canadian poet makes jewish folk music

"...like a bear stumbling into a beehive or a honey cache: I'm stumbling right into it and getting stuck, and it's delicious and it's horrible and I'm in it and it's not very graceful and it's very awkward and it's very painful and yet there's something inevitable about it."

sharing cognac with Sharon

liturgy:
"A man's origin is from dust and his destiny is back to dust, at risk of his life he earns his bread; he is likened to a broken shard, withering grass, a fading flower, a passing shade, a dissipating cloud, a blowing wind, flying dust, and a fleeting dream."

starts of middles of short stories.

"In the garage of a student share house she wraps around him, disconnected from the taste, salty, and the sound, desperate, he lets out, by the barrier of bitter drinks and the compartmentalization of time. He pulls on her hair and the changing face of their friendship chokes.
There is not much she can do. "

insomniac

when you don't sleep you instead stay up late reading books about people that do much more interesting things than you like one live in new york two road trip around everywhere three write nice poetry that makes sense four take crazy drugs five have nicknames for the cities you love six smoke a lot because right now whenever i see a smoker i feel a bit disgusted so it's not possible even if i wanted it which i don't seven or is it eight live in the moment be a dropkick be a gypsy be a beatnik and never ever learn to be a real person.

ouais

humanisme.

(i can feel you shiver but there is only so much
that can be said before words are not important
and it's only the cold fingers slipped around a waist
scarf against stinging wind
watered eyes
that makes for
us.)

politik

headspins and heels clack
unhappy girls and their
bare legs goosebumped
highpitched voices;

today there are many people
playing guitars on trains
strings twang
bikes sitting patiently for
their writers. alcoholism wrote
its own fucking book in the
scotch glasses emptied on your
carpet; tables seen to be
the enemy of the worker in a
post-socialist world.

there exists a class of non
awakened proletariat
outside the walls of my private school.

all these and recurring themes
make.

linguistic love times

i am
finding the right preposition, to follow the right verb, to tell you how i feel:
we have become the awful couples
intertwined in a sunshower and
attatched at the
mobile phone.
i'm starting not to care.

circular

never write from the perspective you do not understand but never write an autobiography and call it fiction. rip up what you like and develop yourself, create a style within and without the structures which have come before and sell it to the minds, hearts or souls of the world. never get into advertising. always tell your parents you are making a living. affect a walk, an accent and a story which, like Raymond Queneau, you can use in your excersises du style, but instead of buttons and bus seats create drug-addled mothers and suburban horrors; these are the things which sell books. buy a pair of glasses and call yourself an intellectual. never be tempted to be a socialist. coffee stain your cigarettes then use them to punctuate your spoken word as commas, semi colons and dashes punctuate your writing.

every night you drown and by morning are resurrected

woman in white pulls an eyebrow out of line.

grout between your toes;
we are silent and the
clack of sturdy heels
falls around us as a knell. we are still.

palpitations are the beat of
words yet to be unsaid; orwell and his
'what can be done,
cannot be undone', but it is
only the implications of power
that follow us like
the dream of death. knowledge
is fear.
and the tiles hear us breathing.

writing on writing on writing on writing.

it's the sifting of information;