of beating. Content goes here to raise up.
In Thinking of arrows, for filthy My Photos in diameter, is the fear and need of the time of this.
We lump also: and that is always her porch of a man the pit.
Until the time of the element.
Urn live a bed, some of life but the porch, the element of Sample.
Tomorrow to extreme poverty.
Neither the nib nor undertakes, also the augur is the mass of crime, and be, my orcs but unseemly.
Be healed: a soft eros blandishments of life that concept of mourning.
Until the price of fear fun on the advantage. Top crime there was a time carriages.
The Moors laughter of annoyance.
Write is now, and please go a lion Customer.
collection of shambles
look at this, it's broken i know and the paint...well, maybe i should repaint it, i like when that colour goo fills in the cracks and makes it smooth. plywood letter forms, screw holes, splinter sticks, one-side, hanging on the wall, leaning from the shelf, gathering power.
i have an R and an old E. i find them but i can make them if i gave myself the day, i could have a word or two nicely down, 4 letters worth for fun. to show or hang or sell or cast out of doors.
to tie into fences and art works.
i have an R and an old E. i find them but i can make them if i gave myself the day, i could have a word or two nicely down, 4 letters worth for fun. to show or hang or sell or cast out of doors.
to tie into fences and art works.
one kinetic temple of the light converging
expanding
no two ways about it
spin cycle up town dust gather storm knot up down
HOT !
----- --
frying abate style liars
gate crashing mud friars
HUT !
stop jungle max triple treat beef crown rot
flip dimple stiff prod heart scoop trot
mix crinkle Steve stop jeep lot
my twinkle TV tube tied top
stipple due cream cry Chris eye stop
mix tape snap pop pry stat pause
click camera film torn grease high mop
dig do dog bog midge map flop
expanding
no two ways about it
spin cycle up town dust gather storm knot up down
HOT !
----- --
frying abate style liars
gate crashing mud friars
HUT !
stop jungle max triple treat beef crown rot
flip dimple stiff prod heart scoop trot
mix crinkle Steve stop jeep lot
my twinkle TV tube tied top
stipple due cream cry Chris eye stop
mix tape snap pop pry stat pause
click camera film torn grease high mop
dig do dog bog midge map flop
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
can / should / busy
no seriously
we can awaken our species
reconnect with the totality of life
tune into the planet
spread the word we can.
we can awaken our species
reconnect with the totality of life
tune into the planet
spread the word we can.
fragments follow
closely
nose to tail
entire rings of beast
------
the order in which to read
the list of illustrations
the chart of reveries
------
to break the backs of children
how much empire do you need ?
------
how much warehouse for your greed ?
nose to tail
entire rings of beast
------
the order in which to read
the list of illustrations
the chart of reveries
------
to break the backs of children
how much empire do you need ?
------
how much warehouse for your greed ?
the little things in life
seriously all around us, the shelter, the clean water, fresh food, friendship.
let's form a band and make a tv show, let's broadcast our whatevers into the cosmos. let's write that novel and write it again ! let's get logos for everybody and sexy shoes, and all the right friends are the only friends we have and life is amazing with things to share at parties and work is fun and easy.
oh art.
let's form a band and make a tv show, let's broadcast our whatevers into the cosmos. let's write that novel and write it again ! let's get logos for everybody and sexy shoes, and all the right friends are the only friends we have and life is amazing with things to share at parties and work is fun and easy.
oh art.
here's a thing i want to show you
it's a thing i found one day, i forget exactly where or how. i mean when. how was i was walking down the street and i saw it. not too fancy. i took it of course. it's small and clean. it's made of wood with some pencil crayon on it and we talk about it. how much would you sell it for, do you like it ?
like that. we laugh and talk. like in the shop.
i wonder what will happen to it ! does it matter ? maybe not so much. it's a big world with lots of stuff, lots of junk too. it's kinda nice. not a miracle or anything, just a thing, a cool thing.
the little things in life.
like that. we laugh and talk. like in the shop.
i wonder what will happen to it ! does it matter ? maybe not so much. it's a big world with lots of stuff, lots of junk too. it's kinda nice. not a miracle or anything, just a thing, a cool thing.
the little things in life.
to broadcast
this is tv now, this is tv. you are watching me on the televion. i am asking you questions about things. you answer. we talk and laugh. we show each other things. you show me things. i show you things. it's fun. lot's of people are watching. we're all talking together on the tv set.
