A. Warren Johnson

Poetic Injustice

2019-10-23T20:02:00.000-07:00

Prince George has an interesting connection to books. Particularly self-published books by local authors known as chapbooks. For those who might not have seen a chapbook before, they are usually the size of a standard sheet of paper that is folded in half, and anywhere from 20-44 pages in length. It is these short, and (for the most part) creative little books that should be the centre of the currently tumultuous writing scene in Prince George.

Currently, Prince George is host to two smaller awards for this chapbook culture: The Barry McKinnon Poerty Award, and The John Harris Short-Fiction Award. In a 2009 post on the blog "PG Pod," Graham Pearce (annual organizer of both events) was quoted as saying, "the idea for the minimum number of copies [generally around 20 copies are required for the annual Barry McKinnon/John Harris Awards and Prince George Chapbook Fair (proper title)] is getting people away from special one-offs. The chapbook is supposed to be traded and sold and reproduced easily."

This statement seems to have been lost during the past six months, due mostly to the recent division of the local writing community. While most of the local writers are still self-publishing chapbooks (many of the which seemed to have upped the ante by being well written, well structured and well produced since the division) and trading them amongst their respective circles, there have been little to no trades routes between the two camps. This is an unfortunate circumstance, as it has led to Dr. Robert Budde to request funding be cut to the annual Barry McKinnon Award and Prince George Chapbook Fair recently.

The Barry McKinnon Award itself is a $250 annual prize. The event began in 2006, and has ran for the past seven years. From 2006 until 2011, recipients of the award have received the prize money they had won, while Alex Buck, the 2012 winner, has yet to receive his award for his chapbook Ce n'est past la poesie (Ce n'est pas la poésie for the correct spelling).

The Blanket

2013-01-13T23:54:00.002-08:00

N°

2012-12-21T16:24:00.002-08:00

The axis of verse
wear their smug masks
and stand upon

a simulacra of nature/
detached from reality.

Some of them have beautiful minds,
and semiotic textiles
to promote self(-)
victimization,
idolization
& as genderless.

Their masks speak to them,
as does the devil's club,
"Go, annex the north,
under guise of censorship."

Isolation

extends as far as
a comfortable career
w/o risk.

Their hollow ideologies
as hollow as their character,
and as secure as a broken window.

Greater Wrong of Right (part 2)

2012-11-21T21:00:00.000-08:00

Leslie brings me back to her room. She said she had a book I might like. Once in her room I sit on the bed. Leslie kneels down, opens a drawer and pulls out the book, then tosses it to me. I look the cover, Life of Pi. I’ve never read it.

Leslie turns around and unzips my pants, pulls my underwear aside and stuffs my flaccid cock in her mouth. After a few strokes with her warm lips, I get hard, yet I feel indifferent about the situation. While she is busy sucking, I unbutton my pants and pull them down farther. Leslie begins to fondle my balls in her right hand, pulls me out of her mouth and licks my shaft down to the base. Leslie then tongues my balls, then sucks my right ball in her mouth while she strokes my cock. I look down at her, she looks at me, letting my ball fall out of her mouth, she smiles. I don’t smile back.

Leslie gently blows her warm breath on me, then puts me back into her mouth and begins to bob up and down, faster, tightening her lips until I’m about to cum. I pull her head off my lap and begin to climax. At first a small gob of cum shoots from me and lands on my right thigh, followed by a thick, but short, stream which arcs and lands mostly on her bed, the rest settles on my thigh. A few more spurts dribble out and run down my cock and Leslie’s fingers. She laps at my freshly exploded head, squeezes a bit to milk the residual cum from my shaft and lets it rest on her hand, briefly, before she lifts her hand away and flicks my cum into the trash. I feel nothing for her.

“Hope you enjoy the book.” She says.

* * *

Sitting in Starbucks for me is like sitting in a box of a theater waiting for someone to shoot you in the back of the head. This began a year and a half ago when I had a brief two month fling with a barista. Audrey was flat and did nothing in bed. I broke it off and that’s when the text messages started, which inevitably ended up with “coincidently” seeing her everywhere I went, including seeing her ‘98 red Jetta parked outside my house at 3 a.m. almost every night. I never lock my doors.

“Well have you thought about taking time off school to work?” Darren asks.

“Why would I? I’m thirty-thousand dollars in debt.”

“Exactly, you’re thirty-thousand dollars in debt. Do you think it will just magically disappear? You know it’s just going to get higher don’t you?”

I’m well aware of this fact. “Yeah, but it will all work out.”

“What you need is a budgeting strategy.”

I look out the window and see a red Jetta. A wave of nausea washes over me, I begin to squirm in the hard, wood colored, plastic seat. The Jetta passes, it wasn’t Audrey.

“You know that’s what you need. Budgeting is your friend, why don’t you ever plan ahead? I’m just trying to help you man.”

“I’m leaving.” I say.

“Are you, or do you just want to smoke?”

“A little of both.”

“Alright, let’s do it.”

We grab our coffees and go outside. The greyish wisps of cloud hover in the sky, for some reason they mean something to me. I light a cigarette and sip my coffee. It tastes burnt.

