December 10th, 2004
all yer getting for Xmas is Canadian fucking poetry
I may not have any morals, but I have principles,
damn it.
So this year, as we celebrate the improbably birth
of a demiGod somewhere in the occupied territories,
everyone on my list is getting a book of Canadian
poetry. Because if poets don't support poetry,
then it'll never get anywhere in the cultural
eye. And I have a plan to help change that.
Now, poets may not have much money, but I'm guessing
that most of them have to buy a present for a
dozen people every year. Such is the power of
religion. And tradition. And guilt.
So, if every poet bought nothing but poetry for
their X-mas list, and picked out a dozen books
for their loved ones, we could:
a. Drive up sales of Canadian poetry.
b. Spread the names and works of Canadian poets.
c. Remove the fear that people have about reading
poetry.
It's a pyramid scheme of sorts, but what else
are poets to do? The scheme will work if the poets
doing the buying take a bit of care in choosing
their gift books. Chances are, the hockey player
on your list will only get one book of poetry.
So, if you do it properly, and get him the right
book, he might just read it and enjoy it. And
eventually, buy another book. The trick is to
match up the proper book with the proper gift
receiver. So, get the hockey player some Richard
Harrison, get the prozac popper some JP
Fiorentino and get your penitentiary bound
uncle some Mingus
Goddamn Tourette.
Come on, you poetic bastards. And the rest of
you mooks stuck for gift ideas. This could work.
It's like block voting. We use the money that
we have earmarked for gifts and support our immolated
art at the same time. Besides, it makes a perfect
present. What's more personal than buying someone
a book of poetry? It can say:
"I love you"
"I admire you"
"I support your interest in biology"
"Thank you for birthing me"
"We should get drunk next Tuesday"
"You are religiously conflicted, but you
are not alone."
"Here is something about Billy the Kid, who
I know you like"
"I would like to make love to you in a deserted
Husky Station outside of Calgary"
or
"when I think of you, I want to go on a two
year drunken rampage and attempt to destroy myself
and everything associated with you."
or
"I, too, have pain. So do we all."
So this year, fuck the toasters, fuck the video
games, fuck the crafts, the CDs, the boxed sets,
the DVDs, the digital cameras and all that other
impersonal fucking crap that everyone else gives
without putting any fucking thought into it. Walk
into an independent Canadian bookstore and stand
in front of the poetry section until you have
an armload of books ready to send winging into
the hearts of a television opiated nation. Sort
of like I did last night.
Yes.
Give personal. Give unique. Give everyone you
know some goddamn Canadian poetry this X-mas and
maybe we can take that next step towards getting
poets a little bit of respect. That's right.
Poetry. It's not just for obituaries anymore.™
December 9th, 2004
block heater
I have reached a point in my life where I count
the limes in my gin and tonic as my daily vegetables.
I thought that my pink ambulance was going to
start through the whole winter without needing
to be plugged in once.
I was wrong.
It has been a long time since I wrote a love poem.
I thought.
Or maybe I just flooded the thing. It's sitting
in a parking lot unflooding. Or maybe I broke
it properly.
I still haven't fixed the side door. It is held
shut with bungee cords.
I started to write a love poem the other day,
but I stopped.
I read that Americans shot Iraqi women and children
and I was not angry.
I thought about reading something depressing the
other night, but I stopped.
If I try to write a love poem, should I be thinking
how it will sound out loud?
I wondered what the true meaning of christmas
was last night. There was no answer.
The Americans will shoot whoever they want, and
there is nothing we can do about it.
I would like to get drunk with my cousins and
my brother again. That was my answer.
Why are all these love poems that I have scattered
on my floor, why do they all have blood and the
word fucking and sweat written into them.
Is that a love poem? And if it isn't, what is?
I wonder what it would be like to play video games
professionally.
But I think I would rather proofread new Russian
translations. I have been saving Fyodor's The
Possessed for my thirties.
And why are these love poems set in the rotting
heat of summer, or under a thick blanket in the
dark tomb of winter? Where is the love poem set
in fall?
Why would anyone use the phrase 'dark tomb of
winter'?
I often wonder what the next Timothy McVeigh is
doing right now.
Why would anyone mock their own writing so incessantly?
Thinking about diesel fuel and fertilizer and
highwaymen.
What does a poet do when he can't write love poems
anymore?
December 8th, 2004
Goodnight, Tuesday
I just ate a whole can of peaches.
In other news, the final Raving
Poets night ran yesterday. It was heartening
to see fifty people in one room on a bitterly
cold Tuesday evening, gathering to read and listen
to poetry. There were close to thirty readers,
and we must have been there till after midnight.
Didn't seem that long, though.
Congrats to Nuntboard alumnus FrutigerBlack, who
busted off one of the best poems of the night,
as did mr. applebomb, who actually won the big
prize of the evening. I tossed out a ripping version
of Nunto Two, which went over like the proverbial
led zepellin, but it had to be done. Go out guns
blazing, or something. And I got my own prize
when the Scottish bartender called me by name
and cracked a joke at me for wearing my parka
hood in his bar. It's nice when the bartender
knows your name. And bullshits with you. Especially
when he's the kind of cool motherfucker who doesn't
even acknowledge applause. Just nods and smokes.
