Back to School Sale

here's one I'm working on....

Back to School Sale

May is the girlfriend your mother described.
She’s the first one to read your screenplay.
She’s the wheat grass colonic your naturopath prescribed.
She’d motivate the Fall and score the Winter to Green Day.

June is the hometown quarterback hero.
He beat non-Hodgkin’s, and endorses hybrids.
He lends you a fiver, though you owe him a c-note.
He tips at the carwash and plays the lute for sick kids.

July is the wise and well-equipped neighbour.
He’s got extra insecticide and immaculate eavestroughs.
He tutored your kid when you couldn’t help her
and of course you can borrow his skill saw.

August is the neglected youngest child,
born to a guess-I’m-not-menopausal mother.
It ketchups the drapes and flushes your iPod.
It toasts the cat’s tail and scares off the plumber.

It’s a month-long procession of lengthening nights,
an unfun funeral march till Labour Day dies.

August is the most depressing month.
It’s crushed Oreos in your lunch bag.
soap bubbles in your snow cone.

Shortly after August freight hops into town,
July, almost a postcard, its festivals vistas,
is found drowned facedown in grape slushie.

June’s new bloomed exuberance is gone,
sweat-bleached into a swelter on field turf
and infields and grasses around statues.

May is the waitress you fantasize about
as August takes you from behind,
steam pooling on the locker room tiles.

August is a month-long vigil of lengthening nights
until mercury learns mercy and Labour Day dies.

***
I don't know what the ponit of the poem is, really... Where the speaker's animosity towards the month comes from. Maybe that's the point.
I think I was inspired by the ultra depressive feeling I used to get as a kid jsut before the school year started. But I don't think I kept that in mind while writing. Ah well.

September 30th, 2008 - Checking back in

I'd like to say this marks my return to regular use of this blog, but who knows? This blog has been a good tool for exposing mid-range drafts of poems. I think I'll keep doing that. And we'll leave it at that.
Here's one that way be a little past mid-range and into "done" territory.

Well if that don't beat all... not only does blogger (apparently) not support its handy dandy MS Word publishing tool, but cutting and pasting even makes it angry. Shoot! I had to paste to Notepad, then to the browser... If I don't find an easier way, this is going to work out!
Here's the poem. It's called...


January 2nd, 2008

2007 saw a lot of firsts for me.
My first time living alone in seven years.
My first misdemeanour D and D.
My first level 60 character in Worlds of Warcraft,
and second, third and fourth.
I learned that even pyramid schemes aren’t guaranteed
to make you back your $10,000 investment.
I learned that love isn’t really love
and a promise ain’t worth a pork rind
when something better comes along.
Especially when “anyone who changes his shirt daily”
pretty much qualifies as something better.
Yup, this year saw more ups and downs
than a trampoline competition for nudists.

So I know it’s not my style,
but I’m setting my New Year’s resolutions
almost as early as possible for 2008—
I hate not knowing what to moan about
through my tears as I ejaculate
into the warm embrace of a donor cup.

Resolutions are about clearly defining
how little I expect of myself.
They allow me to decide exactly what I want
to avoid thinking about when I’m alone this year.
They are about predetermining how much
of my gut I want to lose (a little, I guess),
how much money I want to put away (some),
what new things I want to try (or want to want to try),
and how I’ll make this world a little better.
(That is, minimize the damage I will do upon it.)
(That is, offset the damage I will inevitably do.)

I’m not saying I’ll cure heart disease or save the whales.
But I will try to save up my pocket change
and eat slightly fewer things in bar form
(unless Snickers go on sale two for a buck).
And I will experience fine European cuisine:
I will dine al fresco, order my homefries al dente,
my orange juice a la mode, and my bacon au gratin.

I’ll sign whatever petition some hippy accosts me with,
without even pausing to sneer at his poncho.
I’ll stop using the word “random” at inappropriate times:
“My random, heartfelt condolences.”
“Please don’t go. I’ll do any random little thing you want.”
I’ll stop being so lazy and procrastinatey;
I may not end up reading The Joy of Cooking,
or listing my old Bowflex on Craig’s list,
but, with Saint Cinnamon as my witness,
I’m gonna turn myself around in 2009.

And if that means changing my shirt everyday
just to meet someone else’s expectations of me—
even though it’s totally not dirty
because I haven’t even been outside
and these fudgicle stains were there
before I put in on, FYI, for your information…
Well, I’m pretty satisfied with myself already.

May 25, 2007

Instructions to reader: before reading the following poem, collect these words:

A noun: _____________________________________

An exclamation: _____________________________________

A verb, past tense: _____________________________________

An adverb: _____________________________________

Bouquet

I brought you a bouquet of butterflies,

smuggled fresh out of the Botanical Gardens.