“Fag me.” Darren says while fluttering his fingers in my face. I toss him my pack; he pulls out a cigarette and lights up, then tosses my pack back.

Misrepresenting The North

2012-11-16T21:35:00.004-08:00

“Vice Versa: Poetry up Here” is written and directed by Josh Massey and Justin Foster. It was uploaded on vimeo.com—the video can be found here: http://vimeo.com/51248950—11 October 2012. This project was produced as a component for Massey’s Master’s Thesis (also available online via UNBC Library). The video is split into three parts dubbed Versas. It features Gillian Wigmore and Barry McKinnon (Versa I), Jeremy Stewart and Si Transken (Versa II) and Ken Belford and Derrick Denholm (Versa III). The finished video means to represent the north via its poetry “community”, but it fails to achieve its objectives.

The tagline claims “six northern poets face up to the realities and stereotypes of their society.” But how?

“[L]ooking back from the melt breaking up the ice/where the poems meet a moment of reflection” are two lines over laid on a shot of the Fraser River taken on the Cameron Street Bridge. The local pulp mill is framed in the upper right of the screen. This is followed by a shot of a snow covered river bank with white text: “northern dialect(ics) [sic.] a dialogue between the lines/6 poets ride an eddy at the confluence.” Neither before or after the poems is there analysis of the “[h]arnessing [of] the transformative powers of shared words.” Was each poet to come to some realization by reading the work of another? What realization could this be? Maybe a different word would have been better here (if I had written it), or geez, I like this poem more than I thought, or when I say these things I feel like I am another’s work? “[A] dialogue between the lines” implies that the viewer is required to make an inference about what is going on in the film. At face value, the poets are “[riding] an eddy at the confluence.” Dare I ask, so what?

At this point the audience, I assume, begs to ask: what realities? What stereotypes have been faced up to? Are we to assume that by a man reading a woman’s poems, and vice versa, we have challenged something, anything?

Prince George, alternatively, is presented with a clear vision: the footage is washed-out, eco-depressing: the camera tracks debris floating in salmon habitat, Mr. PG -- that symbol of resource exploitation/ jobs, a small organic garden with little produce. PG, from this film, looks a Zellers’ washroom (RIP Zellers).

Gillian Wigmore

Gillian Wigmore and Barry McKinnon are the poets that make up Versa I. Wigmore reads McKinnon’s “Writing on the Ridge,” and McKinnon reads Wigmore’s “Ksan.” The theme of the poems are autobiographic curse (poem is life) and geographic observation (poem is mountain). Following the producers train of thought, I struggle to see how Wigmore reveals anything of McKinnon’s work, his intention, the meaning of the poem (if there is/are meaning) and vice versa. Why is there no context? Who are these poets, and why does this reading matter? Am I supposed to guess? Ok. I will. Based on the poem choices, I suspect that McKinnon is paranoid, and Wigmore is in touch with the pomo eco-poet gods. It is interesting that these readings are solely filmed inside – neither poet gets to go outside. In contrast to the other readings, this might mean something.

Barry McKinnon

It is interesting that Wigmore appears coy, occasionally looking up at the audience. McKinnon, in contrast, looks tense, especially at the poem’s conclusion when he looks up with a visibly tight throat. If there is meaning in these observations beyond the literal, I imagine they are discussed in Massey’s thesis. In the absence of analysis, commentary or context, the audience is left to guess. I think McKinnon’s in a tough position.

Versa II introduces Jeremy Stewart in traffic and Si Transken spray painting toys by a dumpster. Both readings are affected by the elements, traffic and wind. Stewart looks and talks like a hipster, the kind that the government warns you about. His maroon cap and sleepy delivery are symbiotic with Transken’s casual, proletariat persona. Both readings are spliced with jump cuts to new locations (Stewart to a vegetable garden, Transken to her creative room, then to Mr. PG). Stewart reads “Casual Pleasures of Ageing Well” (the British spelling is Transken’s). Transken reads “theory of The North [sic.]” by Stewart. Versa II is when this video goes from slightly misguided and open to interpretation into complete nonsense. It’s interesting that Stewart uses a lowercase “t” and an uppercase “N.” Does this mean that theory is small in the north? Stewart begins his reading in front of the Prince George Hotel—which is now a vacant lot. Does this imply that Stewart or the poem he is reading is will disappear? Weird. The content of Transken’s poem: “But 2 of the worst are dead - 1 of a heart attack, 1 eaten by cancer” juxtaposed by the sunny day is also weird.

Jeremy Stewart

The cuts jump from the community garden to the Civic Centre and finally to the Prince George Hotel, while Stewart repeats: “through distance in detachment.” What does this mean? Does moving from location to location represent geographic displacement? Of who? Stewart? Reassuringly, in the garden Stewart reads, “I can’t know everything. My life is too full of joy, learning, going forward and educating others.” Then Massey and Foster cut to Transken:

So. It’s, it’s hard to be creative and functional. And to make changes in the world, and our own worlds. And not become like those other people, right? Those people that are, let’s say heartless, like in that one up there. [Transken points to something off-screen] Or who are mean, or bitter, or shutdown. [sic.]

