City Poem

A while ago I said to a friend of mine that when I travel to the city I feel like the city is a big jelly, or a jar of jam, or something like that, and I feel like a penny that got dropped in the jelly. Like I'm hanging there suspended in an environment where everything else seems to seamlessly fit. My friend advised me to consider if maybe I was actually a penny made of jelly. I liked that idea, and, in conclusion, who knows.


City Poem

Again with the tides,
To the place all things go,
To where we are bound,
Where those without have a home,
Where everything is one,
Whole incomplete mass,
And out of that jelly,
Churn infinite stats,
The source of all hope,
And its lack just the same,
Where the haves and have-nots,
Can't begin to refrain,
From comparing and contrasting
In their shared space;
Their gelatinous collective:
Their pride; their disgrace

End To A Means

Muffled but loud, past the door I hear words,
Not that I make them out, I hear the shape in the air,
Creative license  bestowed on the moment misinterpreted,
I can make sense of it. I was there.

I mean, there past a wall, pockets of air space divides,
Past rooms with windows, sealed shut from outside,
But even considering, that meagre tidbit of fact,
I saw their shape in my mind and my mind had to act.

I see what I heard and I know what I found,
Interpretation is mine, in my mind, that I mined,
For any loose change, any mineral rich ore,
I seek from the word shapes I see beyond the door.

But the everything I know is comparable to naught,
And the meaning I communicate is powerless and gaunt,
The you that I know is not the self you project,
The word shapes through spaces my mind can’t inflect.

Restless Mind

Restless mind, restless soul,

Restless body, restless hole,

At the sole of the basis

Of the that which makes me whole,

What’s a restless mind and body

S’posed to do about its soul?


And the next door hypothetical

Recipients of this meager

Self-writ note,

Are impervious to realizing

That I sit or that I

Tote, the utensils

That jot and illustrate

The that which I hath wrote,

For though they are my distant

Friends I lament

That they’re remote,

Or maybe I am I confess

As these words, escape my

Chest and now I sit

here late at night

without fear, and

without spite,

I just sit here restless, listlessly,
and remember fairly insistently,

The persistence of these

consistent misfit moments,

and contextualize all that

I certainly can’t despise

And so try to analogize,

Appropriate synechdoches

Attempting to adapt and

Feed on the spinning

World that is current and

Abounds and all I do

Is make wretched

 Sounds, for now it

Is quite late at night,

But I’ll match my neighbours,

And without spite! 

It Started In A Garden

It started in a garden,
I read it in a book,
The ink was pressed down soil,
The pages made of mulch.

An evacuated aroma,
The pungency of sound,
In the garden where things started,
To be permissed or disallowed.

And the flocks that would unravel,
Down uncharted consequence and time,
But let’s all remember gardens,
The stadium of life.

Janitorial microbes,
Dusting off apparent dust,
So clever and yet guiltless,
And deserving all our trust.

The unity perceived,
Feels so sacred and so whole,
One might feel inspired,
To take up a rural pen…

And share what feels as though
It could be delivered from above.

I yelled to my friend,
“What did you say?”
And he said something about God.

Contextual Evaporation

I was beginning to realize that syntax would do nothing for me if I couldn't seek out context to wrap everything around. Context was the most dying aspect of my life. Nothing mattered. Words came from everywhere with no purpose or direction, they passed me by in the wind. I wouldn't remember them because the moments were never significant. I was alone, losing my irrelevant memories for all their irrelevance but losing myself too. Wanting to remain, here, myself. Feeling myself get pushed along with the wind that refused me to couple my words with context. I could say anything to no effect. I could say everything for no reason. I wouldn't. I didn't. I did it less as hope vanished. I typed fervently to the none-audience. I stared at my hands angrily. I can`t relate to people, or vice versa maybe. I don’t want to. Or maybe vice versa. I want to see a Nissan Versa get smushed in a vice. Or vice versa. I want to be excited about life. I want to be appreciated, I guess.

I just watched a bunch of Tosh.0 on another Sunday morning of waking up to lonesome boredom and consideration. I don’t even think I like the show, except it makes me laugh sometimes. I don’t want to get onto my ethical high-horse but of course some of the jokes are too much. I laugh at a lot of them. The videos that get shared on the show observe some sort of twisted spectrum of human indecency. All seven of the deadly sins appear to be showcased by these grim wielders of technology (I analyze everything through the lens of the Old Testament so as to lead a life free of fire and brimstone). Everyone is shameless. Mr. Tosh's jokes are too quick for the laughs they provoke. I would hate to be in an audience laughing at stuff that I didn't get. I'm slow though anyway. The show is a celebration of the evaporation of context in a world that is becoming too busy for itself. It is a celebration of entropy I guess. Temporarily suspending my own critical voice while I observe these absurd spectacles, I wonder what good is it that I do so? I remember, I forget.  