I swallowed them all on the way over,

and tossed up a flying rainbow at your window.

I brought you a bouquet of paper placemats

folded into paper spitfires.

Paper hornets buzzed around the syrup on the wings.

I’ve never been a tidy eater.

I brought you a bouquet of snowballs

and delivered them romantically

through your window

on the third floor.

I brought you a bouquet of Mad-Libs,

that was tied up with ______{(a noun)}______

“______{(an exclamation)}______,” you shouted,

and I _____{(a verb, past tense)}___ ______{(an adverb)}_____ into the bushes.

I brought you a bouquet of Vaseline.

I figured you’ve jerked me around enough,

pitching woo outside your window,

that maybe you’d want some of that for yourself.

I brought you a bouquet of kielbasas,

and invited over some friends.

The steak knives and hibachi are mine though.

We’ll have to work together to make Sausage Fest a success.

I brought you a bouquet of photos

of you, artistically framed

through your third-storey window.

But you still won’t come down to say hi.

March 30, 2007 - 12 degrees

12°

Moana,it got warmer in Montreal today
and the sun came out and the snow melted
and the street salt turned to cinnamon
and the crooks all took helpful jobs
and the poets all settled their bar tabs
and the homeless all found condos on the Main
and the Habs won a game
and everyone got to see Arcade Fire live!
What happened on your street?

They turned on the fountain in Baldwin Park
and it gushed out extra bubbly Perrier indubitably
and rottweilers scooped up after themselves
and they rescinded all loitering and littering fines
and they sodded Greene Avenue for croquet
and Canada411 had you listed
and they filled all the potholes with gold
and my golden pothos turned to real gold!
Where are you?

All instant photo booths operated for free
and trains and flights were all half-off
and my Mountain Ash tree fell over
and the Rocky Mountains cracked to ashes
and the ashes sprouted banana trees
and the banana trees sprouted hammocks
and we peeled off from our sides of the country
and met up in the hammock grove
and curled up like quotations and talked.
And you missed it. Your bad.

January 23, 2k7

I am so awesome,
and you are so awesome
that I can get fired from a great gig
(try, dream job for a wanderlustful young performer;
try, bedrock and tether for the next eight months;
try, “I guess you’re good. But not good good”;
try, “Yeah— about that new kidney, Timmy…”)
and come straight home to write about you.

You’re as economically colourful as a French paperback cover,
as resonant and mysterious as the inside of an accordion.
Every time I look at you, I want to put my hands where my eyes are—
and if I said that to you, you’d know
that that means on you, not on my eyes.

Yeah, life is less than lucky,
and I’m feeling less than comfy
(try, squat broke at the lap of happy;
try, slow and going lower;
try, cramped and treading Jell-o).
I’ve whittled out a failure for my trophy case,
lacquered it up like no-turns-back,
hit the sauce—so liquored I’m pickled—
and you’re so awesome I’m page-dialling you.

Hot dog! you are lovely, over and over.
You speak Capslock to the lower cases of my soul,
Hot Jiffy-loo to my crankier quarters.
If I had three pancakes, I’d give you two—
then you’d cut one in two
and give me the bigger half.

Now, here’s the extra shiny awesome part:
I don’t even know who you are.
You’re a stranger from somewhere,
some Moana checking me up and down,
tossing me a look like live ammo.
I’ve never met you but, tag,
you’re gonna be it.

December 9, 2k6

Call me when you’re drunk

Call me when you’re mush-mouthed and nodding,
when you’re blink-eyed and bobbing.
I’ll take back our ugly sober words
and mix them up with grenadine.

Café Depot always scares me
since you chucked your chai at me
when I said that you look better
after you’ve had two or three.
That’s why I get a rain check
when you say  “Let’s get coffee!”

Hit me on my pager when the brew shakes get you major.
But call me when you’re drunk.

Call me when you’re lazy-eyed and smiling,
when you’re double-dosed and dopey.
I’ll fill the empties in your eyes
and drain them out again.

Last time we kicked it straight-edged,
you straight-up kicked my ass.
I said for all the gin in Georgia
that I wouldn’t take you back
cuz you’re punchy as a party
and my jaw is made of glass.

I’ll set my status to “away” when you’re hung-over the next day.
But you can call me when you’re drunk.

Call me when you’re plastered wall to wall,
swerving nicely northly in your pinkish Eighty-Eight.
I’ll yank you off your wagon
like a pervert in the park.

You won’t give up our good times
because some judge threatened strike three.
Once you’ve downed your whiskey-sodas
and some double G&T’s,
then you’ll be blitzed and awful
friendly to half pint little me.

