Saturday, April 19, 2008

Friday, April 18, 2008

washable, washability you can trust

Whatever happened to Piccadilly moustaches. To racist STM bus wonderers. To stay-at-home Mac and Cheese luncheons with Bob Barker, pretending to be sick, pretending to be old. Is he dead? Someone said that he’s been a corpse for years and they have him suspended by strings playing Plinko. His lips are probably harder than old breast implants. I don’t remember whether my first cat was half-black or mottled. I sometimes read books in my sleep, and wake up while eating sandwiches, or talking with dead relatives on the telephone. My shoes and stomach are filled with gunpowder. If I move or feel anxious, I might rocket off. I have to confess, at one point or another I probably pictured you naked. My mom says I have body dysmorphia, I think I’m just young. Once, I realized I was a gay vegetarian and nearly keeled over laughing. Naya’s bottled Evian water. Have you ever been licked by a cow, or misspelled independent, or fantasized about Alexandre Despatie, or killed a cockroach with a hammer. I haven’t either. When I was little, I used to hide for hours from my mom in the grocery store, until she was neurotic and flailing in the meat section. I am, I am, I am, I am. It’s incessant. Did you catch the reference? Some companies only allow their employees to write in blue pen. It’s such a relief to be rid of form. Garden gnomes are conspiring again. Eyelids have adjustable shutter speeds. Virginia Woolfe never had a formal education. 78% of people have traveled elsewhere without their cat. Mormons are mostly left-handed. We turn right 51% of the time. Hamster’s blink one eye at a time. A frog’s favourite color is blue. Moose can pee for fifteen minutes. Nick Ward can pee for nine. A Creatine-pumped frat once lay a 33 inch terd. There’s nothing worse than bathos and machismo. Sentimentality’s pretty bad too. What is it about men in plaid that just gets me. Do you think we could use a calorimeter on a teenage heart, to see how much energy they waste on angst and bad poetry. The world’s been imploding ever since sniglet became a word.

brain freeze contest

Totting tot between tall jackets at Wal-Mart, clothing racks as stage curtains. Then a heave, a plastic hammer, he’s screaming and then the nanny rushes down the staircase with the Lanocane. Grazing shins with old men on the bus. Yellow stained fingers from organic chemistry class. And then it folds over and the moon, pale as a Canadian palm, sighs. We ramble, we tic-tac-toe with two-bit talks, the lint between your toes. Like an alien cloud forest. We were launching a lunar mission, though somewhere in our gasp between satellite and earthen crust, we slipped sidelong into a wormhole, and became a grin as Orion’s belt. There’s no sense
tossing loose change off the CN tower and killing the cavalcade of a preschool march beneath us. Are we tied? Geriatric ward jig of a bus engine, propane soup. Battery acid ice cubes. Alkaline-powered merry-go-round. I wish everything was as it was, powered by a shaft, a turbine, a crank, powered by the church, by the host, by the sermon, by flimsy fags tussling in a hay stacked barn, by palm reading, by codgers adjusting their belts, by Mr. Rogers espying the waste of a soon-to-be nubile nine-year-old, by shoelaces untangled like tree branches, by miss-buttoned overcoats, by the flanks of his horse, by a giant heap of banana pie, by a 9X9 square matrix, by a plasma shotgun, by those three footless birds on the McGill flag, by my grade three teacher who smelt like old coffee, by intestinal turbulence, by our carbon footprint on the boreal forest, by our lives expressed in hyphens and flicks and one drawn out semi-colon that can hardly breathe. The ocean’s an expanse of sometimes extending into never, that’s how far away the horizon is. Until you’ve been to Quebec, and sought after fruitlessly for the one English stop sign, then you’ll know how wretched it is. Speaking French feels like holding your breath underwater. The earth tries to breath, but it orbits too close to and asteroid belt and often chokes on all that dust. I remember talking with a harvest moon, and conversing with my cat. Countries are like soda labels. Yemen. Nova Scotia doesn’t actually exist, unless stumbled across. The East end is a myth, a corporate ploy to up oil prices. Old maps depicted continents as if they were chunks of Nicaraguan cheese. I mostly ever feel things so I can update my facebook status.

Tuesday, April 8, 2008