if what the brain might be called on to do <cr> if not <cr> subject, image, symbol <cr> that is all out one blistery day, busting a body against it: my my, it’s done Advertisements
Evg watched the midsummer sun through a bank of yellow-green fog that hovered over the ice, about a nautical mile out he guessed. It was almost midnight. It was warm. The onshore breeze picked up waves from the shimmering edge of the ice pack and splashed them onto the scaly gravel at his feet. Leathery leaves on a lone stick of willow trembled. Should he be naked? He decided not. Too film-school, too sixties. He still feels the tug of an art house audience hungry for abstraction and skin. It’s old skin now, he thinks, his mind rising to the surface it sees in mirrors. No no. Faded Levi’s, a white T and Converse, red ones, still a classic look.
When the prize-winning text was posted on the fence, it was intended for road-weary travellers to read as they motored east on highway five. Sentences, if there were more than one, ran the entire length of the upper meadow: ten-inch laser-printed helvetica in black, switching to orange near the end. The letters were meticulously cut […]
A herd of deer nibble my dream: a rustic cabin in the trees at the edge of a muskeg marsh. Six or seven of them stand all night in the rain, browsing the budding alders that stick up through patches of melting snow. Inside, under a tin roof, there’s a naked couple on a bed […]
What happens the day before is not important: a last breakfast, the fear of a bad outcome, drinking powder dissolved in a glass of water at ten o’clock and three, fear of no future, predictable whoosh, four or five times, of shit through the shit valve, echoes in Cancer Hall . . . well, you […]
Bonne fête à tous mes voisins québécois et québécoise. On this, our national holiday, emotions cascade like the rivers flowing over, around and under. In our canoe, paddles flashing in our hands, a beer balanced on a rib between our knees through the white water, it is easy to produce this one québécois man gushing, […]
Seventeen juncos hop around on gravel in front of the house, scratching and pecking at meltwater and debris. They have arrived on the warm tail of an April blizzard and waited politely for ground to appear. From the porch I watch their tiny pink-yellow beaks stab the stones, imagine what the needle-sharp claws on their […]