March 11th, 2005
Winterbottom
Marvin is getting belligerent in his old age.
Talked with him last night, and apparently, he's
still upset about the time I made fun of his favourite
dead poets' sexual identity. And ekphrasis.
"...is that you've never read anything besides
the Grecian Urn. So bugger off."
"Bugger being the operative word?"
"Really, I thought you'd be more appreciative
of Yeats. He was a contemporary of your good friend,
Aleister Crowley."
"I don't care for his work much either,"
I said. "Crowley was a hell of a character,
though. Anyone who can get kicked out of Italy
by Mussolini for debauchery cuts it just fine
with me."
"And how is the writing going?" he said.
"It's been at least three weeks. Where's
the next installment of Chrome Rigby?"
"It's... in progress," I said.
"You haven't written a thing, have you?"
"I've written some...this takes time, you
know. It's a fucking novel."
"Pretty fancy, that. What have you written,
then?"
"Background. Characters. Plot steps. That
sort of thing. I can't just charge in blindly
with this one. You know that. Even with Divinity,
there was a plan."
"The plan was The Divine Comedy
by Mr. Alighieri. This is a little different."
"Which is why I'm sketching the blueprint
first."
"Sounds like you're making this up. You can't
escape my fine eye for bullshit, you know.""
"Or your GOD-LIKE SCIENCE BRAIN?" I
said, pausing. "You like that? It's the best
oxymoron I've come up with in the past year."
"You're avoiding the point. Give me exactly
one good detail on each of those things, and I'll
believe you've actually been writing. Go on, name
at least one decent character in the novel. Who's
the main antagonist?"
"Well, I think the main antagonist is society..."
"Don't get esoteric on me, you little bleeder.
Give me a bloody name. And an occupation. And
the importance of that character within the novel."
I blinked. Marvin was always very good at forcing
the point, at cutting through the bullshit. It
made him a rock-solid story editor, and an excellent
reporter. Of course, I take a lot of pride in
my bullshit.
"There are three separate antagonists, and
maybe a fourth, if you include his wife, Virginia
(nee) Washington."
"And who are they?"
"Well, if you must know. Let's see.... there
is Terrence Chitin, who essentially runs the Vice-President's
office. He's one of the main contacts that Chrome
has while he's working on THE BIG REBRAND, if
you remember that. He recognizes what Chrome is
doing, and sets out to stop it."
"And?"
"There's the female head of a high-end rival
branding firm, Winterbottom."
"And what's her name?"
"Ms. Winterbottom."
"Bullshit."
"Seriously. It plays into the idea that the
best brand is a person's surname. Like Ford. And
I don't identify her by her first name because
she doesn't let anyone call her by her first name.
See? They have a real love-hate relationship.
And they fuck a lot."
"Interesting touch. And the third?"
"Well, there are a lot of people who hate
Chrome; television execs, movie execs, VPs, Senators
- lots of folks. I'm even trying to work in a
hippo conservationist, but I don't know if he'll
make the cut..."
"You're stalling. Who's the third?"
"Well, there's the FCC head, and the Project
for a New American Century people, and a televangelist,
and a dealer or two, and a few high end call girls,
and a pimp named Duke Warback who has one eye
and is a stand-in for the mythical Cyclops..."
"Bullshit."
"...but of course, the most important antagonist
in the book is the one you already know. And that
is our mighty PROtagonist: Chrome Rigby."
And he knew that wasn't bullshit. At least that
small part, because in both of our minds, there's
no better anti-hero than the hero. Because that's
the way it goes, mostly, in the real world. Nobody
fucks up a man's life better than he does himself.
Case. In. Point.
