Northern Ontario, August 2011
curiouscurious
Geof Kern
(Source: nevver)
Being a real writer isn’t about how much you write in a day or how many books you’ve published. It’s about how big your liver is.
meet my dad.
Your dad was into shooting shit before you were and he has the gunpowder residue on his hands to prove it. Nothing says “I’m going to tear some shit up” like a pistol fully loaded with anarchy and aimed at the heart of fun. But, that was back when a man could eat a bag of shrooms and wander off into the mountains for a night of rage fist terror tripping. The gun was a necessity for him, because without it, he couldn’t kill the illusions that chased him through the hills.
I’ll admit I’ve loved some things
deemed less than perfect.
On a patio, pinning flowers to a dress form
while the tide isn’t coming.
Or on a street corner, arms flapping,
with a few crumpled tissues
and a half-peeled orange
until my fingers and hands get blurry.
Nothing is indestructible.
Not the sky,
not the parking lot
it bathes in weird, fluorescent green.
Not that I’m complaining, really,
I’m sure there are a number of different heavens.
We just happened on the one
with corn whisky
and ice cream sandwiches
and christmas lights.
And just when we thought it didn’t get much better,
surprise, a tuba!
Please don’t try to kiss me.
It always takes something terrible to start listening.
In the river,
someone’s built rocks for us to hop across,
perfectly square rocks.
I’m having trouble
with end and beginning,
see, a contradiction is just two things
that don’t live well together.
Every light here has a halo
and it makes you different.
Jacques Derrida interviews Ornette Coleman…
JD: I am not an “Ornette Coleman expert,” but if I translate what you are doing into a domain that I know better, that of written language, the unique event that is produced only one time is nevertheless repeated in its very structure. Thus there is a repetition, in the work, that is intrinsic to the initial creation—that which compromises or complicates the concept of improvisation. Repetition is already in improvisation: thus when people want to trap you between improvisation and the pre-written, they are wrong.
OC: Repetition is as natural as the fact that the earth rotates.
From 6.00 to 6.45 A.M.
after a painting by Ross Bleckner
the moon coming down
how morning looks from a day’s wrong end
If I really died, you said,
I’m sure you’d find some brilliance in it
fingertips pressed to shut eyelids
I have the dreams, but I don’t make them
in this prologue to a trillion particles
we are shadowless as we imagined
peering toward a layer of universe behind the stars,
the breathing twilight just a backdrop,
a curtain to be lifted