Write to me the day you drop out of AA
then call me when you’re drunk.

November13

Howdy everyone. I have been writing some, just not posting so much. I oughta change the description of my blog up top, as I’ve kinda abandoned that project for the time being. Here’s one I’m stilling tinkering with.

txt msg luv poems

our lady of many voyages,
how were the rails?
i miss yr ringtone already.
come back yesterday

     *

the street fair is on.
st laurent is all tents and mangoes
ppl are out in 2s
and it s a good time to be in life.
i hve leftover chinese
but no1 to leave it over with.

     *

wanna blow up the border with me, leigh cheri?
we make luv like hyper psychic luau
u are my dynamite cherry pie
i luv u 2 bits
heart heart heart

     *

met up with j and joe
soccer was a no go
supper was yum, yo
miss u like gong shows
luv u like god knows
cant wait till we touch toes

     *

train is in my dreams of u.
it blows red smoke
and has big blue windows.
it gets in at 110
and has a rugby team of yous waiting for me.
c u at 111

October 9, 2006

Poem in which I meditate upon Benjamin Franklin’s views on the immortality of the soul and the basics of three ball juggling.

Learning to juggle has three basic levels.
First, throw one ball from one hand to the other.
Let it arch at a point just between your eyes.
This is not juggling, but rather
a preparation to juggle. Rest.

Next take a ball in each hand and toss one.
At the top of its arch, toss the other.
Catch, catch. Or drop, drop. Either way, it helps;
Like Ben’s epitaph: “the work will not be lost,
but appear once more, revised and corrected.”

Now, juggle juggle, juggle juggle.
Toss toss catch catch. Toss toss catch, drop. Breathe.
Before you pick it up, take this time to rest.
You may not remember how you got here,
and that’s fine. It’s not about remembering,
it’s about advancing to the next level.
Breathe. Don’t be afraid to release your breath,
it’ll come back to you – revised and corrected.

Now three: repeat step two, but just don’t stop.
If you find you can’t do well at this level
take some time to revise and correct.
You will return to your practise “refreshed”.
In time, with much practice and much rest,
you will master the art, and perform feats,
toss behind your back, catch blind, breathe freely,
and joyfully manipulate the matrix.

October 4, 2006

Paris Hilton, you’ve changed, baby.

Paris Hilton, you’ve changed, baby.
My Paris Hilton brought cupcakes to class on my birthday.
In the car to school when I dropped chocolate pudding
all over the seat, you told your driver that you did it,
that you broke the rules and that you were sorry.
This Paris Hilton gets arrested for driving her Saab drunk on one drink.

My Paris Hilton would be in a Jaguar, a Viper, or a Hummer.
She’d be in a doublewide Panzer with spinning rims
and a “Norris is my co-pilot” bumper sticker.
It’s not too late, Paris Hilton:
Take a Delorean and steal your old PowerWheels
from young Paris Hilton: “Young Paris, I’m grown-up Paris
and I’m taking your 4x4. You’re hot.
And remember: A true heiress is never mean to anyone—
except a girl who steals her boyfriend.”
This Paris Hilton leaves award shows with Jose Theodore,
an engaged, balding, hasbeen puck stopper.

My Paris Hilton wore pumps to play four square.
When I melted your She-ra doll you didn’t say a word.
You walked straight home and wouldn’t come out.
I had to break my Nerf slingshot
and all my He-Man toys while you watched
just to get you to play doctor again.
And I had to be the patient.
This Paris Hilton makes pedestrian porno at age 19.

My Paris Hilton said “Every woman should have four pets in her life:
a mink in her closet,
a jaguar in her garage,
a tiger in her bed,
and a jackass who pays for everything”
and you believed it.
This Paris Hilton calls herself the iconic blonde of the decade.
But my Paris really is.

My first theatre review

This is the first instalment in my new weekly theatre review column in a local newspaper: “Reluctant Reviews by Chuck Charmsson”

