Sunday, March 25

Spam Poetry

He snapped his fingers and, without another word being spoken, man which was covered as well with hair. Arms and legs and, I couldnt have to start somewhere I suppose. Im just not happy where some of puddle. He rose up, angrier than ever, balled his fists and came on auditions were being arranged, agent A19 was sent for by the fastest - And practice walking on your toes and flaring your nostrils at the Thats exactly what happened. Welcome, Barry, welcome, I said walking over and shaking his bony Yes! Leave-before they find us! been running recordings of your numbers, day and night. Now, soon, we was it a long walk to the open door at the far end. We emerged into a angles and forms resembling nothing I had ever seen before. and stumbled away to the heads where I could be alone with my misery. With that decision out of the way-may I pass on a request? In Do it. Get it. No excuses. Now. Understood.

Saturday, March 17


The other day I was sitting around a table with Bob Dylan and Emmylou Harris, having cocktails and coffee. We were on a cobblestone terrace looking on a long avenue. It was a mild August evening, the glow of sunset was yielding to blackness with stars right above us.

Dylan, after exhaling cigarette smoke contentedly, tapped its ashes and, looking at it, says to me, "Joey, what made them want to blow you away?"

"He told them he could identify the guilty man," I said, knowing that was only part of the answer. "Your daddy he's an outlaw and a wanderer by trade."

Bob didn't look up, but nodded slowly. He smiled sadly to himself.

Emmylou leaned forward, resting her bare elbows on the table, scattered with coffee cups, paper napkins, plates covered in crumbs, and half-empty wine glasses. She didn't want to have this conversation right now. "There're lots of pretty girls in Mozambique, and plenty time for good romance."

Bob and I looked at each other, the same thought crossing our minds. What she suggests would be bliss, but running always leads to more trouble.

I pleaded to her, "Oh sister, am I not a brother to you, and one deserving of affection? Here's a ring, it cost a grand." She said "That ain't enough. I was thinking 'bout gold. I was thinking 'bout diamonds."

Cearly she would not be so easily placated. She fell back in her seat. "Blinded by sleep and in need of a bed." After three weeks of being in this city together, we were all exhausted. None of us would be the same after we parted.

Bob took the cigarette out of his mouth. "At night I dream of bells in the village steeple," he said. Emmylou looked at him and smiled, then looked up at the stars and sighed with longing.

I knew our time in this city, our time together, was coming to an end. We had been though so much that to be together any longer would be impossible without one of us catching fire and burning up.

Bob knew it too. "I can still hear the sounds of those Methodist bells." His thoughts were of places and people far away. "Sara, oh Sara, beautiful lady so dear to my heart."

I looked at both of my companions. Dylan was looking at the cobblestones of the street behind me, sucking on his cigarette. Emmylou was leaning back in her chair with her hands clasped in front of her, looking at the sky with her eyes almost closed. I said to no one in particular, "One more cup of coffee 'fore I go, to the valley below."

Sunday, March 4

Digital Life Story


All of these digits correspond to actual useful bits of information that I use in my daily life: there are phone numbers, banking numbers, dates, addresses, radio frequencies, whatever. I just took out the decimal points and bunched them together. Each bit of information corresponds to a particular place or person or time, like family and friends back in Nova Scotia and people around work here in Montreal. "Reading" the digits reminds me of those things in turn, which suggests to me that that this sequence of numbers is actually something approaching a story: it evokes a series of thoughts and emotions about people and places one after another. If I were to rearrange the numbers in a different order, it would bring a different pattern of memories and significances to my mind.

But it's a story only I can understand. Others might get snatches of the story if they recognize some of the numbers, but no one will be able to put everything in its right place, just as no one would be able to figure out your story if you did the same experiment. If I were to do this again five years from now, a lot would be different but some would be the same, and it would be in a totally different order. So what looks like a bunch of random numbers is actually part of the story of my life. Weird, eh?

Open Letter to the Legions Leering

In a movie theatre, why is everyone so quiet that unwrapping a life saver is a shushable offense, yet at a music concert, people talk and talk and talk as loud as they want. Save your gossip for a time when there isn't 120 decibels of magic belting at you. Don't have an extended conversation when your fellow concertgoer is trying to make love to the music. At the TV on the Radio concert, during the quiet bits I could detect a susurrus for 50 feet in all directions. Shut up! Fuck susurrus!