Office.

Pop culture speaks,
Policy wreaks,
The status quo shall Starkly
sway,
new thoughts we`ll create today.
Old imagery will make new
moments
Interpreted by brave
opponents
Trying to see cause and
effect
To evoke change for more
than just a sec.
To be noticed here in this
empty place
By the empty ones who are
just like them
Who are just like me,
Anonymous scribe,
Boring myself to stay alive?
I`m so confused by what I
am,
And the future, and the
me it has then.
And I hope that in this one
example
My deftest fingers keys do
trample.
And leave imprinted in the doc,
The darkest copy, for the
one-man flock.

Indubitable, Undeniable- The Double Entendre

Which entendre was intended?

A blushing, blazing remark descended

Upon a room of cold stone faces

Allowing our speaker to demonstrate this

Uncanny notion from bewildered heart

That meaning arranged is unknown from the start

From intenders attendantly brandishing wit

To receivers with clasp`d hands who uncomfortably sit

Insistent intendants who are stuck on the merit

That lips utter stuff in an effort to be apparent

Coffee Shoppe

A random poem

With thoughts in mind,

A scrawny rhyme

To pass the time

My bag beside with

Books doth bound,

Suppressed within the

Bloodless hound,

The cavernous conquest,

The treachery unblemished,

The thoughts once

Accepted are now what we protest

And such is the

Course and against

Grains cut so fine,

A tawdry expression

To pass the time.

A Thought on a Tragedy

  Without entrenching myself too deeply in the context of what I am about to mention, I will begin by saying I was very disturbed the other day, and it took me very little effort to become so. I was drawn to click on a link from one news page to another, and was suddenly faced with the blank face of a 14-year-old-girl. This girl became pregnant I suppose around 9 months ago. She told no one, and apparently hid it from everyone including her parents whom she was living with during the past summer, in which it was hot outside. It was a year of significant drought.

  

  I'll be as brief as I can. This young girl went into labour on her own and gave birth to the baby in her bathroom. The baby was alive, and, terrified, I would imagine, she killed it.

  I've had this in my head for about a week now, and I am now reasoning with exactly why that is. It creates a picture in my mind that is pure sadness and I don't know how else to really explain it. In a way, it reminds me of a bit about Ernest Hemingway that I heard on the radio. Someone once challenged Hemingway to create a story using only six words, and so he said, `For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn.`

  The young girl who killed her baby reminded me of Hemingway's writing, because he often wrote delicately about terrible things. What isn't said is often what really stands out. With this tragedy, I wanted to keep it to myself and tell no one, because who am I to share such a story? I ended up telling my mom. I wanted to know what she thought. She cringed when I described the nature of the delivery, and I could tell that she really empathized with the young girl.

  `She must have been so scared,` said Mom.

  The story is so tragic that I can`t really think about it directly. Only backwards through a mirror upside down sort of thing will do. I glanced around and sighed. `I hate that I know this and I hate that I am fretting about it. It is just a horrible thought.`

  Mom said to me the inevitable when she detected fervour in my tone: `Why don`t you write something about it?`

  I responded: `Some things you just can`t write down, because they are not meant to be showcased.` Again I thought about Hemingway.

  `How about a poem?` she asked.

  

  I shrugged. To delve into a gruesome tragedy such as this and then attempt to wax poetic sounded utterly monstrous. I would not be entering this into the medium of poesy.

  `How about a poem from the baby's perspective?`

  I shuddered. That seemed even worse.

  `Maybe baby forgives mum.`

  And I began sobbing. Humans take care of each other. This girl felt so alone that she couldn't reveal her pregnancy to anyone. Maybe, somewhere out there, baby forgives mum. Maybe someday, she will forgive herself.

Heaven`s Garage (a short story)

  The can made a sudden, dinging clank sound, and Tristan jolted in surprise. `Jesus Christ!` he exclaimed gruffly.

  Unbeknownst to he, Jesus was up in heaven`s garage. It was extremely nice. The cloud cars hovered in place at the edge of the vast cavern. It was incredibly huge, matching in size the metropolis of New York. That is the size of heaven`s garage!

  Jesus, now long dead even after His brief, though exhilarating, resurrection, was just chillin` in heaven. There He was allowed to negotiate all of the powers of His immortal father, but He was very minute in His displays of superiority. That is, Jesus only dealt with one person at a time. He took His time, in life, and in death. He was compassionate. He suffered. He thought it no crime nor sin to prank living humans for eternity.