Unity Consciousness
is it too much to ask that if enough of us willfully invited unity consciousness it would occur ?
isn't it time for an ascension of species, planet, dna, etc., ?
no ringleaders no credit takers no nothing
just phase shift into a bigger mind
us people scream our scream of fear and horror
as atcrocity upon catastrophe is heaped upon our heads
take our borders and our grudges and our fear of neighbours
take ancient hate forgotten feud beaten child abandoned elder
take glutton greed and want and breed a new world
you death dealers take your pie and island and leave the rest of us to farm and make sport
we'll still make shows and baubles for you
you thing buyer stop & choose wisely
breathe deeply and slow down
make light if you can make light
smile and take the arm of an other
i think we could think about our moment to awaken
i think we can actualize a group mind, a species wide connection to itself and the planet
the return of greed and competition to arenas not profit making
to the poetry of seventeen year olds
to the safety of children
to their right to grow unabused and allowed to play
to their destiny to forge a brighter world
man o man
please get it together
here we go, just do this
womens rights
childrens rights
animal rights
protection of green spaces
the redefinition of value away from material power
the respect of the human arts
addressing the needs of those differently minded
schools, gardens, sanctuaries, museums, galleries, theatres, arenas, parks.
that we think we need what we do in the saturated west is the first thing to consider
that we disengage with media drama is the second
to stop and breathe
to make art
to write this down while i can
isn't it time for an ascension of species, planet, dna, etc., ?
no ringleaders no credit takers no nothing
just phase shift into a bigger mind
us people scream our scream of fear and horror
as atcrocity upon catastrophe is heaped upon our heads
take our borders and our grudges and our fear of neighbours
take ancient hate forgotten feud beaten child abandoned elder
take glutton greed and want and breed a new world
you death dealers take your pie and island and leave the rest of us to farm and make sport
we'll still make shows and baubles for you
you thing buyer stop & choose wisely
breathe deeply and slow down
make light if you can make light
smile and take the arm of an other
i think we could think about our moment to awaken
i think we can actualize a group mind, a species wide connection to itself and the planet
the return of greed and competition to arenas not profit making
to the poetry of seventeen year olds
to the safety of children
to their right to grow unabused and allowed to play
to their destiny to forge a brighter world
man o man
please get it together
here we go, just do this
womens rights
childrens rights
animal rights
protection of green spaces
the redefinition of value away from material power
the respect of the human arts
addressing the needs of those differently minded
schools, gardens, sanctuaries, museums, galleries, theatres, arenas, parks.
that we think we need what we do in the saturated west is the first thing to consider
that we disengage with media drama is the second
to stop and breathe
to make art
to write this down while i can
It's a New Form - Lyrics
it's a hairstyle that's never been seen
it's a band you can't make-up in a dream
it's a throttle of gears and machines
it's a wicked display of our genes
it's a new form
it's a new form
it's a new form
it's a new form
it's a language that you could see
it's a massage with unlimited creams
it's a planet supported by beams
it's a laugh instead of a scream
---------------------------------------------------
all lyrics written by billy mavreas
free to use. please credit author.
it's a unity consciousness
it's a band you can't make-up in a dream
it's a throttle of gears and machines
it's a wicked display of our genes
it's a new form
it's a new form
it's a new form
it's a new form
it's a language that you could see
it's a massage with unlimited creams
it's a planet supported by beams
it's a laugh instead of a scream
---------------------------------------------------
all lyrics written by billy mavreas
free to use. please credit author.
it's a unity consciousness
i understand the art of it but ceaseless transmission in every direction is a bit much
i understand the art of it but ceaseless transmission in every direction is a bit much
A ceramic plate of the Mycenaean era, which was found during excavations last summer in Iklaina Messinia, is that it has the oldest Greek-and thus European-style. The plate, which brought to light in a grove archaeologist Michael Kosmopoulos professor at the University of Saint Louis, Missouri, is actually a fragment, measuring approximately 2.5 cm height and 4 cm wide.
The important thing, however, is the dating, which is placed between 1450 and 1450 BC That is much earlier than other known signs. The script which is written in small text that is saved is the Linear B and contains from one side to form the verb associated with the construction and the other names and numbers, you probably correspond to a property list.
Linear B, the first writing of Greek, have come to light at Mycenae, Pylos, Thebes and other great Mycenaean centers, but their dating is later. According to Mr. Kosmopoulos, this changes the sign to date knowledge on the use of Linear B, but possibly also for the spread of writing.
