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February 02 - 08, 2004
February 06, 2004
The Horror, The Shame

After yesterday's gratuitous display of buffoonery, it's hard to know exactly what to say.

Certainly, we could talk about important issues.

For example, Ayatollah Al Sistani was nearly assassinated in the Baghdad morning. George Tenet defended the CIA against charges of gross incompetency. A German court aquitted someone who probably played host to the fellahs that drove planes into the WTC a couple of years ago, because the States wouldn't supply them with evidence. A baby was born in the Dominican Republic with a second head. Her name, for those who care about such things, is Rebeca.

Or, we could discuss Bush's fanciful 2.4 Trillion dollar budget. We could discuss any of these interesting and important issues. We could discuss the implications that global warming will have on our water, vegetation and soil over the next thirty years. We could discuss the Pakistani nuclear bazaar. We could discuss the way a man's heart drums hard against his chest when he smells a woman's perfume.

Or, we could interpret Colette's third cinquain for content:

The tern drops from the sky
Disappearing into the lake's mountain water
Bursting forth with a full beak

OR, if we're really up to the challenge, we could take turns insulting each other's genital size, homosexual tendencies, ego, superiority complex, sexual rigour, and everyone's endless fascination with the question that has plagued mankind since we first set foot on the Serengeti: who would win in a fight; the hippo or the rhino.

The possibilities are endless, and infinitely exciting. Truly, we are creating a community we can all be extremely proud of, something we can tell our loved ones about. It almost brings tears to my eyes. Sort of like a cheese fart.

Now, for those actually following the overarching narrative of the Daily Mingus, you will be pleased to note:

1] Upon deep meditation, Mingus asked Colette out for a casual drink to 'Really discuss poetry'. She has not yet replied. In the interim, Mingus would appreciate feedback on her third cinquain.

2] Mingus remains comfortable in his use of the third-person to refer to himself. Anyone who wishes to discuss this further will be summarily challenged to a no-holds barred Muay Thai cage match in an as-of-yet undisclosed subterranean location.

3] The book goes to press in about ten days. I find myself checking the text for line-breaks on proofs the designer sends me every day. Every day, I find something I want to change. Which worries me.

4] A 'rerangutang' is new slang for 'retarded orangutan with an unfortunately small penis', and was first applied to Rendrag in the pissing contest of 02/05.

5] Mingus' favourite revived phrase is a very friendly 'Fuck Off!'

Trust me, it's all in the delivery.

So have a great weekend, and Fuck Off!

February 05, 2004
The Flowing Petals

Due to the overwhelming response to Colette's cinquaine, I am posting another one in hopes that somebody will confirm my suspicions that a woman engaged to be married this summer is hitting on me through the subtle mechanics of fluid poetry.

You be the judge.

The orchid shudders at midnight
Awakened by the evening need
Engorged by her own aphrodisia

Now, I don't see anything that refers to Mingus in this one, nor do I see anything that borrows an original Mingus neologism like 'The Obsidian Wall' or 'Nunt' or 'Neural Machinist'. But I do see a poem that reeks of sexual imagery. Ostensibly, this poem is about a flower, but one could easily subsitute the glistening petals of this fragile flora for the glistening petals of something else ever more enticing. And the heat that goes with that.

I'm not dismissing her poetry because it has sexual metaphors. Lord knows, I've got enough boning and street-drilling in my own. I simply question why she is sending me poems with this kind of content? Does she mean anything by it? Or is she just attempting to follow through on her Quintet? And how do I reply to this? Do I send her something like Nunto Thirty One? I mean, how is a woman really going to respond to something like this?

Nunto Thirty-one


shaking like a newborn

it’s hard to speak English
after a fuck like that

February 04, 2004
The Obsidian Wall

Colette dropped me a note today, excited in tone. She had finished more cinquaine, and she was much happier with them, she said. And she included some for me to read.

Here's the best one. She seems to be taking a page from Mingus, in terms of subject matter, and in her willingness to distort the form for the sake of the poem. Or maybe this is just the one that I liked the most, because I saw something of myself in it.

The tide extra dark tonight
Beckoning in its endless fashion
Caressing the obsidian wall - before entering
The void

What strikes me as strange about this poem, and it won't be apparent to newbie Nuntettes, is the use of her words 'the obsidian wall'. It is a phrase that is based in the zen concept of death, and as far as I know, is only used by Mingus Tourette. One of the poems that I showed her back in December, Nunto 23 to be exact, uses the phrase in the following fashion.

moving when moving doesn't matter
all the sunshine
vaguely obscured
by the obsidian wall

Now, I'm not particularly disturbed by her use of it, I actually find it flattering that she would use my phrase, but what piques my interest, again, about this whole thing, is that the tide is CARESSING the obsidian wall.

