a bunch of things

So occasionally I wander into new pet shops looking for cheap cat food, which seems to be a bit of an oxymoron. Yesterday while shopping for new winter boots (my right boot has a hole in it--is that supposed to happen?) I happened upon a new shop on Mont-Royal. I won't go into the awful smell that welcomed me when I walked in, I'll tell the tale of the neglected pet store another time when I have more strength for the heart-breaking. So, they had such a collection of birds; budgies all flittering about in such an array of colour, finches huddled up together (as they always do--likely frightened of my telescope eyes), round, and I'm not kidding, entirely round puffed up looking bright-yellow-as-the- day-is-sunny birds of which names I've now forgotten, some morning doves perched near the other and calm as buttons, a couple spunky cockatiels, couple a love birds, some other birds I'd never seen before, and a larger foreign bird intent on unfastening its door lock, poor thing. I stayed awhile, whistled my human bird talk, was entirely brushed off by bird society, less a couple budgies winking at me, and wishing I'd had a thousand dollars to scoop up all these birds and take them to some greenhouse somewhere and just let em loose....and just beneath all these little gifts from the sky, there was a sign in French that went something like this: "If your bird does not sing within 30 days, bring it back and we will exchange it for another bird of equal value". If only we put as much value on other life forms as we do us human ones, we would secure a lot more internal compassion. If I do not sing, will I be returned?

In other news, I carried a hair dryer under my arm yesterday and no one looked at me funny. Is that what happens in Montreal? Why, if I saw a hat on a foot, I'd sure look.

Story: taking a Greek mythology course and just finished reading parts of Prometheus Bound. Here's an interesting story that relates us humans to animals, in a way.

Prometheus had a brother, Epimetheus. Ep was given the task of handing out attributes to all the animals of the world, after Zeus and Prometheus had created all living things and sectioned them off in a zoo, for the time being. Ep, being none too bright, gave out all the attributes (sharp teeth, fur, speed, etc.) without thinking ahead and left humans with pretty much nothing. To fix this oversight, he asked his brother for some help; Prometheus decided to pity the humans and give them cunning and foresight, but they missed out on the extra body hair (thank the gods).

Don't forget to come to the reading on Sunday Oct. 30th. Coach House is gonna be there, Matrix folk too. And, myself.

I've taken up knitting. I think I'm knitting a blanket.

Answer me this

If a person (such as myself) provides poetry free of charge on, say, a Web site, do people appreciate it as much as if they'd have to pay for it and, as a trophy, place it upon their bookshelf...hmm?

Is a free poem like a free shirt; once given and worn, its value depreciates simply because it has no originating monetary value, or, perhaps because the shirt would not entirely be something you would have picked out anyway...

Is a free poem like a pesky handbill folks force on you as you leisurely stroll down sidewalks or accost you with as you enter big buildings?

Is it that our ability to choose is slowly morphing from the realized choice to the "advertised" choice, leaving a trail of confusion for us to determine if we even have any choice at all?

Or is a poem just a poem, just a poem. ?

Discuss.

mid-night

In the midst of writing 4 midterms, a fiction assignment and working on an essay this week, I also managed to write some kind of poem last night while stepping out of the library at closing time. I guess we humans are capable of a lot, or something.


mid-night

the Chinese girls
file out of the library
late tonight

they huddle close -- a word not squeezed
between them

smart, sure,
I don't have their talent for layering

sweater on sweater
cool length of skin

books sheltering the wind

Montreal Reading

Get yourself out to the Coach House Fall Book Launch in Montreal on October 30th, 8pm. Event will be held at the Green Room, 5390 St - Laurent.

I'll be reading a couple things, as well as the fancy folks listed right here on Jon Fiorentino's blog.

You should all come to this reading.

a stock of terms

time, you say      this, disparate motion
this boat we're on, for instance
a careful taper
    its patriot fell

it comes to me, your affectation for reproof
to nominalize the void (the word;
        we used to play that game)

this constant need for renaming things
part 1, divisions, part 2, meaning   (with, and lack

the city is shocked by you, Alcibiades
its winged messenger leads
to that water's edge, retreats
    how idle the bare of mother

hold back now
fathers turn to fathers
a purse divvied up amongst the bold
the prophet
or the poet

sown



**I've decided to enlist comments from those of you that read this blahhhhg. Does this poem "make sense"? What am I talking about? How does it make you feel (available alternations: violated, violented, venerated **n.b. only "v" words please; unless you subscribe to the free association school, in which case, where the hell's my newsletter?)? Come on, don't be shy.

a palm that is pink                             there is blood in it

a new month                                        transgression fills a cup

this round idea                                   nucleus of escapism

the apology                                         a pigeon rings a bell

small, decorative                              outré, resonant imaging

the aging                                              magnetic storm, maybe

Demeter's fool                                    a rounded back, to remind

a constellation, to rest upon       once bitten, a love

con                                                          gratulate

                   (confess