Si Transken

When Transken says creativity is incongruent with productivity, it seems to undercut the project. When she points fingers at “those other people,” how do we know who they are? At the Farmer’s Market after she reads the line, “You and all your friends grew up with Peasant Vision in The North” I notice how Stewart’s poem jives thematically with Transken’s introduction. When a voice over is produced during footage of a disassembled mannequin, it seems to be a metaphor for dismemberment, maybe even violent crime. For example, Tranksen reads “The North will fuck you over.” When Transken is back on screen, she is standing between Mr. PG’s legs. Her reading concludes with her smiling into the camera.

Are Stewart and Transken “[harnessing] the transformative powers of shared words.” I don’t know. One interpretation of the progressive non-sensibility I managed to extrapolate from this section of the video is that Prince George is antagonistic towards the compassionate left in spite of the fact they are attempting to make the north “a better place” through poems, art and crafts and community gardening.

The final section, Versa III, is by far the most convoluted of the three sections. Ken Belford reads “Dead Salmon Dialectics” (a nearly incomprehensible work) by Derrick Denholm, and Denholm reads “lan(d)guage [sic.]” by Belford. Massey and Foster begin this section with Belford flipping through a book and appearing somewhat confused as to what it is he is supposed to do. The scene is then cut to Belford in what is presumably his basement. The shot is framed similar to the scene in “A Beautiful Mind,” where Russell Crowe is pining up papers to a cork board. Belford explains that:

Ken Belford

I edit again, and again, and again, and I end up with pieces that look like this. And, for the time being, I have titles on them. Uh. And then when it comes time to edit, after I get the full length of the manuscript, the proposed book, on to a corkboard, then I print it all off again and I stand back from this. And I look at it, and I indicate in some way, or other, what I—a piece that I may think might be the first, or the second, or the third, or fourth. Ah. And I construct them, so that they kind of harmonically reflect upon each other, before. And what is to come. For the next. And, uh, so I take the pieces. Like here I have a new poem called “Textbook Pictures” and I just trim them close to the edge of the—the text. I sometimes think of these as semiotic textiles. And then I just locate it on the board like this [sic.].

Belford is the only other poet, besides Transken and a strange interlude by Denholm and Massey, who is allowed to speak before a reading. Denholm’s brief, seemingly out of place, conversation with Massey about his trip from Prince Rupert is at the tail end of Versa II. It serves no obvious purpose to the narrative structure of the film.

Belford reads in a monotone voice, droning out a series of words that mean, seemingly, nothing. The reading is spliced crudely with shots of Belford standing on a river bank. In these shots, he seems like he is supposed to be reading, but his lips don’t move and he is voiced over. This is followed by a shot of a plateau and a matted Chroma key of a forest while the camera zooms out, as if it were drinking. Belford’s reading ends with a grumpy look on his face.

The lead up to Denholm’s section is by far the hardest to make sense of. There is a close up of rippling water, followed by a piece of driftwood caught in an eddy, which bears a strikingly similar resemblance to watching a turd being flushed down a toilet for 23 seconds. Excuse my humour. There is no context for this shot: is this “[facing] up to the realities and stereotypes” of the north? It does, however, announce Denholm’s second appearance – his second coming.

Derrick Denholm

Throughout Denholm’s section there are three montages. His reading is spliced with cuts that include the camera pointed at the ground for a spell, a few matte Chroma key effects, a cross-faded sequence and a two frame shot that depicts boxcars in one frame and the other river bank in the other. Denholms reading is prefaced with an eco-montage of the poet walking along a river trail that shows garbage – an old motor, a discarded BMX, and dead fish, bright green leaves, and river rocks. Denholm – in plaid and denim – appears as the eco-poet personified when he reads directly to a patch of dandelions.

“Trying to focus on many little parts and how they create many different wholes depends on who and what you are.” To summarize, if I may, Massey and Foster say nothing: many little parts create many different wholes – so what?

I think it important to comment on the soundtrack. It has elements of 1970s pornography as well grunge-inspired indy rock.

I am shocked that Massey and Foster believe this video represents northern poetry, specifically Prince George poetry. The video is amateurish and it is not intended for general audiences. “Vice Versa: Poetry up Here” is an unflattering and inaccurate representation of Prince George, its poets and vice versa.

A piece of driftwood caught in an eddy.

Any Place But Here

2012-11-11T16:01:00.000-08:00

It was the first of the month, rent was due and I had drunk it away last weekend. The only thing I could think of to do was to run from this retched den of scum and villainy known as Prince George. Where to? It didn't matter; any place but here. I called Jimmy, told him to pack some clothes and that I would be over in an hour to pick him up. I jumped in my van, put on the radio and turned up the volume:

Run down, run.
Where it leads,
Your compelled to follow.

Run down, running free,
Running down the road you've been before.

Run down, run.
Planting little seeds,
Would you not wallow?

Run down, running free,
Running down the road you've been before.
Run down, running free,
Running toward the goal you've been, Lord.

Run down, run.
Fibers, jeans and beads,
Tearing 'round the hollow.

Run down, running free,
Running down the road you've been before.
Run down, running free,
Running toward the goal you've been, Lord.