Am I reading too much into this? Is she hinting that she is beckoning in an endless fashion, that I am the obsidian wall, and together, we can somehow shelter ourselves from the void? That we can become the void, together? That she wants to enter me? That she wants to kill me? That she is admitting her fear of the void to me, on some base level, and wishes that I would touch her face to pull those thoughts away? Or is she just writing a fucking poem?

I'm really high right now, and I can't make the distinction. Please help.

February 03, 2004
I'm Talking CIP

It's not every day the publisher sends an email that says, "Just thought you might want to see this. We're getting very close. "

--- --- ---

National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Tourette, Mingus
Nunt / Mingus Tourette ; foreword by Marvin Gander.

ISBN 0-9734458-0-7

I. Title.

PS8639.O97N86 2004 C811'.6 C2004-900826-9

--- --- ---

How much does that fucking rule? The answer is: massive ballsnack size.

It is as good as the time I woke up in this woman's bed and I didn't know who she was and I don't know if she knew who I was, and we were both badly hungover and I remembered picking her up the night before after getting into an argument about who was going to take the cab that rolled up in front of the United Nations pub by the sex shops, and she was kind of fat, but in a good sort of way, with reddish-brown hair and powdery white skin and she still had make-up smeared on her face from the night before and I don't think we fucked during the night, because we were both wearing most of our clothes, but we rolled over and it was kind of uncomfortable for a moment because we didn't know each others names but she looked at me with a smile and her hand went up my shirt and I smiled at her and even though we both tasted like cheap beer and cigarettes and late-night cognac, we kissed each other, tentatively at first, and then fucking went at it like dogs in heat and ran down one of those hour long sweatfucks that strip the sheets off the bed and knock over lamps and tear the pillows off the couch and wake up the dog and the neighbours and the roommate who looks at you on the way out while frying bacon wondering who the fuck you are and it doesn't matter cause I barely know who the fuck I am and the woman i just laid into doesn't even know and she doesn't want to know and so we pull on our clothes like that and light another morning cigarette, and I am putting on my jacket and I don't have any more cigarettes so she gives me two for the walk home, wherever home is and she walks me to the door and walks me outside and she is going somewhere else, to work or to her mothers or her boyfriends or her husbands who knows, it doesn't matter and we smile at each other and think about telling each other our names and there is a moment where we share a future and children and grandparents and everything else, but instead the moment takes us and we share a quick hug and a final grin and walk away from each other not knowing who and not caring who and enjoying the bright blue of the sky and the early morning crispness of dew on green grass and the yelling of kids on their way to school and the film of dirt and beer and hair and smoke stuck to our faces and the taste and the smell and the undercurrent that coarses beneath our skin. It feels good like that.


February 02, 2004
Funksatawny Fill Sephirot

Happy GroundHog day, fuckers.

To celebrate, I have created another Haiku Sephirot for your enjoyment. There are no interpretations.

This weekend was very simple. Gander called, we went out, we drank, we talked about the book, we came to various conclusions about American policy, the state of journalism and the BBC, my future fate, and what I should really do about the Accountant. Gazing at the eternal fucked up nature of it all, I decided to take refuge by expressing the world around me through the purest form of art that humanity has ever known: Haiku.

For those unaccustomed to reading so much haiku, and who find it too short to say anything, let alone everything, I offer the following tips on reading it. If you think you know how to read haiku, you may tell me to fuck off. If not, try this:

1. Read a line, and take a full breath. Inhale what has been said. Do not proceed to the second line until the breath has fully exhaled.

2. When you have finished the third & final line, stop, close your eyes and consider what has been said.

3. Read the haiku again. Read slowly, but do not feel that you must stop at the ends of the lines. Consume the thing whole.

4. Reflect on what has been said. Focus on the images. They will be sparse, but through them, much can be learned.

5. Consider all of reality in three lines.

--- --- ---

Sephirot I

raise your sleepy head
stare at the sun - your shadow
waiting at your back

Sephirot II

the snow still glistens
the bright cries of young ravens
picking through old ice

Sephirot III

the stoning ceremony
every year - hundreds perish
in the name of god

Sephirot IV

even brief respite
from bitter winter - the warmth
feels like a spring day

Sephirot V

the old dog's blind eyes
stare happily at the master
her hours numbered

Sephirot VI

Sunday grace
taste of wine and laughter
warm yellow rooms

Sephirot VII

the heat of fingers
on his palm - trickling fever
to incandescence

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