March 10th, 2005
Lowborn Photos
I
old woman
hanging clothes in the window
instead of curtains
II
a European widower
who lives alone
beside the parkade
in his basement – two empty rooms
in the back yard
a big German fighting dog
and a weeping willow with no leaves
III
up amongst the family photos
and other relics of the dead
a small broken television
IV
the flags at half mast
the wrinkled Metis with no beard
fingers the dusty afghan
thrown over his shopping cart
knows there’s no reasoning
with the police this week
V
the bus stop teems
with opium monkeys
says the white Russian, long displaced
at least with Koba
everyone worked
pedalling his ten speed
past the sign that says
apartment for rent
one suite
as it always does
two geranium pots
hanging from his handlebars
in plastic bags
moving so slowly
he is afraid of the parked car
in the alley
it has the headlights on
and men talk inside
but never drive anywhere
stalling in front of the all-night diner
with her one patron and his newspaper
the retired cook
sleeping up above with the grandchildren
half-awakening to the rattling of a drain pipe
from the wind
keeping the cyclist in place
March 9th, 2005
Finally, My Life Is Complete
As Umfundisi lay there, wanting, the moon passed
over his head many times. It was thin, it was
fat, and it was thin again.
He dreamed of her body, shining wetly in the reflection
of the Nile. She stood in the reeds, looking up
the river. Her face was serene and perfect.
There was the child, of course, bathing nearby.
But he was not afraid of another's child. He had
seen it earlier, riding gently on her mother's
back, tended carefully.
He knew her beauty from afar, the curve of small,
round ears, the muscular limbs, and the playful
mid-afternoon yawn. His manhood tightened as he
considered the touch of her flesh.
He considered how it would be if she turned towards
him, and saw him, crouched at the water's edge.
How she would make her way to him, and it would
seem slowed-down, as though time was dripping.
And she would open her mouth, as he tried to stand,
but could not, frozen in place. Waiting for her
touch.
And he would see her teeth, torn and yellow, long
as his arm and wide as his fist, and he wouldn't
have time to scream BEFORE SIX THOUSAND POUNDS
OF RAW AFRICAN DEATHMACHINE TORE HIM OPEN, GUTTING
HIM FROM NECK TO BOWEL WITH THE UNRELENTING FURY
OF THE MOST DANGEROUS ANIMAL ON THE GODFORSAKEN
PLANET.
That's right bitches, I got my motherfucking hippo
book. Everything else is now irrelevant, including
poetry. What are words in the face of insurmoutable
killing power? Get ready for hippo haiku, hippo
free verse, hippo based Chrome Rigby stories,
and educational summaries on such exciting topics
as:
 •The
Origins of Hippos
•The Social Life of Hippos
•Reproduction in Hippos
•Diet and Feeding Habits of Hippos
•The Ecology of Hippos
•Diseases, Parasites, and Commensals of
Hippos
•Hippos and Man
If you are intelligent, you will immediately
order this important book.
And remember this ancient Nubian proverb:
Nothing beats the mighty
kiboko* in solo combat, especially not the rhino.
If you think otherwise, you are foolish and not
long for this earth.
* Kiboko is the Swahili word for
Hippo.
March 8th, 2005
ReLit Long List
The ReLit
Awards ('Ideas, Not Money') were founded in
2000 as an alternative to the big money prizes.
The awards are open to books published by independent
Canadian literary publishers. Winners receive
a specially designed ring by a famous Newfoundland
goldsmith. Shortlists are announced in May, and
the winners are trumpeted at bonfire beach parties
in Newfoundland and British
Columbia in late June.
ReLit is short for Regarding Literature, Reinventing
Literature, Relighting Literature... which sounds
like my sort of deal. The award has become rather
prestigious in its short run. The 2005 Long List
was announced in late February, but my publisher
only found out about it on the weekend. Apparently,
he doesn't have the staff to cover the award circuit
at this point. Fifty-one books of poetry made
it on the long list, which seems like a lot, but
he has it on good authority that there were over
700 poetry submissions.
Fortunately for him, nunt
made the cut.
Needless to say, he was pretty fucking excited.
The list is filled with Governor General award
winners, poet laureates, and other well established
names who will inevitably kick the fuck out of
some unknown shithead from the west. I mean, we're
realistic about our chances for making the short
list - I can't see anyone bumping Toronto's poet
laureate to include us, but we always hope. And
that moment that he phoned up, frantic with excitement,
was electrifying for both of us. And to see the
book's name sandwiched between well-known books
released by long-established presses was a rush
for a pair of first-timers. And because, in most
normal situations, if there were fifty-one spots,
we'd be number fifty-two on the list. But not
this time.
