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.

Monday, February 27

(found poem)

i wish i had money and a car and drove around till morning and come back and still not sleep, and sleep wouldn't be a need but a past time nonly when desired

Sunday, February 26

Infidel – a haiku
married twenty years;
fifteen other women knew
what only she should.

Saturday, February 25

In the Pits

I touched my armpit
and said “What a strange place for there to be hair.
And yet, there it is.
Is that why you’re taking apart my Chevy?”

“Shut up” the customs agent said.

Random poet's lament

Paris Hilton,
you’ve changed, baby.

Update!

So, I had another computer crash. I’m now working on a glorious P3 with French software. If you’d like to donate to my “Buy a poet a laptop” fund, just let me know.
School work is piling up, productivity is going down.
Stress is up, blog posts are down.
Wish me luck.

Sunday, February 5, 2006

it's a nursery rhyme. it's called:


sweet dreams, Sarah Goodnight

locked out of your rocketship
you’ll finally make it home.

float back from your pocket trip
with tearsongs on the phone.

distance gives a happycone
and makes them wash away.

eightball rubric’s wishingstone,
see? everything’s okay

Saturday, February 3, 2006

So, January started off pretty good on the daily posting scale with like, what, 12 consecutive posts? Then my hard drive crashed. As soon as I got set up on another computer, that hard drive crashed. Oi. So I finally bit the bullet and bought a brand new one. Ugh. At least January ended up being better than December. But I'm back now. We'll see how February goes. Here's a new one, in progress:

Second Thoughts

I guess it’s the little things that signal
that it never could have worked:
I like crunchy peanut butter,
and she likes bulimia.
I like Swiss cheese,
and she likes breaking lamps.
I like getting up early,
and she hears voices.

I guess I buy all that,
although I thought we’d work well:
She was interested in me,
and I love talking about myself.
She loved drinking too much wine
and I love scoring.
She kept seashells on her headboard
and I’m not afraid of drowning.
She loved mythology
and I love being left alone.
She likes staying in,
and I’m unhealthily jealous.
She had a webcam,
and I like having low-res titties on my desktop.

Random poet's insult

If I had a Snickers for every phrase I coined,
I'd be your mom.

Wednesday, February 1

This poem is a villanelle composed of haikus. Ain't I clever?

The Suck

Drink the bitter stuff.
Down it till you’re feeling cool,
Curl up with the suck

Rifle through the cup
Damn the dead bad drops of blues;
Drink the bitter stuff

Losing her, sho’nuff;
Your baby’s bending the truth.
Curl up with the suck

Lock the gear in stuck.
You’re gonna crash, prob’ly soon;
Drink the bitter stuff

Luck tank’s leaking luck,
Let it leak, it’s good for you.
Curl up with the suck.

Hit a patch of rough?
Only one thing gets you through:
Drink the bitter stuff,
Curl up with the suck.

Thursday, January 12

Looks like I’m starting a hippy haiku trend. Hope I’m not being too conservative.

sad hippy punk haiku

tattoo hippy punk
got a hole in his Converse
needs new shoes, looks sad

bonus poem, for Car

a haiku

Organic hippie
Searching for “fair trade” coffee
reeking of compost.

Tuesday, January 10

a haiku

Southeast Asian man,
burps while shoveling, pauses,
kicks snow from his boot.

Monday, January 9

when I think of kissing you
(loops and daisies tumbling)
puckered lips are latches
(ribbon, sparks and candy)
that open mouths like doors.

holding our breath’s writing a contract
(sissy whimpers all pussed out)
and we can see through curtained windows
(blastoff moonbeams in between)
how our tongues are shaking hands..

Sunday, January 8

(some rhyming couplets about monkeys)

The pygmy marmoset is the smallest living monkey,
so it uses its suprapubic scent glands to mark its territory.

Saddle-backed tamarins birth twins each an eighth of the mother’s size
and practice polyandry – that’s many husbands, not many wives.

Cotton-top tamarins use their genitals to resolve all conflicts:
instead of fighting with their muscles, they show off their dicks.

Friday, January 6

a haiku

tires spin on my street.
my world has gotten too small.
medivac me out.

Thursday, January 5

Winter Sky – a haiku

cold city night sky:
a dark bright shade of orange
that’s unpaintable

Wednesday, January 4

Bio-Dome

There are two calimico monkeys that live at the Bio-Dome.
I named one Jabari and one Al (short for Alice).
They have furry little black faces and bodies and
cute little pink tongues you can see when they eat.
The plaque outside their little enclosure says
they eat fruits, insects and small vertebrates
and shows where in the world they are from:
just one little red area in Ecuador.
Both of them can jump three to four metres standing
but Al can jump farther than Jabari, I’ve decided.
When I saw them Jabari was in the high branches,
rubbing his scent on a tree trunk, as usual,
and Al was on a tree stump with apple slices,
pretending not to notice me and the busloads of Koreans.
Calimicos are excellent communicators
and I think Al and Jabari are friends.
Not the kind of friends that you’d really do things
like play paintball or paint pottery with;
more like the kind whom you call your best friend
even though you only ever see them
when you’re each with your boyfriend or girlfriend
at the occasional get together of your circle of friends,
and you’d never call to say what’s up—
unless you want to call up some old memories
of participating in an extreme sport
or doing some creative but practically useful activity together—
because you’ve known each other for so long
that you can’t really be original with them anymore.
Jabari and Al are those kinds of friends.
Only they also live together, groom each other,
eat only fruits, insects, and small vertebrates,
can leap three to four metres from standing,
are dispossessed from their little red homeland,
were never secretly in love with each other
but were too young and afraid to admit it, and
have furry little black faces with cute little pink tongues.

Tuesday, January 3

On the corner of Fullum and Marie-Anne
today at three o’clock
there will be an earthquake.

Because she didn’t opt for the winter tire package,
Louise Therrien’s new Kia will skid on the ice
that has accumulated at the crosswalk on Fullum at Marie-Anne,

right beside Baldwin park
where Eric Maisoneuve was pulling his infant son David
on his new, his first, CCM toboggan this afternoon.

Today at three o’clock
on the corner of Fullum and Marie-Anne
Louise and Eric’s worlds will collide and shake.

Monday, January 2

a haiku

someday you’ll find me
a saffron monk in a square
put plums in my bowl

New Year's bonus poem

First of January

I have not put one foot outside of my apartment today.
Not even opened the door.

There’s a first of January for you.
Give me 31 days and I’ll give you a first of February too.

Sunday, January 1

Bonne Année, hein?

comin home aloneshokay
when yer wishin happy new year
bonne annee
to everyone along the way

« bonne année mon ami!
eh, j’ai des chips ici -- veut-tu des chips?
ils sont barbecues.
tiens.
de rien, mon homme. ciao.bonne année! »