Running toward the goal you've been, oh Lord.

By the time Jimmy and I got to Grande Prairie, it was early morning. The dawn was breaking and my eyes burned. Jimmy was passed out in the passenger seat. I wish it was me who was asleep at the moment, however, Jimmy never bothered to get a driver's license; an unfortunate pain in the ass.
We pulled into Ulrich's apartment parking lot. I pulled into an empty stall close to where Ulrich was parked. I got out and let the door slam shut. Jimmy jumped and looked at me. I mouthed, "We're here" to him and he also got out of the van.
We lit up a couple of cigarettes and sat on the back bumper of the van, quietly at first, but soon a conversation arose.
"How long have I been out?"
"A while. Probably two-- two and a half hours. Pretty boring driving with someone who's sleeping."
"I bet. So Ulrich's cool with me staying here the night?"
"He said he was. Him and Salina are probably sleeping though, so we need to be quiet."
"You need to be quiet," a chuckle, "you're the one who's loud."
"Good point."
I already began to regret this move. If I stayed, then I could have gone back to the college for another semester, since I left, I was pretty much stuck here. No job, no girlfriend and no dog. Just unrolling fields populated with rigs and a spread out mess of a town.
Oh Canada.
"-- and we need to be up at five."
"Sorry, what?"
"I said, it is three forty-five-ish and we need to be up at five."
"Yeah. Maybe we should drink through."
We laughed, but the sad fact was, we probably would have drunk through the night if we had gotten into Grande Prairie earlier in the day.

* * *

July 5th 2010
Surprise, sur-fucking-prise, the cunt running S.P.M. hired two other guys to take our places. Fuck, I hate people. I hope the cunt (Bruce or something else that fucking fruity) spills some corrosive on the crotch of his pants. Going to look for something else, probably end up back in a goddamn kitchen.

* * *

Lapse, synapse, spilling the rare,
Lemon-guards the maiden fare.
Remember then this summer air,
Where winters last, a season's despair.

Some to do, some who won't,
Rabblers Manchurian goat.

Left behind the fence, or wall,
To spring the fall of consumerist hall.
Fashion then comes close to all,
With nothing, no one, left to call.

The tidings and well wishings,
Came to realize what was meant.
They're worthless, resorting,
They are useless as one cent—

I paused the video when Ulrich came into the room.
"What the hell are you watching?"
"I dunno, some anti-Bush song."
"Oh, there seems to be a lot of those these days."
"Yup. I really hope he gets kicked in the balls, or face, on his last day as president. It would bring joy to millions."
Ulrich snickers, "Yeah, it would be good. Want to go get some coffee?"
"I dunno what I want. A job would be good so that I could buy coffee once in a while."
"You need to get out of the house and apply for that to happen." Ulrich stated only half joking.
Twenty minutes later we were standing in line at Tim Hortons. I was dressed in my Ghostbusters costume I made last year. Ulrich was wearing shorts and a t-shirt. The contrast was pretty stark, and since we were having a fairly serious conversation (mostly about his wedding and what the best man and I would be wearing), people were looking at me; probably wondering if they should laugh or stare silently. Ulrich and I made our way to the front counter.
I got a sudden pain in my left Achilles tendon and shifted quickly in hopes that it would go away, no luck, however I managed to hit a small child in the head with the home made proton pack that was hanging off my back.
After apologizing profusely to the now laughing parents, Ulrich and I ordered our coffees and left.

* * *

July 9th 2010
Jimmy and I were out all day plastering resumes at every place we could. Over all the day was pleasant. Around three or so I began getting lazy and resorted to just leaving my resume in random spots around the stores we visited. Like a bad Canadian novel, I feel bored, isolated and lonely. I'm trying to keep my mind off it. I've been reading a chapbook called Invisible Symmetry. Pierce gave me a copy because he thought I would enjoy it. So far it's really good. Not entirely sure what is going on in the story, but it has given me something to do so I don't get too stir crazy.

* * *

Four am, Ulrich is up and in the shower. He has to be outside for five. He works as a Frac'er. I have no idea what a Frac'er does, but Ulrich has been telling me that I should be harassing the rig companies to hire me as a Frac'er.
"Think of it as Warcraft. Your profession would be like alchemy if you get on working in the chemical shed. If you were running tube, it would be like a repeatable daily quest--"
This made sense to me; even though I hadn't played for the two months before running out here.

* * *

July 12th 2010
My goals, I don't know how else to define them, so here is a list:
- Quit drinking: So far I have managed this with minimal discomfort.
- Get a decent job: This may seem easy, but it's not; some asshole always making promises.
- Eventually go home: I want to be able to sex up my girlfriend, pet my dog, finish school. These seem to be the things I'm most concerned with.
- Finish writing, and publish a book. Maybe I'll revisit some older work at some point.

* * *

Well they give me all kinds of advice. Designed to enlighten me
Jimmy and I were driving around, drinking coffee, listening to John Lennon. We passed by a youth correctional centre and Jimmy said, "That's where the bad kids go." We both laughed as the chorus kicked in.
I'm just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round
It was another hot, windy day. Earlier I felt like I was getting vertigo sitting on the small deck of Ulrich's apartment. Like John Lennon's song (released in 1981 after he was shot and killed by Mark Chapman), I was just sitting and watching fields of wheat across from the apartment building wave in the wind.

