MESSAGIO GALORE take II: sound musings of jwcurry; accompanied by Max Middle and Jennifer Books

I made it to the Galore. And thankful that I did. (unfortunately drunk on one beer--yeesh--and a little too excited about the whole thing, but I did just come from a funeral and a day and night of wine, beer, tea, beer, tea, wine, and little sandwiches. You get the idea.)

I have one thing to say. Well, more really, but here's one thing. I think if anyone that can make the next spectacle chooses not to attend, you're a fool. And not in that Shakespearian sense. I mean rather Fool=Dumbass.

My attempt at a review:



re view par t wn

language is not a


review part two. at the dragontail.

a not is language

a is ton to no t a notisa a a aa a a
lang
u
age

review part, the other part

left side right side left side

break

left side left side right side

steak (stake, really)


part end

ladder smashing spreading speaking mouthful smashing mouthful naked crunchy yummy language
alpha, (-male?)
in
bits

two m's make a pair

blue and water
in the hair
.


(If you wanna "see" what you missed, an Ottawa photographer was there to manage all the recording of visual regards, with rather sharp and telling images at that: http://johnwmacdonald.com/blog/blog.html)

In Memoriam: Gerry Cullen 1932-2005

Rest in peace Mr. Cullen. You will be very sadly missed.

(I'll put a 10 spot at the hippo for you)

a card game
or a word
can keep you for an hour

here the ship is slipping
past the hour known to us

    horizon spent with red
    they say
take warning

a new youth appears, but
signs no new contract

you are left that way
     he kindly stopped for me
you are left that
way

because, he says
 because
it is late, or it is midnight
and the oil has run its distance
its length of cord
has hung
itself

poem

what city is this
what,
its definition

and why

do they always
break my

the pointing
  an observant
to err is

the passing is

maternal
embraceable, you'd think

when it's one
it takes
     it takes all

love, indelible
hairs
split with this wind

I live in a crooked house

Everything tilts and angles; changes daily. I need to prop my feet at one end of the tub to not slip into the drain. I am adrift in a mass of Montreal smell, touches of new air, the touch of strangers. It is wondrous.

I am exhausted. I'd forgotten how much I hated moving. Not to mention some trouble I had this time around: movers not showing up, moving truck w/flat tire and no tow truck large enough to repair the damn monster, and, with the truck delay, everything was pushed ahead one day, leaving two very frightened cats alone in an Ottawa apartment--frightened even more the next day by forcing tranquilizers down their poor little trembling throats. Pushed ahead a day, my old landlord shows up at the apartment and kicks me out, leaving me, the cats, and a pile of stuff I'd yet to clean up, out on the front porch. I will not be thanking him in ANY of my books.

I am Alice. In a strange new land. With lots of good beer, good wine. Great bread. I have yet to leave my little hovel of a neighbourhood. There is a great city awaiting. I am unpacking boxes. I am living in boxes. I have box cuts on my arms.

I will never move again.

I remain,