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August 16th - 22nd, 2004
August 20, 2004
the destroyer
slowly sucking down
the juice of rainer maria rilke
and his letters to a young poet

lauding solitude

how one should aspire to solitude
as one enjoyed solitude

when a child
among adults

but one wonders
if he broke from that

when wandering the streets of a city
that he'd spent too long
admiring young men and women

and dug down
walked the east end of the streets

pulled out his wallet and bought
some company

cause solitude is fine when one is child
but counting it as a virtue after that
is just lying to poets

August 19, 2004
Mark Yr Calendars
If yer looking for hot men, hard drinks and vicious live content, I highly advise that you show up for this madhouse at the end of September. With a date. And I advise that nobody seriously considers going to work the next day without an asscrushing hangover.

Anyone who drives in from out of town or out of country can share my futon or the back bench of the Pink Muskox. Or hook up with one of the incredibly sexually potent poets and sleep in their bath tub.

Clear off yer schedule, right fucking now, for:

"The Startled Night"

An evening of subversive verse featuring:
Mark Kozub
Mingus Tourette
Corey Hamilton
Mike Gravel

When: Thursday, September 23, 2004.
Time: 8:00 pm.
Where: Remedy Cafe (upstairs). 8631 - 109 Street.

Four Edmonton writers exploring the bowels of metropolis through their poetry.

10 minutes a poet
No rules on content. Anything goes.
45 minute open mic thereafter
Get yer ass signed by Mingus Tourette.

August 18, 2004
publisher dropped by again tonight
he seems to sweat fear at times


he sent out emails to three hundred book stores, offering a heck of a deal

and didn't hear back from one of them

even the locals

and sent emails to eighty publishers
to see who might be interested in joining up on the Write the Nation Tour

and got one response

fellow looks a bit sick in moments like this.

me, I just shake my head.

if this whole thing
is one enormous failure
and I truly am burning fifteen hundred books in the spring

I don't know if I'll be embarrassed
or amused

for I once took a physics test in school
and got thirteen percent

at first
I thought it was thirteen out of forty
which was
thirty three percent

and I thought that was bad and I was distressed

but once I realized it was really thirteen out of one hundred
and understood the full and catastrophic nature of my failure

I laughed.

i mean, what the fuck else can you do at that point?

so hopefully
we either sell out the run
or sell thirteen books

and i can drive around in my pink fucking ambulance
and shake my head and giggle
because nothing is quite as funny

as complete and utter failure

i hope.

August 17, 2004
The Dead & the Sea
Once we hit a certain age, we forget the dead as soon as we can.

I have been forgetting the dead. I'm not sure why. Perhaps I'm getting old. Perhaps too wrapped up in my own twisted life and the all-consuming book nonsense and what the fuck is Chloe doing and I wonder if Nat ever thinks of me and will Colette call for one last tumble before she gets married.

These things speak loudly. I have pitched conversations about them with myself in the kitchen while I wash dishes. I ask myself what Henry Miller would do in my place and then i wander downtown and buy a pack of smokes I can't afford and walk and swear until I'm tired enough that I can fall asleep if I read long enough and try to ignore the women's voices.

But once in awhile, the dead stop me, in between questions about lost lovers.

On the street corner last night, somewhere near ninety-sixth, under the bars of the Remand Centre, I saw my grandfather smoking a hand-rolled cigarette.

He was younger than I was, maybe twenty-one, pumped full of piss and steam. Holding a long rifle, standing over top of an animal he shot. Cocky, leaning against that lamp post. He spoke broken English with a thick German accent. But he didn't say anything last night. Just looked at me with eyes that could have been my own.

And then he disappeared.

I haven't paid him homage for awhile. Haven't paid any of the dead their rights. Even the recently departed. I wish I could say it is because they have all been laid to rest, and I feel peace for their passing, but I don't.

Everytime I see a photo, they are there. And their absence is thick. It is horrible to watch an atheist at a funeral. They break down like women, thinking, once those people are gone to us, it is final and forever and ever, amen. And there will be no reunion and no rising from the sea, there will just be an ache and sorrow and regret over things unsaid in the past.

But what do I know. The great wandering fool and his legion of self, twisting on the pike of principle and regret. I know I miss the dead, and that is it, these days. And maybe I have something to learn from this.

August 16, 2004
Yup, Pre-Order Now
Lots of exciting news.

Numbah One: My publisher phoned on the weekend and reported that he had sold ten big copies to local independent stalwart, Greenwoods'. I'm not sure when they hit the shelves, but they will probably be available well before the official launch date, for those who have been aching for a copy. I highly advise buying them from the bookstore, cause they are great and they can always re-order.

The excitement in my publisher's voice was invigorating. Nevermind the two years of work, fifteen grand and relationships left sprayed all over the road like exploded kidneys - we sold ten fucking books. 1490 to go. Or something like that.

Numbah Two: Mingus Tourette has been invited to appear with Stephen Heighton at Edmonton's biggest literary festival, LitFest. This was a huge score, at least to me. Stephen Heighton is a Governor-General award nominated poet who will invariably say "Who the fuck is that?" when he hears that he has been paired with Mingus Tourette. I look forward to the inevitable bio comparisons.

Heighton's poems, stories, and essays have appeared in magazines and anthologies worldwide-including The Malahat Review, Agni, Europe, Northwest Review, Brick, Best Canadian Stories, Best English Short Stories, Turn of the Story, Poetry Nation, Descant, Confrontation, Exile, Hawaii Review, and Stand---and his work (the short story books, and a number of individual poems and stories) has been translated into French, German, Spanish, Hungarian, and Lithuanian.


Tourette's poems, stories and essays have appeared in online publications worldwide, including Breastfish and The Daily Mingus. His work has never been translated, and will not be translated until linguists can decide what to do with the word 'Nunt'.

I console myself with the fact that I can probably drink a lot more than he can, and will be able to dazzle him with the sheer volume of alcohol that I can consume and remain standing, long after conscious thought has left me.

Numbah Three: The Summer Tournament of MegaEvil entry deadline is tonight at midnight. Competition has been superb this time around, and I look forward to seeing who actually wins the prize. Voting begins next week.

Numbah Four: We have finalized the name of the tour. If you think it's really stupid, please speak up now or forever shut the fuck up. From now on, the tour will be known as:

Mingus Tourette's Write The Nation Tour

I think it's fucking brilliant. Just wait till you see the official tour vehicle.

Numbah Five: All of you folks who have been clamouring for advance copies can finally order some. Zygote Publishing is taking the cheques, money orders and Paypal. The ability to take credit card information is underway, but is not quite ready. As soon as it is, I will let you know.

So check it out on my site, or on the Zygote Publishing site if you want to use Paypal. And start ordering books. Nunt, the perfect nightside table nightmare enhancer. Of course, if you know me, you can always pay me the cash and I will put you down for a special advance copy, due out September 7th, 2004. The official launch date will be somewhat later.

Holy shit. This whole thing is getting pretty fucking real. Yup. Hide yer daughers and yer liquor and yer gasoline. Mingus is coming.

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