So...

I hear Edmonton's got a hocky team now.
I wonder if anyone will like them.

Shall I compare thee?

"Poetry is the art of economy of words," she says.

I used to say that.
Nearly verbatim.
And an artful economy it was...until the crash.
Now my poetic musings consist mostly of lines akin to:
"Well that's just fucking perfect"
"You've got to be fucking kidding me"
and
"Mother fuck!"

Sonnets of the Portuguese, my friends.
Sonnets of the Portu-fucking-guese.

North by North-Cotton

Just slightly out of phase.
I can almost touch, almost hear, almost interact...
just not quite.

It's like every atom in my body, every synapse in my brain is propelling me toward something that's not there. The compass points north, south, east, and west and I'm supposed to head yellow.

I think I'm supposed to be here, but here is not supposed to have me.

I've had this feeling before. When I was standing on the edge of life this is what I saw. But I'm still shaking from traumatic succession of discovery, entrance, settlement, then eviction.

(it's funny that you're reading this...people aren't supposed to be coming here anymore...go see Kirk...he's far more exciting)

Parallel plans:
identical in form and flow
same cast of miscreants
same tragic hero.
Two violently opposing intentions.

I think I managed to foil them both.
But I can't seem to shake the feeling that door #3 is a broom closet.
(call me if you need some sweeping)

you fickle notes again
you've robbed me of my sleep
dragged me from my bed to watch the colors in the sky.

**Cobwebs**

(on me AND my blog)

Of Final Straws

That's just fucking bullshit.
I quit.
Everything.

Jesus...

is this the shape of promised glory?

Siring of a Madman

2

"I heard screamin' and bullwhips crackin'."

She wasn't kidding when she told him it was a little sketchy in that part of town. Being witness to four separate drug deals on the same block and within the same minute was a new experience for our madman. One might argue, though, that there could have been no more appropriate halftime show for the day's activities--a forty-block odyssey through downtown(?) Vancouver by a man in desperate need of his own shameful fix.

All things considered it was a hitchless endeavor. Most folks aren't lucky enough to have a jones that'll stay quiet for such little cash. God only knows how long this one's gonna be strung up.

Siring of a Madman

1

"I saw a horse. There was a man on fire. And I killed someone with a trident."


Amidst a sea of bad coffee, afloat of a raft of good pizza, illuminated by the twinkling light of Korean lettering of indeterminable quality I'm getting sleepy (and absurdly symbolic). All I can think about is that, now that I've seen the sun rise from the Atlantic and set into the Pacific, I can't wait to see it all in reverse.

...yeah, it was pretty dark but I sure as hell didn't expect to find that toe there.
(not to mention all the rest)
Should have opened that second one.
Ah, well.
Live and learn, as they say.
Live and learn.

--take me from this place of doorless keys
where frozen ground is Comfort's chosen face.
Save me from this time of timeless grace
when patience falls as limp as apathy.

Can one be maddened by one's own silence? In this newest depth of acute desperation I'm afraid I've betrayed my own soul--speaking words for wordsake, making plans actionsake, moving every single muscle to fend off atrophy from parts of me I've never even used before. What I first wrote off as paranoia I now see as wonder: simple and and terrified. I don't know what to do when there is no storm to weather and no path to tread or cut.

I'm afraid I have found myself in a place where patience and drive are tools useless as flowers to a boxer or bullets to a dancer. I'm afraid I still haven't found the strength to stand and build instead of chase my tail like so many around me. I'm afraid of both disappearing from the world into my own silence and falling in love with my own voice. I'm afraid that balance is illusion. I'm afraid that balance is the illusion that brought me here. I'm afraid I've been given too much grace to not fail.
I'm afraid that I'm not scared enough.
I'm afraid this lack of fear is to be my end.

But I don't know.
Anything.
Yet.

afloat precarious

...so there are to be no more promises.
Even I have tired of how hollow they are always shown.
Today there is naught but intention veiled.
Tomorrow I spend what intention affords.
Yesterday I intend to forget.
I suggest you do the same.

pardon me

A decade ago I never though I would be 23 on the verge of spontaneous combustion
woe is me.

Battle Cry

Lo! Who is that, striding amidst the icy wasteland! It is Nicholas Perreault, hands clutching gilded boxing gloves! He roars gutterally:

"I'm going to hump you until you bleed puke!!"

Stalking through the icy wasteland, carrying a jeweled meat hammer, cometh Tanya Corbin! And she gives a bloodthirsty grunt:

"I'm going to brutalize you until the sun burns out, then steal your lederhosen!"

Zang! Who is that, skulking on the mountains! It is Jessica Klasson, hands clutching a vorpal blade! And with a vengeful scream, her voice cometh:

"Ares, God of War, be praised! I lay waste to all I see like a four-year-old on a sugar rampage!!"

Lo! Who is that, skulking along the desert! It is Tavius Marshall, hands clutching a vorpal blade! And with a low bellow, his voice cometh:

"I'm going to contort you backwards in time, and hijack your momma's airplane!"

Obscure Biblical Concepts

Once upon a time I was a creative muse.
Then came a time when I needed a creative muse and one could not be found. Great was the sadness and ass-poor was the music. Sad were the creations and abundant was the ass-poorness
If anyone sees God over the weekend, let Him know His "sewing and reaping" principal is malfunctioning.

(Nick, maybe if we approach Him together...)
Thanks.

American Relocation

Ya know...
This new nation of mine really hasn't worked out for blog regularity.
Mayhaps I need a week or two back in the motherland.

Nashville: The land where my blog died and my bluegrass career was born.

Always the same dissonant clash when time wasted turns to time intended. What makes me think I can condense thoughts before I sift them and filter? What makes me think I have the right to order them before release?
Always the same murky mesh of muddled melodies and disjointed diction.

--kept my rhythm in perfect time
walked in purposeful stride
lost my footing down riverside
will you wait for me to stand
again?--

...and thus begins my intensive campaign to have "y'all" replaced with "b'ys" as the preferred term for southerners addressing groups of two or more people, animals, beer, etc.
Wish me luck.

" This is my beautiful new wife, Lila-Ann. The moment Momma brought her home from the hospital I knew we were destined to be wed. So here we are, thirteen years later, just as happy as kinfolk should be on their hitchin' day."

Last night my dreams were set in Ohio---as though that was my ultimate destination.
I woke up in a panic as though I was not ready to be there yet.
I'd like to say the realization I was not in Ohio let the panic subside.
I'd like to say a lot of things right now.