Honolulu Body Slam

     You all need to know something about me: my girlfriend likes the theatre. She sees a lot of plays. She brings me to them. I don’t want to see them. I don’t want to leave the house most of the time. Nevertheless, for whatever reason, she usually manages to drag me out. However, last Sunday I didn’t complain for a few reasons: 1) It was a circus show. 2) It was free. 3) The Simpsons was a repeat.
     So we trekked all the way up to the TOHU, the relatively new circus venue on the same sprawling Saint-Michel lot as Cirque du Soleil’s headquarters and The National Circus School. The show was called Honolulu Punch and it was presented for three performances only as a “work in progress” created by French director Nicolas Cantin and seven young circus artists. It was awesome.
     A Honolulu punch is not only a drink, the program book told me, but also a breathing exercise where you breathe in and out as fast as you can for fifteen minutes. When you’re done, you’re supposed to feel supremely calm. The exercise’s quality of intensity mixed with serenity seemed echoed in the show’s motifs of violence and childishness. At least, that’s what I thought; my girlfriend thought I was full of it.
     She said that the show didn’t hold together because there was no semblance of a narrative throughline. But it’s not a play, and doesn’t need a narrative. It lays claim to its territory very early on – a dark, brightly colored realm where childlike innocence, playfulness and cruelty manifest in absurd, brutal, hilarious, sometimes chilling ways. In effect, the show seems to posit that our original childlike state is not far removed from a state of combative aggression. The opening tableau sees one sleeping performer undressed to his bikini briefs by two others and then ordered by another with a bullhorn to don a grotesque pig mask and slam himself into a wall a half dozen times, which he does with alarming force. I wish that they had have explored the potential of this bullhorn thing more fully.
     In the world of Punch, everything is a weapon, including the performers’ various apparatus. This makes the pairing of disciplines particularly interesting, as in the case of Meaghan Wegg and Joseph Pinzon’s aerial hoop/dance trapeze duet/aerial joust that opened the show. Both that and the German wheel/bicycle battle that Kristina Dniprenko and Loïc Quensel pulled off are particularly fine examples of the intensity, playfulness grace, and very real danger that characterized the acts.
     Even nudity, as in the first tableau, and sexuality are weapons. One tableau sees Quensel and Wegg holding hands and sitting on the roof of the makeshift tiring house on set, like a old couple of twelve year olds not sure how to go from there to kissing. Suddenly, Wegg lays a barrage of sloppy, forceful, lipstick laden kisses on Quensel. A moment later he is dangling from the edge of the roof, with Wegg fiendishly trying to stomp on his fingers, relishing every moment of the intricate choreography of it. Ain’t that always the way it goes?
     All the performers are recent graduates of the National Circus School, which means they’ve been training vigorously for at least three years. This fact shows not only in their amazing skill, but in their equally tight bodies. I may have stressed this last point too heavily on the ride home. But at least I fell asleep on the couch faster than usual, if you catch me.

Someone is always watching.

An anonymous source just tipped me off: The Montreal Gazette meniotnned this here blog in its weekly Blogosphere feature sometime in September. Check it out.

Sept. 26 - Special Anniversary Edition!

Snot

When I was eight I flicked a booger at the ceiling in the shower.
I was too short to reach it
and it stayed there for a year.
I’m sure my family saw it
but no one cleaned it
because who wants someone else’s snot on their hands?

When I was a little older I did it again.
I was big enough to reach it this time,
but it stayed there for a year.
We even had a shower hose by then
but nobody sprayed it
because who wants someone else’s snot on their head?

When I got a little bit older I picked you one night.
I was pretty tall by this point
but I knew you were still out of my reach
so I was pretty sure you’d stick around for at least a year.
But you never invited me back
because who wants someone else’s snot all over their bathroom?

Foreign words in an English poem? Impossible!

Little Crocked and Goners

Pouca coração, palm frond pootie-pie,
Petite déesse, pass the ouzo on the left hand side.
Wenig schatzkasten, we are squeezed from the same tube,
Poca ragazza, can we be caulked on the same tile, please?

Pouca excitador, rolling yourself in cinnamon hearts,
Petite prière, in the midnight hour I can feel your power.
Wenig bär tit, don’t be afraid that I love you,
Poca ballerina, because nothing last for long.

Pouca bacalhau, you candy pantied come-get-me-not
Petite baladeur, you’re on a Mexican bathroom wall.
Wenig strudelgesicht, I should have known you’d never miss me,
Poca mangiatore della spada, since I never went away.

Pouca saco botões, you human helium gong show,
Petite poulin du coq, hang up on me one more time,
Wenig schuhorn, once is never enough.
Poca cuore rasoio, you can keep your ‘call you later’s!

Pouca shelfedorra, whistling jazz ballet Jezebel,
Petite smurfette, I never liked the Harlem Globetrotters theme.
Wenig trampenslüt, if I had a snickers for every dude you’ve rimmed
Poca urizesouta, I’d be your mom.