* * *

July 15th 2010
Was walking around the strangely spaced strip mall across the street from Ulrich's apartment. I really want a Mighty Morphin' Power Ranger's costume to hand out resumes in. Reason for this? It would make me unforgettable and increase my chances of being hired.
Met a few biker's from BC (it was good to see some BC boys, even though 80% of the people living in Grande Prairie are from my home town), and helped stop a shoplifter from making it too far from the liquor store he had just stolen a 26 of Crown Royal.
This made me want a Power Ranger's costume even more; or at the very least, to make myself a costume and go out at night to attempt to stop crimes.

* * *

As above, so below.
Simple things, we all know.

In the night, the darkness beats.

Someone walks to a car,
Even now the darkness beats,
Eventually kicks the glass, a scar!

I look down the street,
The wind picks up, a mighty blow.

* * *

"I need to get the fuck out of here." I said to Jimmy, while we walked around downtown Grande Prairie. It had been three weeks since we arrived here and I still hadn't found a job. I was almost out of ways to entertain myself.
We walked by a small bistro style restaurant and we saw a server who looked like our friend Garcia waiting tables. Jimmy had been hired at Tony Roma's as a line cook.
"Just get a kitchen job. You know what you're doing, and you'll probably get a raise after two weeks."
"That's just it, Jimmy, I don't want another fucking kitchen job. There is more to life then filtering the world through a pass-bar."
We walked past a tattoo shop. Jimmy opened the door and walked in.
"Yeah, but you're getting broke, so just find a kitchen job for right now and look for something else."
"Like what?"
"Well you have a better shot at gettin' on the rigs then I do. You at least have a driver's license."
I rolled my eyes, "Good for me."
The girl who owned the shop looked up from tattooing a hipster's forearm.
"I'm sorry, I don't do drop ins" she stated in a monotone drone.
"That's okay, we wouldn't want to be tattooed by you anyway." I say, and then I walk out.
She sets her gun down and follows me outside.
"Hey fuck you! I wouldn't want to tattoo you anyway you piece of shit!" She walks back in, and Jimmy walks out.
"Man, fuck that place." Jimmy says to me.
I laugh as I light a cigarette.

* * *

July 22nd 2010
I can't fucking take this place anymore. I should have stayed in Prince George; at least I had a job there. The only good thing about this past week was the street festival this past weekend. Ulrich's son had come up with his mom and I spent most of the day with him, as Ulrich and his mom were discussing his wedding in September.

* * *

July 26th 2010
Thursday, I had two interviews, one at Boston Pizza for a serving position, one at Princess Auto for a supervisor position. Both places I just left my resumes laying around in random locations in the stores.
I got two calls back later in the day, both telling me the same thing: "Sorry, but we feel that we do not require someone with your qualifications. However, please feel free to re-apply in six months."
It was at this point I started to panic.
'What do I do? Stay here, unemployed and miserable, or pack up my shit and go home, be employed, miserable at my job, but be with my girlfriend and my dog?'

* * *

July 28th 2010
I finished reading Monster by A. Lee Martinez, and Heaven Is Small by Emily Schultz today. It is amazing how fast one can read when there is nothing to do. I really should just finish writing that goddamn book.

* * *

It was nearing the first of the month, and I had been walking around the brown bricked college a few blocks away from Ulrich's place. It was sunny, hot and only slightly windy that day. I was taking photographs of myself at different areas outside the college. While this college looked huge, it wasn't. The hallways were narrow, and the library was the size of a classroom. It wasn't a college I was considering going to.
After about an hour, I realized just how isolated I felt in Grande Prairie. This city had no room for me, and I had no love for this city. I decided I was going to leave.
When I talked to Ulrich and told him I needed to go, he tried to talk me out of it.
“My wedding is months away, why not just stay here, find a job and get a place with Jimmy for one fucking month?”
Ulrich knew it would be useless, once I had something in my head; it is very rare that I change my mind. The next morning I moved all my stuff back into my van. By eight am my van was fully loaded, and by 6 pm, I was back in Prince George.

Greater Wrong of Right (part 1)

2012-11-10T14:39:00.000-08:00

I am $30,000 in debt. When I run into people from high school this is what I tell them. When they ask, “What did ya spend thirty grand on?” I tell them 2 girls. The $30,000 wasn’t spent on women, or even a woman, it was spent on a relationship. Two years ago I was fired from Red Robin. The next two months were spent on credit and borrowed time.

I am sitting in class and I am $30,000 in debt. There is a poem projected on the wall and the professor is asking, “How does this particular piece make you feel?”

I feel pissed off that I’m paying a post-secondary institution to be asked a question that I can ask myself.

A nasally voice somewhere behind me says, “It makes me feel discombobulated by the indoctrination forced upon the narrator, as clearly illustrated through the use of repetition and onomatopoeias within the sixth stanza.”

I’m nauseated that 60 point Scrabble words are enough to qualify as “knowledge”. I look at the clock, still another eighteen minutes until class is over. Maybe after I’ll get a coffee and try to get some other class readings done.