  Today, on this specific day, He was taking a specific turn at 11:14pm or so, Ontario time, just to mess with Tristan. How the Emanuelle guffawed when His mortal pal jumped two feet in the air and even exclaimed the Saviour`s name in vein to boot!

  His pals laughed with Him up in heaven`s garage.

  Matthew was there, eyes always on the global economy, always wondering why the world seemed to linger on the brink of depression whenever he thought it prudent to meddle with the affairs of humans. The once prominent tax collector had for instance attempted to induce a world-wide system of borrowing and debt over time, even though most associates of heaven are not allowed to contact Earth, only view it.

Paul would just sit there writing, just wondering what the Corinthians would say if they knew about what went on in heaven`s garage.

  Sure, Matthew may have been the worst, but Jesus`s pranks were just irrelevant most of the time, especially for a resurectee of such high regard. Lazarus in heaven, for instance, had made a name early for himself following his post-resurrection death; he was the one who chopped wood for the folks of heaven, so that the flames of eternity were constantly aglow. But a spilt glass of milk, a surprise step in manure, an unexpected ding from expanding air within a sealed container... Jesus lived his life to create moments of humourous shock, jolting His mortal flock and simply revelling in the results: He thought them hilarious. Meanwhile, Peter would just sit around and eat nachos.

  Ding! Jesus laughed again as Tristan moved uncomfortably in his chair. Tristan telepathically pictured the scene from his own place in Stouffville. He smiled.

  God had long ago relegated Christ to the garage of heaven, for He had seen what Jesus was doing to the people of Earth.

  `Like an irrelevant Candid Camera,` He once chuckled before eventually snarling at His son: `GET OUT OF MY HOUSE JESUS CHRIST! My refuge cannot be yours. Chill out in the garage for eternity. Eat whatever you want. There`s a futon out there, undeniably preferable to a cross.`

  Jesus looked indignantly at His dad. His sort of mortal life had been an iridescent speck upon the plain of Jerusalem. His tortures had been despicable; He wondered often Himself why the tortures had lasted so long. Why had He not died earlier, before the cross for instance? It was all bad, but Jesus had admitted to Himself immediately that the cross was the worst.

  He didn`t think it problematic to ignore the actual issues of the now gigantically populous planet upon which He had once existed, now transparent and ethereal, observing His various followers and descendants  with amusement and vague concern.

  God had long ago retired to heaven`s Living Room, Him alone in a room twice the size of the existent universe.

  The other hundreds that lived in heaven lived elsewhere on the estate. Christ and the Apostles usually chilled in the garage unless Peter shambled into the kitchen for more nachos. Once or twice, Doubting Thomas had slunk into the spacious Living Room just to see it for himself. The Old Fellow, not unaccustomed to violence, had immediately backhand slapped the intoxicated skeptic and said, `For Christ`s sake get out of My Living Room!` Thomas would always stunned-ly remove himself, shying away in a frenzy of disgrace and reserve.

***

  The can dinged again and Christ this time sneered, though Tristan had already written all of this down.

He was thankful that it had happened and considered himself a good fellow.  

Skyrim – The Tell-All Review

(Also, this review is more of a reception. 
And it doesn’t tell “all.” Just some)

      Talk about an adventure through the annals of videogame codology! (Codification is probably the more appropriate term here, but I am but a humble blogger, sire.)

      An enjoyer of a garbled array of single player and online multiplayer fantasy gameplay, I can safely say that it didn’t take me long to find myself immersed into a completely Earth-like yet fantastic universe. Skyrim provides a single player RPG experience with such a complexly-arranged value system that the entire game flows like fresh glacier water (side-stepping the very occasional glitch). Even the minutest advancements are painstakingly logged in order to absolutely guarantee an individual and unique experience for ever user, every play-through. It is flipping remarkable.

      I began the game by playing my own selection of music in the background, opting for Ænima by the band Tool instead of the game’s provided soundtrack. Other than making the load screens a little more epic, I certainly liked doing this because I felt that Tool’s overpowering rhythms highlighted the grand action and settings that make up Skyrim.

      So I thought I would start with music. Like a great deal of the folks that make up my age demographic, I would say that my musical taste, while at times quite specific, is not relegated to any specific style or genre. Ænima is my favourite album by Tool, a progressive metal band that began around the early nineties. It has a brilliant sense of humour, but one that is stuffed into an asphyxiated gothic dungeon while sharing intelligent aphorisms regarding evolution, Christ, or the apocalypse, just for example. Perfect! For me. It offered a thought-provoking and musically galvanizing (though unofficial) soundtrack to the game. And while this discussion has been designated to focus more on the game Skyrim than an album by Tool, I don’t believe the two to be mutually-exclusive entities. In fact, they actually compliment one another rather well!

