Makin' T-shirts, makin' makin' t-shirts

(I have the bacon pancakes remix song stuck in my head, which has lent me a certain repetitive rhythm that is evident in my writing, in my, in my, in my writing).

I am back into making T-shirts again after a dry spell. My friend put this awesome thing together for me- it looks like an advert for Kerouacian t-shirts) 

Back to youtube/remixes, I have acquired another pointless skill aside from making t-shirts and that's being able to quite meticulously edit the audio from footage I take and put it together with other audio bits and pieces, basically like a big sound/voice/music jigsaw. Whether or not it has video accompaniment doesn't matter much but it's only really something that can be shared with a little movie to go with it if it's only silly. So, in praise of the clip I have of J and M talking vehemently about steaks, with such passion,, I decided to make a mix of music to show just how passionate they are about the tenderness of their meats). 

Don't wait.

The only warning I have to give is not to wait
until it's too late
to acknowledge what you have-
every fortune, every friend,
every summer afternoon-
because you never know
what is to come your way,
it's all transient and it will all end,
but not right now. You have today.
Just don't wait because too late has a habit
of coming too soon.

bitter sweet

There's a bittersweet taste to imagination when I think
about a conversation we might have
months ahead of now, when we've both had climbs and falls
(I'll probably have more the latter, overall)
and it will go along the lines that go like this-
I think about it sometimes / yeah, me too / I still have that book /
which book? / the one I borrowed / oh, yeah 
and I didn't throw away your toothbrush / me neither -
then maybe one of us will even say something along this line-
I won't forget the good times  
and the other of us will say the same and it won't be a lie -
I've met someone / me too / it was great seeing you /
definitely, we'll do something / yes, for sure -
but that might be a lie
and eventually the promise not to forget will break
as we grow up and grow different
and become people we never had any intention of becoming
but there will, maybe, be the rare nights,
the drunk nights or emotional nights or just nostalgic
we will remember with just the right amount
of bitter and sweet,
sadness and joy,
that we lit a spark, the kind that is rare
for a moment a while ago.

Two new little films- very different

To avoid boredom with the same old clips, put this new one together with an especially favourite long time-lapse shot of mine that lasted a lunchtime and goes in fast forward. And who doesn't love the Smiths? The second is the Poetry Project I've been working on now for over a year and has been going at snail's pace. Haven't been able to find many other willing readers (or those I have found have turned out to not be the most reliable- but I don't blame anyone but myself for the lethargy of this project. It's a hard thing to do, and not particularly inspiring as it sits, but will improve). 

Some new poems coming up later. Turns out there are some remedies to writer's block I hadn't considered. 

I was plucking at my eyelashes like they were petals

and snapping bones into uneven halves,

sharpened at the points where my fingers were crossed

only to look up 

and see a sky emptied of all stars.

All that wishful thinking (nothing but wishful, 

more superstition than cognition) 

grounded on 

absolutely

nothing. 

A video of a few great months at and around Union Wharf, a second home, cut up and pieced into a few minutes. Can't even begin to capture how much all this time has meant to me.

you'd better be sure if you're making god a liar

You look happy to meet me

Constellation consolations

We were talking about stars, or lack thereof,
above the city of illuminated streets where we walk
among satellites in a synthetic solar system that swallows us,
with lights burning so ferociously, competing to shine,
we are lucky to see two or three stars, looking up,
so you stand beneath streetlamps instead.

We were also talking about what you encounter
in life that is valuable. I told of my belief
that will not be shaken, even from the holdiing
of hands as unsteady as mine-
that beauty one is born with bears an absolute value of none.

He told me then that this may be so, but then again,
if I were to be correct in believing
that it is only effort, time, tenacity, trying or devotion
that can be deemed valuable, then what is it,
exactly, that the stars are doing?

Flaming orbs of burning gas and cosmic dust
but not for trying, not of their own volition.
Stars don't do a thing and if they had a finger
they would not lift it, so why, he said,
when you get the chance to see stars
beyond the closed-up city compartments,
beyond to those effortless constellations,
do you see something that bears no value
yet is so beautiful, it makes you ache?

It changed my thoughts- at least about stars-
so when the day comes for catching them as they begin to fall
perhaps the flame that falls like rain will not be worthless after all.

Poetry forms: the tritina

I've tried doing the standard sestina form but I didn't dislike it because it was difficult and long- it was long but that wasn't why I didn't like it. It was so repetitive that the words seem to lose their power or whatever relevance they would have had and the point of having those 6 words included in the repetition of the line's pattern seemed to be destroyed because it was like I would become habituated to heartng them, expecting them, and ending up not reading or listening to the poem at all but just counting off the number of skips on a broken record. I imagined that if I were to hear another writer's ssetina poem I would just be trying to predict how the words were going to be used next, if they were going to take on new meanings, and after all, once you know the words that are going to be repeated six times each, in a particular structure you're aware of, you can pretty much start guessing with good accuracy what the poem is going to say, where it's going to say it, which only leaves it open to wonder what the writer hoped to do with this pattern. And I couldn't hope to do anything while I was writing like someone with severe anterograde amnesia. So the tritina, which I found my my book Adventures in Poetic Form, was a wonderful surprise because it is also preictable but when read or listened to it's short enough to not leave time for trying to keep a step ahead,. The words are also only repeated in a 3 time pattern (not including the envoi) so there's not much risk of habituation. So I picked what seem to be some favourite topics/common theme or image in what I write i.e city, sleep, and teeth. Here goes. I included the tritna line pattern below in case anyone feels like trying it. I also felt ambitious as I got into it and ended up including a little inner rhyme. My first tritina attempt: 

Look for lullabies elsewhere. Too too blunt for berceuse, here, where. nothing beats at the heart of the city.
You know better than to look for comfort in the clang of hands that cradle you to sleep.
They curve like apostrophes, quotes of strangers talking in their sleep, crowds of skull-heads grinding teeth.

We are all just clinging on, it seems, whether we know it or not, and only by our teeth,
trying to save face but keep up with the pace, lying to say that it's not a pretending place, the city.
I choke on the great smoke but it's not for signals, only screens. Either get lost or lose it. I've lost sleep.

While I collected my lost mind back in scraps, I happened to misplace almost every trace of sleep.
Estranged at night, I stay awake with what I recognise- daylight chews into shadows with gold teeth,
Dawn and its bite are so pretty that I rarely notice night untiI I see daybreak shatter across the city.

I'm not afraid of the city. I'm afraid of sleep, afraid of believing what I may be hearing lying through my teeth.

When you find a new door to open,
you hear one being closed behind.
Perhaps it's a blessing in disguise, after all,
as they say, if out of sight, it's out of mind.

a few typewritten bits

10 Things I've Learnt Along The Way

A cheat sheet I'd give a kid if I had one to pass on a few meagre pearls of not-so-much-wisdom to.

I’ve grown into even bigger grown-up shoes
and haven’t been keeping score
but yesterday I’d just outgrown seventeen.
Now I’m headed for size twenty-four.

In a few odd months when the summer has caught up with
and been hauled right over us, think of me when you look out the window
to see it disappearing. That is what I want to be for you.
The summer that existed only where no one else could see it.

balance