Small victories.
For more info on the award, check out the long
list at the Quill
& Quire, or the sparse ReLit
Awards site. Dig it. The revolution inches
forward.
March 7th, 2005
Announcing: Single Onion # 35 -
Mingus Tourette, Mike Gravel and the Cowtown Spectacular
In regards to the forthcoming revolution:
Zygote Publishing is pleased to announce the first-ever
appearance of Mingus Tourette in Calgary, immediately
before Christians celebrate the death of Jesus.
On March 24th, at 8 pm, Mingus Tourette with be
performing at the much-lauded
Single Onion Poetry Society with fellow Write
the Nation comrade Mike
Gravel and Calgarian Jocelyn
Grosse. The event will take place at Stanton
Studios, music will be provided by the inimitable
David
Martin, and transportation will be provided
by the Pink Ambulance. All fans of literature
and poetry are urged to line up early for what
is expected to be a sell-out evening.
Indeed, anticipation for this event has risen
to a fever pitch in the southern city. Due to
scheduling conflicts, Calgary was the one major
city west of Montreal where the
Tour was unable to stop and read. Local poetry
lovers and dog sled enthusiasts mounted a campaign
targeting religious groups and radio stations,
but were unsuccessful.
"As much as we wanted them," said local
poet, Jeremy Gerren,"we just couldn't make
it work. They popped in for a few
short interviews, but that was it. My wife
was inconsolable for weeks. She really wanted
to see the ambulance. And meet Mr. Gravel. It
was a big disappointment."
The last time Gravel and Tourette hit the road
together, they slept in the back of an ambulance
somewhere between Saskatoon and Regina. Upon awakening
in the middle of a frost-covered farmer's field,
the pair escaped a vicious sodomite only because
of Mr. Tourette's illegal fire-arms. Lusty Calgarians
are hoping to cash in on some of the excitement.
"This time, it's personal," said Tourette.
"Calgary has never been particularly kind
to Northern poets - the police hate us, the local
biker groups have us marked for death, and, of
course, the cattlemen and oilmen's associations
have tried to burn our ambulance to a husk on
more than one occasion. But we're not going to
let that stop us. The people want poetry, they
want revisionist base poetics, they want the New
Prairie Beat, they want drunken lunatics, and
the end of all that is well and good in verse,
and that's what they're going to get. In spades."
Rumours abound that the tour's rough treatment
in Cowtown is due to Tourette's desultory comments
about the Red Mile during the Calgary Flames'
Stanley Cup run. Whispers of possible retaliatory
violence persist among members of the Librarian's
Guild.
"I watched him read the review in the Herald,"
said local LGA president, Mary Shultzer. "His
eyes went cold. It was quite frightening. I heard,
later on, that he burned a copy of it near Lloydminister,
but I think that was just for show. When he read
it, initially, his face was like ice, like some
sort of massive carnivore you would see on National
Geographic, right before that last spine-crushing
blow. Quite terrifying, really."
In addition, much has been made of the fact that
Tourette does not memorize his poems, and unrepentantly
uses the words, "fuck", "cunt"
and "obsidian wall". How this will play
in front of a crowd full of southern lawmen, cattlemen
and oilmen is undetermined, but local organizers
are taking no chances.
"We've got reinforced barricades, Rottweilers,
and spray cannons mounted near the metal detectors."
said BF representative, Doctor Law. "Members
of Montreal's Rock Machine biker group have been
chartered in to provide crowd control. The local
clergy has been warned that any signage will be
taken as an act of war, and will be met with possible
firebombings. We're not here to engage in politics,
we're here to enjoy some poetry. And when Mr.
Tourette says that we don't do bodycounts, he
means it."
Drinks will be available at a nominal surcharge.
Women below the age of twenty-one are advised
not to wear panties.
But What Happened Last
Week? By God, Find Out Here!
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March 7th - 13th, 2005