The important thing, however, is the dating, which is placed between 1450 and 1450 BC That is much earlier than other known signs. The script which is written in small text that is saved is the Linear B and contains from one side to form the verb associated with the construction and the other names and numbers, you probably correspond to a property list.
Linear B, the first writing of Greek, have come to light at Mycenae, Pylos, Thebes and other great Mycenaean centers, but their dating is later. According to Mr. Kosmopoulos, this changes the sign to date knowledge on the use of Linear B, but possibly also for the spread of writing.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
fragrant tussles
to date
nothing but empty talk
swollen parts, rubbed raw and stupid
heres the cow to eat
heres the sugar problem
have another drink
nothing but empty talk
swollen parts, rubbed raw and stupid
heres the cow to eat
heres the sugar problem
have another drink
smats
to begin with
instrumental radio
itching elbows
dream cake
to begin with phantom operas
and sheisser house
continual parade
low flying into castles
nursery wines
tumble vines elaborate
the species
as far as i can tell
radio voices for supper
the change of channel sparks revolution as we abide, to imagine that with one quick thought a thousand gestures can be slain.
the irrelevancy of format
a dim student fresh to grasp
clapping for the passé lark
equipped for boring parties
an album cover shirt
index cards
drooling into textbooks
don't even think about it, tidy it to working
stop
remedy the brevity with windy puttered gasp
instrumental radio
itching elbows
dream cake
to begin with phantom operas
and sheisser house
continual parade
low flying into castles
nursery wines
tumble vines elaborate
the species
as far as i can tell
radio voices for supper
the change of channel sparks revolution as we abide, to imagine that with one quick thought a thousand gestures can be slain.
the irrelevancy of format
a dim student fresh to grasp
clapping for the passé lark
equipped for boring parties
an album cover shirt
index cards
drooling into textbooks
don't even think about it, tidy it to working
stop
remedy the brevity with windy puttered gasp
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
teen bard recollections
early it was scads of lavender or proggy solos memorized
anthems of puppy love beseeched in fm agony
then urban glammy rock tableau tracing lines to words across the pages
water coloured
mostly though slogans and jottings and rhymes on folded wads in jacket pockets
bus stop waiting band names perfect tag
---
i disavow the shame. i admit my secret spoken word fantasia.
let me claw your ears out with my pointed turn of phrase
my lilting jawline journal spree galore
repeat after me
i let me
i let me eat the chips a whole bag through
i let me stay up late and fart with homemade cake and scrape the bowl
a few times to make up these rhymes that heaven bid adieu
anthems of puppy love beseeched in fm agony
then urban glammy rock tableau tracing lines to words across the pages
water coloured
mostly though slogans and jottings and rhymes on folded wads in jacket pockets
bus stop waiting band names perfect tag
---
i disavow the shame. i admit my secret spoken word fantasia.
let me claw your ears out with my pointed turn of phrase
my lilting jawline journal spree galore
repeat after me
i let me
i let me eat the chips a whole bag through
i let me stay up late and fart with homemade cake and scrape the bowl
a few times to make up these rhymes that heaven bid adieu
season word
i see hounds sitting nearby waiting
black noses jutting from shadows at my elbow
cats fleeting against walls side to side eyes
mice dancing in a basket of lines
---
dying to compose
shards of plastic diss paper
basket waste high
---
dog still there eyes puffed with staring straight down some just-now-oncoming treat
heat rising from his coat the cats are dancing lights the mice have gone to dreary sleep
------------------------------------------------------
the idea of returning to poetry as an outlet rings gassy and obscene at times to me.
i stopped writing when in school someone who i showed my poems to said stick to drawing.
and i did.
but writing all along i guess, words bouncing on my tongue, rattling ears and reading signs.
that fellow postteen knew it all and to think the careless word of one twenty year old can skew the path of the nineteen, sad it is, and silly. that we the weight of others' imagined dreams should so stop us. but it does. or did.
anytime now we can swing around and seize that awful day or if that's too much we can wait it out, gnawing ourselves alone a grieving hermit, punching trees into tables and walls.
to think that writhing in our dust above a background yawning spiral would be chosen over striking out a new and living life!
we choose stasis, fattening the mind and not body moving, tapping out letters instead of dancing.
tenses abolished. i don't do tenses. moratorium on tenses.