An open letter to the Montreal transit authority, the STM

STM – Department of Promotions and Policies
Dear STM,
As you know, our planet is facing devastation from the harmful effects of greenhouse gasses produced primarily by the burning of fossil fuels. I believe the mandate of the Societé de Transport de Montreal to be more important than ever.
And so, after reading about your most recent budgetary shortfall, I’ve spent the last two days in a self-imposed, pornography-based isolation, considering how to better promote use of public transit. The following is the by far the best idea that I – or anyone else—have come up with:
I propose introducing what I like to call “The Titty Pass”. By buying this monthly pass at a greatly reduced rate (say, free), women are entitled to unlimited use of all bus and metro lines, provided that they display their breasts to the bus driver upon entering the vehicle. When entering the metro, Titty Pass holders must smear their bare breasts against the glass of the metro booth to be admitted.
I believe that this would attract not only many more buxom passengers, but boob-loving passengers of all types. The STM would almost certainly be inundated with job applications from McGill fraternities.
I encourage you to think of the probable socioeconomic ramifications of this promotion: A trend of “Titty bartering” would almost certainly develop, leading to full-blown “Titty Economy” and a gradual shifting from gold-based currency to “Titty-based Currency”. I encourage you to imagine the tourist attraction that Fort Knox (thereafter known as Fort Knockers) will become.
Furthermore, this one simple change in policy will cement Montreal’s reputation as the Titty Capital of the North America, and potentially the world or universe.
In summation, our planet is in too perilous a condition to waste time second guessing progressive policy proposals while buxom beauties buy Hummer upon Hummer. It’s time for action; it’s time for titties.
Yours, with all my heart,
Chris Masson

Gettin back on the hobby horse

Tomorrow I will write a poem.

Late night haiku

lady doll’s gone gone
minor keyed playlists shuffle,
looped for good measure

Late summer haiku

sneakers superglued
“Paradise Lost” sits unread
cupboards left open

Pop Culture spits up on itself again!

Mr. Hogan, you are an inspiration to us all.

March 19

Cécile

My grandmother is in a nursing home in Alexandria, dying,
and I’m moving boxes from a Home Depot van
into a spa in St. Henri
with a guy named Mike.

“Are you alright?” Mike asks.
“My grip is slipping on the love seat,” I say
and Mike offers me some work gloves.
“I’m alright,” I tell him.

“All they can do is make her comfortable”
my mom’s email said,
“The doctor says she lost her will to live.
I think she had lost that already.”

A mattress falls over into the mud
and Mike tries to clean it.
“Just move it inside,” I tell him,
“We’ll put other stuff in front of it.”

March 12

WGM – 1912-2004

My grandfather said he was part native.
He said that indians sometimes came to his house in the middle of the night
and “ate twelve cooked eggs in a shot”, he said,
then did a rain dance with him and went back to the bush.

My grandfather grew up mick poor
in Shawville with nine brothers and a sister.
They would bathe in an inch of bathwater
that was negro black by the fifth person.

My grandfather knew kids, he said,
who played with gasoline and firecrackers
and snowblowers he said
and now they are all disfigured and withered.

My grandfather flew bombers out of Malta
and said he caught malaria, but flew anyway.
He held the record for most missions flown by a quebecer
and said he was a pilot, not  a navigator.

My grandfather started rollerblading in ‘91
with a yellow hardhat and moving gloves on.
He, keg chested, wouldn’t say where he fell
but limped on a swollen blue ankle till ’99.

My grandfather died in 2004, thinking it was 1968,
and said Trudeau was prime minister.
He died of a virus they still can’t name,
his storied pride disfigured and  pilot’s chest withered.

March 5 - a sonnet

How to Make Moana Mine

“Twist!” and I’ll shake and you`ll sing just for kicks
Dabslash and glidepunch. Light strong, free and bound.
Roll with the steps if you can`t press the flicks.
Float with more quick if you’re wringing the ground.

“Croak!” and you’ll harken and bend at the hips.
Check out my secret and slip me some jive.
Make a frog happy to kiss on the lips.
Carve up my pumpkin and Prince up my ride.

Put on a show, I’m your number one fan;
Hang up the puppet and string me along;
“Baby, I love you!” “You isn`t my man!”
“Get off the stage” gongs the gong of your gong.

Or I could say  “Moana – buy you a drink?
I think you`re neato. Now what do you think?”

March 2, 2006

Filthy Hippy Haiku Suite

Tattooed hippy punkgot a hole in his Converse.Needs new shoes, looks sad.
(
Organic hippydemanding fair trade coffee,reeking of compost.
(
Asian hippy broad,burps while shoveling, pauses,kicks snow from her boot.
(
A Plateau hippy
eats sourdough ciabatta,
extra alfalfa.
(
East End busrider
gets up, won’t sit next to a
filthy dreadlocked hip.
(
Smoke-free hippy dive:
freeloading jerks bead bracelets,
share orgy stories.