“Yes, one can certainly feel that way considering the way the piece is structured. Anyone else care to share how they feel?”

Another faceless voice speaks up, “Well, from the enjambments, I feel like this is a very urgent work, like there is some sort of, um, importance. You know, like in the Beatles song!”

I feel dumber for having heard this comment. Viet Nam, second wave feminism, J.F.K. shot in Dallas, Ken Kesey and other day trippers driving cross America, all of these were of greater importance than Revolution becoming a hit.

I am $30,000 in debt sitting in a class listening to how a poem by some hack makes people feel. I suppose this is what happens when you were born in the early ‘80s.

“Good. Now what do you think was the author’s intention with this piece?”

“What does it matter, the author is dead to the work already.” I say.

“No, you are quite wrong in thinking that you see--”

“No, you are wrong, Michel Foucault lays it out quite clearly in his essay.” I say.

“True, Foucault did claim that, but--”

Someone probably much smarter than I am speaks up, “He has a good point, how would I know the author’s intention if they don’t layout in a clear and concise way to make it accessible for the reader? And more importantly, why wouldn’t we be looking at what the poem means, rather than how it makes us feel? After all wouldn’t the way that a piece of art makes someone feel be a matter of opinion and not a matter of truth?”

The professor looks worried, if only momentarily. I have a sudden realization that he owns an expensive piece of paper which implies he knows things about stuff. The truth is he probably knows just as much as anyone else in the class, the only difference is that he gets paid to be here. He then dismisses us, there is eleven minutes left. If he would have asked me how this makes me feel, I would have replied “Satisfied.”

A girl named Leslie comes up to me in the hallway and says “Thanks.”

* * *

Cunt's Not to Like?

2012-11-08T22:14:00.001-08:00

For the extremist left in my home town,

I moved on to the death of my ego,

it looked like a medium
to
low budget affair,
possibly Canadian.

And then these memories moved,
briefly to Grande Prairie,
before returning to Prince George.

A deconstructed sum of parts,
laying out in a front yard of
a trailer park,
close to that old sleigh.

Relocated
and fully expecting to be damaged,
drowning in dead beat debt,
but knowing that I could do better,
but then again, knowing I won't.

The smell of success just as unknown
as is the stark failure I've lived up to thus far.

Them's The Brakes!!! (part 4)

2012-11-08T21:48:00.002-08:00

Them's The Brake's! (part 3)

2012-11-04T17:42:00.003-08:00

Them`s the Brakes! (part 2)

2012-11-02T18:16:00.001-07:00

Them's the Brakes! (part 1)

2012-10-30T18:33:00.001-07:00

Effigy of the Heathen Dogma

2012-09-21T01:32:00.002-07:00

When setting up
to read on the 905, it becomes
clear: Pipe bombings are on the
agenda for those who sell books,
if only to cover legal defence.

And then once home,
realizing that one of the readers,
and not very strong,
is merely resisting his violent impulses.
'Perhaps he has a history,' while he
undresses a stalker in his mind.

I wish them well,
but it is a matter of wit,
and it seems that none of them
get the joke.
It is just as well, as they dress
in prairie ponchos, and feminism,
as if they have transcended
criticism/censorship/comment.

You realize early on,
at thirty, life is half over,
or that there is more work to do.

Canon II

2012-08-27T00:49:00.000-07:00

For long enough I had tarried halfway on that hill;
to see the clouded sun rise to its highest arc upon the holy day.
Through my eyes, weary and watershed, as I milled

down that hill, my left footfall slower than the right.
Once upon the path that led to the northern wood,
I looked back upon the hill, those gnarled beasts still in sight,

then turned back. As I entered the foreboding wood,
I drew cold breath, and saw the spindled branches frost.
Where this cold had split the bark,
the words of those who perished could

be read, as if carved by blade. I knelt down by one
such tree: Whosoever in wont of wandering
these northern wood; upon the darkening of the sun

the song of Erudition echoes. Knead honey-sweet wax,
and anoint therewith the ears of thyself, lest ye seek death.
Yea, though thou be vigilant of Erudition's voice,

heed the spirits of the Neophytes that inhabit her.
Their pretensions are only rivalled by their lust,
their shallow draughts have intoxicated them to lure

others down to their level, albeit, those to exercise experience
folly not in their toil. Deeper north, the underbelly of Erudition,
are the Licentiates which gather round Charybdis, with esurience

expectations. Their preoccupations are concerned with reflections
of what they expect to find gazing into the abyss. Though they stand
fast as Lot's wife, be wary not to gaze into their seductions,

lest ye seek the gaze of the abyss. And at the lowest north lay

the Pedagogues. These are, indeed, strange beasts. Their divided;

those who serve the noble Gnosis, and those who wish to slay.

Let these words fall not upon blind eyes. Once finished, I stood, then as a fool

'Rien ne peut m'arrêter maintenant,' crossed my mind, as the sun set on Yule.

Canon I

2012-08-17T18:27:00.000-07:00

Upon that high hill, those hungry beasts eyed
me as they pondered my action, and
found it odd that I had stopped, sighed.