So, a final hats off to Mike
Gravel and the rest of the Raving Poets. We
hope you come back when you're ready. You've built
a community, which is a precious thing for neurotic
poets. After seeing dozens of poetry scenes across
the country, I can say with complete honesty that
what was going down at the Backroom was exceedingly
well run, completely unique, and very fucking
cool. So thanks for letting me in to help you
sweep up the ghosts of Tuesday night.
December 7th, 2004
Write The Television: Special Offer
Thanks, folks.
Onwards, I suppose.
Easy enough, really. Just spit out some straight
promotional facts about the tour
hitting the television tonight. Finish up with
ridiculous promotional bluster. Go well over the
top and don't come back.
Yes.
Tonight, HELP!tv will be running a CultureQuest
story on "Mingus Tourette and the Army of
Poets". HELP!tv,
for those who don't know, runs in Alberta on ACCESS,
and runs nationally on
CLT. The show runs at 6 pm MT, and reruns
at 11 pm MT. It also runs on Wednesday at 12:00pm
MT. For those with short attention spans, the
Write The Nation story is slated to run at approximately
6.30 pm MT. It is only two or three minutes in
length, and is based on a series of interviews
I did in October, with the primary interview at
the official book launch.
So, if you weren't at the book launch and you
were on the tour,
you will probably only see yourself in flashes.
But there are some good flashes. And I've been
told that I scream the words 'This is Punk Fucking
Rock!'. And I believe that the rather depressing
moment when I slapshotted a book into Lake Ontario
will also make the cut. Mythic!
That ought to brighten everyone's day.
So. Watch the television at the right time and
place. And then flood the phone bank requesting
autographed copies of Nunt.
And.
In a desperate attempt to cash in on this exciting
story, the publisher and I have decided to introduce
a very exciting Christmas offer, valid only until
December 25th.
Nunt. Same low price.
No Sales Tax. No shipping or handling fee!
That's right baby. To your door delivery. FREE
SHIPPING, anywhere in the continent. And, if you
live in this city, Mingus will deliver your books
IN THE AMBULANCE. And if you leave him a plate
of milk and cookies near the fireplace, he will
also make love to your wife, or perform a similar
chore! With no shipping and handling!!!
To help celebrate the season, we commissioned
this festive card! Mail it to everyone you know!
Help us ruin the birth of Jesus!
That's right. This year, give the gift they'll
never forget. Give Nunt!!! And if you want to
buy from a bookstore, try Greenwoods, volume ii,
Audrey's or the U of A. Or McNally Robinson in
Calgary. And many other stores around the country.
Or ask for it by name!
AND
ORDER MANY COPIES!!!
Don't believe it's any good? Read
the reviews!!! Shit, I didn't even make them
up!
Stay on. Keep on.
December 6th, 2004
Absurdity
There are some days when this whole thing seems
so fucking ridiculous. The book. The ambulance.
This site.
I fully intended to finish off the hundred billion
dollar conversation, detailing the Iron Man suit
division, the Platinum Pornography Club (shot
and projected with the IMAX format), and the marching
band that played the Darth Vader theme song every
time I stood up.
And then, I was going to turn it into a contest.
Entrants would cook up a thousand word answer
to the hundred billion dollar question. And I
would post worthy entries, and when the day came,
I would throw it to a jury, and decide who would
win the prize. The prize, of course, would have
to be spectacular to top the
last one. Which we finally mailed off the
other day. On the customs form, I wrote 'marital
aid' instead of 'twelve-inch double headed dildo'.
It was somewhat amusing.
But now, it all just seems so fucking retarded.
Cause even after a good weekend drunk and lots
of fun with entertaining people, I'm not laughing
all that hard these days. Cause now, when I think
about what I would do with a hundred billion dollars,
I think I would have to spend most of it on cancer
research. Cause everything else just seems plain
stupid in the face of that.
Yes. Ma's got a golf ball full of malignant cells
in her left tit. And very quickly, everything
is serious and ugly again.
She probably wouldn't want me mentioning it, cause
she is tough and wouldn't want people put out
by a little sickness on her part, and I don't
want to talk about it either, but at this point,
there isn't anything else I can write about. And
sometimes, I get tired of lying. And smiling.
And pretending that everything is fine, that the
tour was a fantastic experience, which it was,
but wow. What a ripping financial disaster. And
I am still tired from it, but it seems so insignificant,
cause something's in there, eating at her. And
cause I know that, it's going to be eating at
me. And Pa. And K.
We done this before, when Pa had the cancer. But
he beat it pretty soundly, and to me, though it
was naive, I never doubted he would beat it. But
his was, I think, a much less dangerous variant.
So now we're facing this down, not really knowing
what to do.
Reminds me of a poet
I met on the tour who wrote a beautiful series
of poems entitled 'Velocity'. She wrote them after
her friend was in a brutal car accident. And she
wrote them because she didn't know what else to
do. What else to write. Ties in, I suppose, to
the greater question, of why one writes at all.
To be understood. To attempt to understand one's
self. To exorcise. To educate. To make a mark
of on the cave wall. Immortality. And of course,
out of a fear of death.
There's got to be some changes.
Nunto_21
Stendahl's hypocrisy
and my own
how I love to read Scarlet and Black with hard
liquor in reach
like Cervantes and red wine
but it's the oddity of
living life as though it mattered
when all day, every day
thinking
violent, horrible, sad, tragic death
in all its variations
my own, parents, brother,
lover
moving when moving doesn't
matter
all the sunshine
vaguely obscured
by the obsidian wall
- from Nunt, obviously.
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December 6th - 12th, 2004