March
5, 2004
Temporal Dissolution
Metro I
nine lights shining blue
old lady pops the lid off
cold beer in the cold night
Metro II
bars cast long shadows
the moon taunting me
with her freedom
Metro III
still writing cinquain
after a disastrous late night
of drinks and hurried lust
Metro IV
an older woman
with her strong body waning
hoping for a lover - a child
Metro V
the lights dim - music
step into another skin
and dance
Metro VI
typewriter tick tock
past midnight says the clock
bitter taste of scotch
Metro VII
mother's shining pride
her daughter in the news
grappa's phone rings
Metro VIII
the water swirls
in the bath - the girl steams
absently scrubbing
Metro IX
she says - touch my face
run your fingers through my hair
soft skin against mine
Metro X
eyes locked across the bath
unable to speak - unwilling
to break the moment
Metro XI
too long in stillness
the last train departs - without
errant passengers
Metro XII
walking in the cold
the long metal bridge
endless in the night
March 4, 2004
Mars Needs Women
The Daily Mingus is proud to announce that around
the same time that John
Kerry became the unofficial candidate for
the Democratic party, we reached another traffic
milestone: 8000 visitors. It may seem irrelevant,
but this sort of thing has been known to make
certain prison-bound nerdiopaths spontaneously
ejaculate. Whatever you're doing Sweaty, I hope
that one makes your day.
In real news, it became suddenly apparent to NASA
that Mars used to have water. Good old National
Geographic covers it in some detail, and so
does one of the world's premier nerderies, New
Scientist. Between that, and Lord of the Rings'
Oscar win a
couple of nights ago, it's been a real bonanza
week for the socially challenged. But there is
more to this than just a world-wide rod-rub for
geeks.
If water existed on Mars, life may have existed
on Mars.
If life existed on Mars, it may have come from
Earth, or Earth's life may have come from Mars.
Or from outside the solar system. Scientists have
long postulated that
comets could carry microorganisms from planet
to planet. Because bacteria
can certainly survive in the vacuum of space
over ridiculous periods of time and space.
Which means: all life on Earth could have originated
on Mars.
It's possible. Our biological ancestors might
be buried under the bright red dust of the Martian
plains. Who knows, there might be nothing up there
but brick and mortar, but now that we know water
was present, there's a possibility that some bacterial
culture might have bloomed on the red planet,
many years ago. Life flourishes in some inhospitable
places - hydrothermic
vents on the bottom of the ocean, for example,
where there is no light, and little oxygen, or
even beneath
50 km of dirt. In September,
NASA decided to crash the spacecraft Galileo
into Jupiter rather than have it impact the moon
Europa. Europa is essentially one giant ball of
ice, but it might have oceans beneath its surface,
and therefore,
life. Whether it does or not, they didn't
want to contaminate it.
At this point, it's obviously premature to say
we're all martians. Or extra-terrestrials. But
we could be. The importance of the discovery of
water on Mars cannot be underlined enough. It's
something people have wondered about for centuries.
And now that we know Mars once had water, we take
another step closer to the possibility of fully
understanding the origin of life on Earth. And
the implications that might have.
For if at some point it looks like Earth's life
began on Mars, I will have some pointed questions
for Mel Gibson and the rest of the religioti flagellating
themselves with the brooms of Christ these days.
Life originating on Mars throws the regular creationism
rhetoric into the shitter. At least, I don't remember
any mention of Mars in the book of Genesis, or
the Garden of Eden being located on Mars, or Adam
and Eve being born on Mars, or God starting life
on Mars, culturing it for awhile, sending it via
asteroid to earth, and then annihilating it on
Mars. Am I wrong?
Who knows, it might never come to pass that we
find life on Mars, but it's something for religioti
to take and ponder in the heart in case it happens.
'Cause you know an asshole like Mingus is going
to ask the question, all innocent-like:
Hey Mel. Was Jesus a Martian?
March 3, 2004
Heart Swellings
After the excitement of signing off on the book,
which goes to press tomorrow, I took a moment
to flip through a couple of my
regular sites.
I read, with some alarm, that old
Marcuse had been hospitalized with swelling
around the heart and blood in the spinal cord.
I don't know the medical term for this sort of
thing, but it can't be good. According to the
site, he's out of the hospital now, and taking
it easy, so visit
Marcuse, and wish him a swift recovery on
his comment board. It sounds like he'll be ok,
but still, bit of a mindfuck.