As they gazed, it was clear that their hunger grew,
to lure those into those northern woods,
and sacrifice those who enter to

Hoonbik, those unfortunate to be cast into Eurdition.
And though the furnished landscapes sat close,
one could waunder until eternity, and never see a setting sun.

I then sat half way, and pondered the lights behind
their maws. What would this all mean,
if, by chance, I were to make it through these times?

A fading wit, and a false moral compass? Perhaps so, but
what rewards would I have to reap, save for
servitude in the vestibule of the working class's gut?

Also unflattering, I thought as the creeping beasts which gaurded gates
Inched closer, testing the boundaries set forth and upon
the ground by the Elder Gods, whom cast out those whose filthy slate

was writ with narrow words and inpure ethics. It was these beasts
which roamed about letting out howls of injustice by the Elders
that had gone through Eurdition, and, at the very least

had become fixated with their reflections. It was this fixation that
caused their spewing of bile into the well that had granted
them power over the weak minds, which waundered, then sat

then pondered, then, in turn, wrote poisoned Poetry sank deep
in the heart of Gnosis. It was upon this quandary I found
myself to be lost halfway on this hill, while my thoughts seeped

into dread of becoming like those gnarled beasts, which crept up yonder.
And where I found myself weeping for a guide, a guide which never came.

My Dog

2012-08-05T23:18:00.003-07:00

10:30, my Curiosity peaked as my dog rolls over.
He stretches his arms out as the first picture (low resolution) comes in.
The initiation of colonizing red dust and barren straights,
as he puts his arms down.
Carlin could care less about future Martians,
as the second picture (high resolution) comes in,
the website crashes.

Together Now

2012-07-26T22:03:00.001-07:00

And then again, I find myself driving,
towards those old crossroads
while others race up behind me;
racing up to that red light.

Once I stop & think,
I look past that sign, and this,
only to find myself
wondering . . .
what lies beyond?

////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Turning right
means that I head home.

Alone, once more
with my cigarettes
and to see myself
in the mirror after a shower,

only
to
find
my
faults

and to find that
these colors truly don't run,
but mask themselves in what I call
self.

////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Turning left means taking a trip
down memory lane.

All my failed relationships
with girls I barely knew,
both physically and metaphorically.

All the times I cut a class,
to drink and use
and not think of myself as self,
nor in the moments
in which there
memories
lie.

////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Going straight,
almost from the first star
until morning.

Like so many times before,
I find this self to worry,
unlike the one that lays to the left.

////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Behind me is another car,
beside me, one turns off.
Of all the endless possibilities,
I still find myself parked,
and wondering . . .
what lays beyond that red light.

wed/thru off, pm 8.00 (continued)

2012-07-22T18:51:00.001-07:00

These were may days off. Two consecutive evenings spent on shift before being sent home due to it "being too slow." For the four hours I spent at work I made eight dollars in tips, hardly the kind of money needed to pay bills. The only upside to this situation was that it was slow, and it gave me time to think.

2012 was supposed to be "the future" filled with flying cars, at least according to The Jestsons and 1950s-60s science fiction. The future we got in place of the fantastic was basically a rerun of 1992. The US was pulling out of the east (it took ten years this time around), and the troops that were returning were greeted with almost the same level of civil unrest (although this time without the comfort of knowing they would receive health care or pension).

wed/thur off, pm 8.00

2012-07-21T20:44:00.002-07:00

1 L+P
2 p41
3

1 kid milk Px chz
no chives
2 L BP c
L Rbill Px chz c
no chives
Beef B+C just Px chz
no chives

w Beef B+C
coke L+P no chives PS no chives
x chz
Ict/w Fett c

Parrot Bay Pine
1 MR
coffee 12PR fries c
+shrimp
tea D.f+c B+B p
coke BPR p
DC S.San just MR p
salt

PS Chick Bufflo
MR f.min MR c Champ
1 C.Taco
p41
2 Phat w/c

1 ~~pint~~
Pitcher
2
3 W
4 W

8-Bit Memories

2012-07-03T20:16:00.001-07:00

My Famicom, replayed
Classic Concentration,
and other stories I remember
from a time unlike today.

Distilled Family Feuds
at some point in the 90s
still has an effect now,
and still they don't talk.

Thank God, I'm a child of
divorce, and pretty much
alone, save for the 3 steps
and 1 half.

I learned to use
my thumbs on my Famicom,
that are now squared from
my phone; a Galaxy ~~Gio~~ (well after Ford).

And still, I am pretty much
alone
with the internet,
and instant access.

But these thoughts,
they don't really connect,
unless I buy calling cards.

Back in 2010, my GM died,
while years before she
put away her black doll liquor, and also was
alone.

The one I own now requires cards.
Connecting better than my thoughts,
as it replays the late 80s,
and the instant networks assure me
I am less alone.

Seven Point Three

2012-07-01T09:58:00.001-07:00

Do you ever think

about the limited scope,

and self-certainty?

The way it follows

or flows in the wood's

white water

surrounded by mountains

higher than a collective knowing

and become uncertain?

The nature walk,

designed to "get away

form it all."

