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
Monday, November 13, 2006
Monday, October 09, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
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.
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.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
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.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
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?
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?
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
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.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
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
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
Monday, August 28, 2006
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
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
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Sunday, March 19, 2006
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.”
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.”
Sunday, March 12, 2006
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.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
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?”
“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?”
Thursday, March 02, 2006
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.
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, 2006
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
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, 2006
Sunday, February 26
Infidel – a haiku
married twenty years;
fifteen other women knew
what only she should.
Saturday, February 25, 2006
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.
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.
School work is piling up, productivity is going down.
Stress is up, blog posts are down.
Wish me luck.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
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
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)