      Does it feel like I made a bit of a left turn? Surprise. This is what I constantly found happening to me as I played Skyrim. As your character progresses, it becomes fairly difficult to focus on any one task as the environment is utterly enormous and completely peppered with quests that may be approached in any order.  I certainly believe that the joy of Skyrim is in the first-hand observation of so many fantastic details bashing into your cranium all at once, all so seamlessly.

      Surely a great deal of people have exchanged words about Skyrim online since its release last year, so I thought that this unconventional approach would be warranted. How many times can the smaller details of the game be addressed?

      When I did get around to listening to the provided soundtrack, I was not at all disappointed. Just like Skyrim’s complex gaming engine, the soundtrack is constantly morphing in order to enhance mood and realism. At times, it tunes right into the on-screen action, creating intense emotional crescendos for the player.

      The story is dense and thought-provoking as well. The interweaving maze of political drama and intrigue is designed to frequently catch the main character in decisive gaming moments that drastically alter the storyline depending on the route taken.

       I needn’t go on, other than to describe the feeling that strikes me when approaching a distant dragon, a moment that is prone to reoccur in Skyrim. From miles away the beast can be seen flying about, spewing flame and being a general terror to the region. Regardless of the music selected by the player (provided soundtrack or otherwise), this approach to battle is always a strategic and enjoyable challenge. It always feels important. The most amazing thing about Skyrim is its irresistible trait of forcing the game to be pertinent and immersive to the player.

      This marks the end of my report. Godspeed, fellow traveller, whatever path you might find yourself traversing! 

The Search and Journey

The search
from the roots,
through the vast fibrous stalks,
and wood that doesn't budge
unless you would have it

For truth,
is often a dark one.
The luckiest moments
evaporate out of the
skyward tips,

Reaching, ever reaching
for the correct contributive effort,
for the moment that
will inspire the next true poet.

Avoiding the rancid
rot that some
deciduous pillars
frequently fall to.

The journey continues,
Sun ever-beckoning.

21 Jump St. -REVIEW **1/2

I watched 21 Jump St. last night and immediately thought of re-naming it in some punned-out fashion. Ok, let’s go with 21 Chump St. for simplicity’s sake. It would sound appropriate. I’d assume people would agree. Channing Tatum is not very funny (I don’t even think he’s that good looking, though in one upside down shot, I had difficulty distinguishing his visage from that of Johnny Depp). On the other hand I think Jonah Hill is a try-too-hard with mixed results. His character’s most common go-to moves were a bombardment of contrived slap-stick moments, as well as moments of forced awkwardness that were hit/miss to be kind. That’s a bit of an outburst, especially considering that the film itself has done fairly well in the box office as well as received some decent reviews.

I am not very familiar with the original 21 Jump St. series, and I will admit that I still feel the same way, my internet browser cautiously teetering on the edge of imdb in order to round out my opinion a little. The new movie, despite picking up on the old “undercover cops in high school” theme of the original, is different in that it is completely insane! The pervasive drug imagery in the film is interesting (the main culprit drug in the film is referred to as H.F.S. and it comes in little zip-loc bags with a logo of dog poo that is sporting a halo). Thought-provoking, I think? The film mainly operates from expanding on a wide array of known stereotypes (all sorts of ‘em), so that they become EVEN MORE stereotypical and then from there ironically funny I suppose? But I am no undercover detective. That is but a guess.

So all of this said, 21 Jump St. did keep my interest. I watched it with some pals, and the theatre was packed and laughing frequently. The laugh-camps were oftentimes split, with some people laughing more at the gross-out or vulgar stuff. I found myself laughing mostly at the reckless ineptitude of the two protagonists (which I admit, they pulled off quite well at times). Some things were gross and not especially laugh-worthy. Like a guy getting his dick shot off provided me with more squeamishness than laughter. I know it’s a comedy but that kind of humour just isn’t my bag of breakfast sausages. Ice Cube's appearance is welcome, but I don't think he made as many waves as P. Diddy in Get Him To The Greek. Out of 4 stars- Heck.. 2 and ½ maybe. (Watchable with friends.)

Just a Thought; On Video Games, Mind You

Running on the spot- I thought we all agreed

that MC Hammer had perfected the art.