Where the mobile phone

ceases to work,

and all the apps (save for the camera)

cannot connect.

Most conversations

in this case, lack depth.

And once the walk is done

and heading back home,

and finally see the city lights

the realization

everything is natural,

and right where it belongs.

Lollipop Chainsaw

2012-06-27T12:28:00.000-07:00

Suda51 X-Box 360, Playstation 3

The zombie sub-genre of horror movies has finally reached the last leg of its ten year span, parody. In Suda51's latest release "Lollipop Chainsaw" the player takes control of Juliet Starling, a stereotypical cheerleader, all-American eighteen year old girl, who battles hordes of undead with her highly accessorized chainsaw.

The introduction provides a lot of background about Juliet, but also does a decent job of explaining certain items and characters that are featured in the game. Lollipops are used for health regeneration, while her boyfriend (at least in part) can be used as a secondary weapon. While most of the characters introduced provide Juliet various new main weapons, or power-ups.

The story (written and adapted by James Gunn) begins with Juliet rushing out of the house to meet her boyfriend Nick at school. On the way Juliet begins to encounter zombies. Once Juliet does meet up with Nick, he is bitten by a zombie and is decapitated by Juliet in a very Evil Dead 2-esque fashion. From this point on the storyline keeps getting stranger, and really is what makes "Lollipop Chainsaw" an enjoyable experience.

The gameplay seems to be a throw back to retro gaming, as most of the game's pattern is enter a room, kill all enemies, sometimes destroy debris, head to next area, rinse, repeat. This is good for story progression, as it means the player will not have to wait too long between plot points; however, it does severely limit exploration in the world. This is too bad since the levels all look like they were intended to be open and erxplorable, but for whatever reason were limited to a linear path.

One of the oddest differences between levels in "Lollipop Chainsaw" is the breakable items. While this may seem like an odd gripe, it still warrants a note. In the prologue, items that can be broken is very limited. Usually it is an obstructing item that is required to be destroyed, and yields no zombie medals (the games currency). In the High School level, almost everything is breakable, sometimes yielding zombie medals, and sometimes not. Yet, after the High School level, the breakable items are once more extremely limited.
Every level has mini-game portions, some of which are fun, and some that are annoying. The fun games range from running over zombies with a combine harvester to a few 8-bit styled games. Mini-games that are not so much fun usually include Nick.

The controls are easy enough to learn, although there are combo moves that can be purchased similar to those found in fighting games such as "Mortal Kombat," or "Street Fighter." One of the more humorous aspects of the combat system is the star power up. When the star power meter is activated "Hey Micky" begins to play for a brief period of time. "Lollipop Chainsaw" also has a feature called sparkle hunting. This is activated when three or more zombies are killed in a single strike.

Overall, this game is short, roughly four to seven hours depending on individual gaming level. While the game does have its flaws, it is a fairly entertaining experience, although at times "Lollipop Chainsaw" feels like it would have worked better in a film format. Definitely a game worth owning, but wait until the price drops as it has low replay value.

Part of Your World

2012-06-22T23:37:00.000-07:00

Only $1.99 per minute
(additional charges may apply),
must be 18 or older.

And most people don't read the terms
and/or conditions,
the fine print is always the same,
you're fucked one way or another.

Financially, or just physically
this is what happens,
and there is no happily ever-afters.

The 1-800 numbers now defunct,
for the stream-line, online,
while people meet their pictures
and meaningless words.

The disconnect in a city
of 80,000.
Walking around, texting
because it's faster
than talking.
Blame the technology
all you want,
but you're the one using.

Pay me in words, for the walking
while I drink my coffee
on a bench
well after you've gone.

And once more,
the connotations are implicit,
even in my dreams,
I am alone,
until next we meet.

Singing at the Bus Stop

2012-06-21T11:50:00.002-07:00

Recently I have found myself on a Disney musical kick. This is definitely a strange kick to be on since no one can really relate to wanting to live on land from the ocean floor, or knows what it's like to be a lion wandering somewhere in the African plains, but there are two reasons for this kick.

1. The reactions from people around you. Since most songs in Disney musicals are situational, it is extremely fun to find yourself in a similar situation that Disney would portray and belt out a song from the appropriate film. For the most part, these situations happen in public. Sure, there will be a lot of odd looks, but it's surprising how many people you can get to sing along with you.

2. They are catchy and get stuck in my head. Like any good pop song, Disney songs are designed to get stuck in your head and generally singing them out loud tends to get rid of them (at least for me it does).

Pacific-Mountain Time

2012-06-14T16:13:00.001-07:00

still behind the Metro,
we followed to Camelot.
"Great Rooms: Only Bar In Town."
And still I'm no further ahead.

In the Rockies,
a trail hiked 28 km.
Across that hanging bridge,
ones legs get cold in a kilt,
while building a fire
with the axe and wood provided.

It's not that I don't like nature, either,
but I like the rocks much better
than the view.

Surrounded by the high city walls,
in the winter are the mountains,
because the trails are closed
for the season. Besides, I like my car.

I can check in any time I please,
but I can never forget my computer,
or my phone.

In the Spring, I planned
and now that it is Summer,
I'm