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:
Aloft
The tern drops from the sky
Disappearing into the lake's mountain water
Bursting forth with a full beak
Flight
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.
Blossoming
The orchid shudders at midnight
Awakened by the evening need
Engorged by her own aphrodisia
Blooms
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
Fledgling
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.
Evening
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.
Poems.
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.
Yeah.
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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February 02 - 08, 2004