Hey blog. Pleasant tidings, etcetera. As your annals have thus proven, the sounds of my lens palace and green beetnik moniker of this page has played host to various ramblings of its sculptor (and I am using that term loosely, as I am not a sculptor of clays and molds and the like but rather of blistering syntax and scorching cadence not to mention an occasional bout of wordiness).

So, with that, here's an additional thought, just to tack on to the other thought-provoking mayhem I have strewn about willy-nilly. A while ago I got an Xbox. This post relates to that.

I've noticed that, for now at least, most of the Kinect games for Xbox are based on rather mundane situtations. As you may know, Kinect is the Microsoft version of motion-based gaming - console games in which the user's bodily movements are detected and one must wiggle around in a range of ways to play. It's difficult to describe the current selection of Kinect games without dozing off - i.e. go ahead and try this exciting running simulator, provided that you must run on the spot to play (*yawn*).

So, until that later date that may never happen, that is, when a series of partially better or at least more immersive games are made for the Kinect, I will simply get the most out of Assassin's Creed: Revelations by playing that action-packed and highly immersive game while standing. And sometimes I do lunges when assassinating NPCs. Take that Kinect!

*Note - I am currently waiting to see how Fable Kinect turns out (ETA Dec 2012)- I do have high hopes. Just nothing awe-inspiring yet - for me. And I like fiction/fantasy sorts of games. Not jogging on the spot, if I'm being honest.

Actors

We, the depictors,

of scenes read and writ,

with faces of angels,

we oft read and then sit,

Repertoire a-quiver,

an arrow to draw,

a target to pierce,

the audience heart,

Which soaks then in pathos,

O nectarous brine,

to doth insight bravos,

N the empathetic sigh,

But the pain of these I's,

is just that they are bound,

to live repetitions,

to regurgitate sound,

So oh what a shame,

for this once private few,

that garner attention,

just so we might know "who"

(..is richer than us presumably?)

An Old One, Influenced by a Song

So the people set up rooms,

that they set apart with walls,

and they organized their tombs,

in case they witnessed falls,

of the brothers and the sisters,

down the olden stone age stairs,

that were kept below the separate rooms,

and some thought it was fair.

The people who made the rooms and walls,

liked the shade of their own skin,

which they considered shadeless,

and they let few others in,

into the stain-glass hallways,

the dark unholy vaults,

to make outrageous far-fetched cries,

and point at others' faults.

The Envious Tirade

When I realized to myself

That textual reason

Could reflect textual treason

I was a tad thrown off,

And dispersed behind

My eyelids floated

Wriggling moths

That told me nothing

Except to persevere.

Upon the Edge

Upon the edge

of a night I

whisper, to a

page that is silent,

but for its own

silent shuffle,

crunch crunch,

rumble rumble,

the dust mites hear.

I'd hear it if

I quit the page,

scrunched and

bunched and punched

the page, filled

utmostly with

the type of sanity

I'd never have

suspected. Infected

projected and dissected

lyrics from a mind

that scrunched from

a page. Rhymes

from a coward,

whose tools had

been made eons ago,

by sunny sullen

madmen, archaic assassins

sent to kill any thought

they hated, but they didn't

realize then, they had

also made.

Bound

Here’s to the boundaries,

The separate by space,

To our friends, the villains,

Who are bound to their states,

Who must be futural,

Inescapable foes,

To bleed out certain progress,

Correct in the mind,

With opinions to bandy,

Preferences to exploit,

The needs of I

Cannot be

Within your boundary.

When I win, have

Won, have

Beaten you, the space

That you held,

Proud to do so,

In opposition of I,

Here is to boundaries.

They motivate us to be.

renovations

Ah, tremendous goodness. Without pen n scroll

near it’s ok I say, to the typer

I move, and here I am, so I have said.

my product shimmers before me and it always changes and it’s always not the same,

But by me, declared by I,

I give it up to the infinite typer in the sky,

Who doesn’t even look, not once,

@ me..

What does he or she or them not see?

The bulge of words, the salute to emptiness,

Aren’t I just

doing their work for them?

Aren’t I right? My right? Of my right to be a beast who fights?

For a better way! I’m trying to say…

Decay decay decay is all I can see

But I can’t not believe in things better in today

And yonder don days,

As Future to’s come to pass,

And we grow all stronger, from strength held fast,

Pardon me said the parson, on I go, rhyming again,

After the apology, stands there corrected,

With all due respect looks inside to see,

Nothing rhyming but odd bits of gristle,

Prickling any friends with any tender thistle,

Away with you parson! So tired I’ve grown.

Machines manufacture tiredness, soma efficiently defecates,

And it’s all broken, in a precisely pristine way,

With non-rhymes roll toward an in sight better today