black noses jutting from shadows at my elbow
cats fleeting against walls side to side eyes
mice dancing in a basket of lines
---
dying to compose
shards of plastic diss paper
basket waste high
---
dog still there eyes puffed with staring straight down some just-now-oncoming treat
heat rising from his coat the cats are dancing lights the mice have gone to dreary sleep
------------------------------------------------------
the idea of returning to poetry as an outlet rings gassy and obscene at times to me.
i stopped writing when in school someone who i showed my poems to said stick to drawing.
and i did.
but writing all along i guess, words bouncing on my tongue, rattling ears and reading signs.
that fellow postteen knew it all and to think the careless word of one twenty year old can skew the path of the nineteen, sad it is, and silly. that we the weight of others' imagined dreams should so stop us. but it does. or did.
anytime now we can swing around and seize that awful day or if that's too much we can wait it out, gnawing ourselves alone a grieving hermit, punching trees into tables and walls.
to think that writhing in our dust above a background yawning spiral would be chosen over striking out a new and living life!
we choose stasis, fattening the mind and not body moving, tapping out letters instead of dancing.
tenses abolished. i don't do tenses. moratorium on tenses.
monkey trials
i tend to write in small formats: bumper stickers, slogans, band names.
i can't do it longhand because then i'll never reread it, edit it or look at it again.
i need a screen and need to make it somewhat public, to be held accountable for it. to deal with it, to make it not suck too badly.
this is simply a beginning, an outing, a trial i hope to maintain, eveolve and eventually reveal as part of what i do.
the desire to work with text won't go away. i have embraced comics, poetry, visual poetry. now to face the demon of text.
i can't do it longhand because then i'll never reread it, edit it or look at it again.
i need a screen and need to make it somewhat public, to be held accountable for it. to deal with it, to make it not suck too badly.
this is simply a beginning, an outing, a trial i hope to maintain, eveolve and eventually reveal as part of what i do.
the desire to work with text won't go away. i have embraced comics, poetry, visual poetry. now to face the demon of text.
a litter witch
i decided to call this blog project a litter witch because that's a term i came up with to describe one aspect of my spiritual practice, a practice that is rooted - how can a spiritual practice not be ? - in the material world.
i love finding things, i love scouring the sidewalks for ground scores, i love the surprise, the unexpectedness, the delight of seeing what is out-of-place. ooparts galore in the archeology of the streets. a dowsing, an oracular pulling.
it started long ago - maybe in grade 3 or 4 - i would do my hunting in a neglected part of the Morison Elementary School schoolyard, an unused parking lot in the north corner. i balanced on the narrow concrete curb looking into lot and grass on either side, finding bits of rusted metal, broken plastic arms of toys, washers and pennies.
i kept it up. as a teenager my friends would poke fun at my downward cast eyes, they would point out fire hydrants and bags of garbage, suggesting i may want to take those as well.
i kept the small treasures in the pockets of my jean jacket, one side for metal and natural substances (wood, shell, feather) the other side for plastic. i'd spill the contents onto café tables to amuse my pals.
often i would hang the round or holed objects from safety pins, dangling bits of metal from each other. when the clusters got too large i'd remove them from jacket or bookbag and fasten them to a contraption i made that hung in my room, chains festooned with pins, sunglasses, lost hardware, twisted wire, hoodie draw-strings.
a litter witch is a blog of words, the things i find most often.
i love finding things, i love scouring the sidewalks for ground scores, i love the surprise, the unexpectedness, the delight of seeing what is out-of-place. ooparts galore in the archeology of the streets. a dowsing, an oracular pulling.
it started long ago - maybe in grade 3 or 4 - i would do my hunting in a neglected part of the Morison Elementary School schoolyard, an unused parking lot in the north corner. i balanced on the narrow concrete curb looking into lot and grass on either side, finding bits of rusted metal, broken plastic arms of toys, washers and pennies.
i kept it up. as a teenager my friends would poke fun at my downward cast eyes, they would point out fire hydrants and bags of garbage, suggesting i may want to take those as well.
i kept the small treasures in the pockets of my jean jacket, one side for metal and natural substances (wood, shell, feather) the other side for plastic. i'd spill the contents onto café tables to amuse my pals.
often i would hang the round or holed objects from safety pins, dangling bits of metal from each other. when the clusters got too large i'd remove them from jacket or bookbag and fasten them to a contraption i made that hung in my room, chains festooned with pins, sunglasses, lost hardware, twisted wire, hoodie draw-strings.
a litter witch is a blog of words, the things i find most often.
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