Good Day

Jason Christie, currently of Calgary, Alberta, ruminates on world and personal issues in the following poetre-mail transmission.

---

Good Day

When I woke up today. The phone rang. My friend said you can't use the word punctilious in a poem. It has most certainly been tity-one mondays since we last discussed Stompin' Tom Connors. That it was the phone when it rang. What I've been trying to say. Is that you can't use the word poem in a poem. Anymore, or over the phone early in tehe morning; that certain prisoners of war are or once were our friends, bastards, themselves outshined by the sun, even the sun that now shines through my bedroom window, past the little bonsai leaves and rubber alligator, over the blue sheets, the dark bluee sheets, the dark blue sheets which you have pulled up over your head and it is at least seven am.
Punctilious.

Good Day

Our hands were so tired from changing the lightbulbs that we saw above all those people's heads. Donald Rumsfield won't even be a name we'll recognize in an hundred years. Not even Americans. With their eye flashes. It happened when you threw the lard into the frying pan, the third degree burns all up and down my arms. And that makes my hands tired too, I guess.

Good Day

Today it ruins. You've got 48 hrs without Nolte and Murphy. Black droplets; tears rend the sky into what appears to be a beach replete with driftwood. Our hour.

Good Day

Once is has passed upon a time, cloaked Wagner, quick institute bellows our youngsters, gifted or otherwise accidental. No one was badly hurt. Control blasts across the room and the weather chinooks it should be said. Beasts rifle the pages and further the blue on blue aphasia. How come your legs work. Against understanding in such plain talk as this. Rooms move past confederate Canadians, evolution beyond mourning: one against many should reveal itself as a Bruce Willis sort of construct and therefore false; a storm out of nowhere, see how semi-colons work, that is, a reading...

Good Day

Spin it clicks awake, and the blue as in sheets, rewind, that it said humble returns, eternally yours, and the kerning got all fucked up so fast between us. The US and the rest. That's them's the breaks I guess. This windows platform expertise makes lines break, little green hashes advance up the column till they drive from dark green, evergreen, central intelligence to red, bright red, with a little element to heat it all up from the center, between the screens, those blue screens. A several thing. Multifold. Many are folded into a discussion of kitchen sinks and their relationship to poetry, the porcelain wasn't always nontoxic. Who doesn't have a problematic relationship to such an overwhelming colonizing force? The english language? What we do is squat, rent some ideas, turn the sound down, enliven. The green movement against the whalers. Interviews would suggest that even the grass is fed up with growth because of the latent incorporations of so many natural metaphors by business. Add vert i sing. The fundamentals changed teams. Damn carpet pulled itself out from under my feet. To sleep at some point later. Find William Carlos Williams' Pictures from Cavanaugh under my pillow since my girlfriend has a group project on his poem the fall of Mike Harris. It goes unnoticed. Bellows in the annals of history. While the market seems to be on an upward swing. Technologies on the front lines aching for just a few more feet of desert. In advance.

Good Day

Mannerists matter mostly to muttering mothers on mondays. My mother. It was around this time that her mother died from complications that arose during some 'minor' surgery. My grandmother. Chrome graves risen, stand the blades of grass above the stiff; caught in the wind that also moves the elm's leaves far above. Scarborough to Capitol Hill. A granite key scrapes between the lines on my front door for you to let yourself in, and in hindsight you made breakfast before I even got out of bed around noon. That sentence is dead. Money is information. Water doesn't have a wallet. Or a shed. Something like language. You said be patient and I probably muttered something like I will if you are the doctor. If I could go back, I'd make breakfast before you got to my place, and I'd also most likely not say that thing about you being a doctor. It is all economics at our feet, the rubble of war over the airwaves, where I discover even you have succumbed to the dynamics of pressure, water wears down, erodes, new lines of slight, it builds on all of our shoulders, that snow as if flakes to the ground again, through the goddamned streetlight that slipped itself right into the poem by virtue, by virtue of it having no idea about the war, or about this poem, or about the fact it is unnatural; a mockery even of the UN in all of its patience. Standing tall out of the clouds, those clouds that roll across the ocean, charging steeds, steelheads billows sails out front over the wild drops, deep wells between the waves, deep wells somewhere and then gone. Gone just as fast between the ebb and flow of what my mother said the other day about leaving her husband; the graveyard is the brightest landmark back home, in Milton. Then there's this wind again. You find the key between the lines at my front door, let yourself in, and to my belated surprise make blueberry pancakes, some coffee, wake me softly out of a deep sleep asking whether or not I slept well through the night, through the storms.

Good Day

I watched television at work today and wanted to scream at CNN and BBC world news that they were capitalizing on the suffering of millions. But then, why is this poem any different?

Posted by a.rawlings at March 29, 2003 02:55 AM