In Taber's Skies . . .

In Taber's skies I sat, surprised,
While thirty mak-ocks carried eyes,
From Palto's point onto Sim's cliff -
Then dropped them on a moss-creamed drift.
In Taber's skies there floated 'round
Purple clouds of trumpet sounds -
And still, beyond was night-time-sun
Which shone it's dark on everyone.
In Taber's skies dropped kitten cries,
Falling wet and turning shy.
In Taber's skies where quill-quotes play
I wish I could forever stay
I'd lose myself from place or time
To then become eternal rhyme.

What Mike Did

These late nights are starting to take their toll on my sleep schedule. Getting up for work tomorrow will be a real treat.

I know a lot of people with birthdays in August - my Dad, my girlfriend’s brother, my friend Shawn, and now Art and Tomb D. I wonder if that’s an indicator that lots of unprotected sex happens on New Years Eve . . .

Art celebrated his birthday on Friday. The poor bastard just got back from camping and then had to put up with us drinking in his kitchen until the wee hours of the morning. I spent Saturday recovering and then dragged my ass off to the Vatican for the Rue-Morgue Festival of Fear party. It was Tomb’s birthday, but he was doing the DJ thing. The night was considered to be a private party, so the booze flowed often, albeit expensively, and you could actually smoke inside. Clive Barker and Tony Todd (aka Candyman) were hanging around, but I didn’t get to meet them. I’m not big on bothering celebrities just so I can say I met them. The best part of the night was The Matadors’ set. Their stage show is hilarious (and the music’s good too). Seeing them was a nice reminder that there is still a Canadian underground to combat the commercial posers plaguing my car radio.

Note: I plan to write my log updates weekly. All other posts will still come as often as I am able.

Urban Scrawl

on the subway on February 17, 2005:

Walking stereotypes of attitude are crowding my existence again. I wonder, does it make a difference where you live? Suburban bitterness had a sour sting as I rotted in my self-made prison. But now, this urban pretension . . . it kicks me in my teeth. At least the small town sheep took time to mock me as I spat crimson at their feet. In the city they are oblivious – to both the pain they cause, and to their wolf's clothing ripping gently apart at the seams.

Gift

You are a very nice person for being here. Why not treat yourself to some links? I guarantee you will enjoy these.*

http://www.eugenemirman.com/

http://www.fat-pie.com/salad2.htm

http://www.bloodlust.uk.com/postcards.htm

http://www2.b3ta.com/catgame/


* not a guarantee

True Story

Oshawa, 1996

I sat once in a coffee shop and wrote inside my poem book. I noticed a girl who was cute etc. She came in and ordered a coffee.

She sat beside her friend (across from the table I was at) and she spoke about her life. She looked at me briefly, though she looked at me a lot.

She spoke of her great sadness - of her life with some guy who treated her poorly - some guy whom she said she still loved dearly, despite how much he shat on her. I didn't want to listen, but I was only a table away.

As the ladies’ conversation dwindled, the once-faceless villain appeared. He said that he wanted to surprise the girl. He told her she should go out with him that night. The girl protested, and although her friend told her to go, she still said no.

It was then that the guy told her she was stupid (actually, he said she was fucking stupid). According to him, she didn't realize how good he was to her. He told her that she probably liked other people because she was a slut. I just kept writing in my book.

I felt her eyes turn to me. I felt his eyes turn too. He said that she was a bitch. Then he laughed and said that I must think I'm Shakespeare or somethin’. He asked if she wanted to be fucking Shakespeare instead of fucking him.

There was a long pause . . .

The girl then giggled and told him to be quiet. She told him he was being silly. He told her that she’d shut up if she knew what was good for her. He told her to go to his car and told her to wait with his friends. She obeyed. I guess she thought she loved him . . .

Once the girl had left, the asshole sat down with the friend. He mentioned that he could kick Shakespeare's ass. The friend laughed and said yah, and then asked him to give her a ride home. He said anything for someone as pretty as you. Then they left.

I’ve played this scene over and over again with a different ending each time. I’ve pictured the girl standing up for herself. I’ve pictured her leaving with me. I’ve even pictured myself calling the guy on the fact that he was complimenting me with the label of ‘Shakespeare’. Most times however I’ve pictured his expression as I smash my coffee mug across his ignorant face. It doesn’t matter though. In the end I just kept writing . . .

Sold Out

Misconceived notions of artists
And artistry
Make for furious chatter amongst the untouched masses
Selling out
And suffering
Two extremes of such a similar base
Knowing where to draw the line isn’t the problem
But believing there is no line to draw?
Misunderstandings of intention,
And action.
Of meaning,
And meaning.
There is a line to be drawn
But it is not unswerving in nature
Should we settle for what is understood by the many,
Or fight for our souls in spouting what is formless to most?
Perhaps it is love we crave.
Acceptance.
And if so, should that feed us,
Or will it weaken our sight?
Money obviously does.
But what about the heart?
What about the passion?
Is it possible to put a price on intention?
Our actions DO speak louder than words.
But is that really our fault?
Or is that really THE fault?
A society based on misguided perceptions
Is hardly enlightened.
Is hardly a good judge
of character
of intention
of art.