Just another reminder.
This can all be changed in an instant. This can
all disappear in a flash of yellow as the Brick
truck goes through the red light. Anyone can go
to the office one day, cough up something red,
and be told, hours later, that they have swelling
of the heart or the spine or a raging virus and
shake as they feel that clinical coldness creep
in from sitting on the white paper sheets.
Yes, the ever present obsidian wall.
And how best to live with that? Art? Fucking?
Drinking? Women? Believing in a god that may or
may not be entirely fabricated? Family and friends,
good times had while watching hockey? Smoking
enough weed every night that making toast seems
like an adventure? Punching out a man who is knocking
on your woman, even if she's a crazy pent-up stage
freak? Dreaming of what it would be like to be
a slightly-built, nineteen-year old lesbian in
a French town during a summer heat wave?
Or, writing down the fear for others to read and
understand and shake their heads, and maybe say,
yes, Mingus, I too, am afraid of the obsidian
wall. I, too, have no greater fear than dying,
and ending this ever-shortening existence, for
I love it, whatever it is. How best to live in
the presence of the obsidian wall, without living
in its shadow? What to do, but cut one's self
a unique life, the life one wants, with the work
and the leisure one wants, and the people one
wants? To pursue that endlessly and obsessively,
knowing that there is but one fucking chance to
do so? Yes. Write, fuck, drink, walk, and talk.
And love, of course, whatever that means to one.
March 2, 2004
M.I.N.G.U.S.
 Just
when you thought the web was good for nothing
but busting the odd nut and checking yer email,
something worthwhile and humanitarian comes along.
That's right, it is time to worship the Cyborg
Name Generator!
And it's so easy! You punch in your name, and
you get something like this:
M.I.N.G.U.S.: Mechanical Intelligent Neohuman
Generated for Ultimate Sabotage
You can only hope yours is as cool as mine. It
probably isn't. And then when you're real excited
about it, you can buy a t-shirt or a mug with
your Android name on it.
Nerds.
This is what makes the world a great place to
live. That, and on a related note,
sex dolls. And even more so, Jack Daniels.
Motherfucker never lets me down. Though he's no
Crown Royal. Yum!
March 1, 2004
Oilers Panic, Lose Again
I have to confess, that like any other red-blooded
Albertan north of Red Deer who drinks Pilsner and
eats beef, Mingus is an Oiler's
fan. And I must also confess that watching the Oil
lose again, to Dallas, in overtime, is like losing
a street fight against a hobo armed with a dull
fork.
God, what have we done to deserve such an
infuriatingly inconsistent team?
And there is no answer.
There is only the question: will these fuckers arouse
themselves from the subpar ice masturbation they've
played all year and win a dozen of the next seventeen
games, or will they continue to fumble the puck
in the dying moments of the game, twenty-odd fellows
reaching for the steering wheel when they should
be reaching for the brake, as the truck rolls towards
the edge of the cliff? Of course, if they do make
the playoffs, they'll be annihilated by Detroit
or Colorado in the first round, as always, but at
least it gives us hope. And pride. Especially in
what could be the final year of the NHL. I would
like to be able to sit down in the pub with Harv
for this last go-round, and scream and cheer and
hope that even if they don't win, they'll at least
make us look tough and respectable. Like always.
Because every Canadian city lives through their
hockey team. And maybe, like way back in 1997, they'll
have a couple of miracles, and break some overachieving
team with a superior payroll on the grist-mill of
youth and hard work. Ah, the thrills of memory.
But it looks bad this year. Even Smyttie's
mullet may not carry the day. Which is sad,
cause this could be it for awhile. Forsberg
may have signed with a Swedish team next year,
which is sort of the painting on the wall. Which
makes me wonder, what will Canadians do without
hockey? Without the Leafs, the Habs or the mighty
Oil? What will fill the void, that chasm in our
collective souls? What will warm our hearts in the
winter of our discontent?
Poetry, of course. Poetry, is the answer to everything.
In other news, the Bow Mariner sank off the coast
of Virginia with
13 million liters of ethanol onboard.
If it leaks, there's gonna be a lot of drunk fish
out there. Not that I'm envious.
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March 01 - 05, 2004