a good response to anything

just look who ever you're talking to right in the eye and wag your pointer finger. works best when accompanied with a screwed up face that just screams 'you're a piece of shit.'

who even cares right?

i went out yesterday morning to get some breakfast. and on the corner of rose de lima and notre dame there was a group of dirty, greasy looking old homeless men causing a ruckus, really ripping it up. i was certain walking passed that they'd be sharing a few 40oz's of labatt blue dry, which is the regular fuel these poor old bottom feeders ingest for the fire they were burning.

but man, they weren't drinking. they were all huddled around a white haired guy with thick looking skin, the kind repeatedly burned by wind and sun. he was getting a shave from one of his buddies. he was laughing and giggling, he couldn't sit still. so the guy shaving him had to keep going over and over the mans merry cheeks.

the four or five bums around him were all smiling, standing around in their stained old winter coats. even the guy with the tear drop tattoo and the torn do rag who always looks like he's thinking about killing every one walking by. the fucker was smiling like there wasn't a care in the world.

i looked away, looked at other people going by. all these fuckers in nice sweaters and warm, stylish jackets had their faces all screwed up. i guess they don't see how good it is to be awake and alive and going to restaurants to pay some one to feed you like a member of the royal class. instead they take their time to look down the length of their noses on men who shave on a park bench with out the help of running water.

the photographers

"That’s what it's supposed to do," he says.

"It's supposed to make me want to give up?" she says.

"Yep," he says

"But why? That doesn't make sense," she says.

"Sure it does. It keeps you pacified," he says, "you don't want to do anything with yourself. And neither do I"

"I want to do things. I want to go places and see things and take wonderful photographs and feel things," she says, "you want to do things. You write."

"Ok, we want to do things, but we don’t," he says.

"You're right," she says, "we just sit around and do the same things days after day after day. It's sickening."

"I want to write, and you want to take photos, and we both want to see and do and feel things, but by the time five o'clock rolls around we're beat. The couch calls out and usually gets an answer," he says.

"I never thought it was going to turn out this way. Why didn't our parents warn us?" she says.

"So we could stay children for as long as possible," he says, "hey, look at these two assholes."

Walking along the train tracks are two guys with big flashy cameras. One has curly brown hair like a poodle. Its frizziness is noticeable from the distance. The other is just a normal guy. You see him all the time.

"How come they're assholes?" she says.

"I'm a fucking fashion shoot," he says.

"I don't think it's a fashion shoot," she says.

"Yeah, you're probably right. I thought I saw the one guy taking his shirt off and posing out. But I think I was wrong," he says.

"I didn't see that," she says.

"It was before I pointed them out," he says.

"If you saw that how come you didn't tell me," she says.

"I wanted to keep it all to myself. I'm selfish like that," he says.

"You admitted it," she says.

She points her pointer finger in his face and laughs.

He tires to bite her finger off.

They both laugh.

One of the photographers points his big flashy camera in the direction of the man and woman. The man shoots him the finger.

"Those fuckers are taking our picture," he says.

"They should've asked," she says," I always ask."

"It's the right thing to do," he says.

The photographer with the poodle hair doesn't like that the man is giving him the finger. He affects the 'what the fuck buddy' posture of arms at either side, palms out slightly raised away from the body.

"What's that guy's problem," she says.

"I don't think he likes it that I am giving him the finger," he says.

"Oh, I didn't notice. Yeah, he probably doesn't like that…why are you doing that?" she says.

"I don't like that he's taking our photo," he says.

"He's probably some ass-wipe art student and is loving this," she says.

"Probably. I'm going to be in some third rate Concordia art show with the caption 'still life with angst and alcohol' underneath," he says.

The man and woman laugh. Clink their bottles together and smile.

This is love.

so what can you do but have another drink

the thing about not being able to sleep is that you're so close to all the blackness but the void refuses to take you in.

rejection from a necessary component of keeping it together.

sometimes smiles come easy

best overheard conversation of the night

girl: (unintelligible muttering)

other girl: yeeeeeeeaaaaaahhhhhh!

guy: (cough)

girl: we need to get some beer…yeah…more beer (franticly points towards a depanneur owned by a couple who always give me dirty looks when i come in to buy beer)

other girl: (excited murmurings)

guy: (cough)

girl: and we need to get some fuckin' mdma from the laundromat

guy: (coughs, fakely, really really loud in an attempt to mask the mention of mdma)

me: (to myself) i wonder what laundromat they use?

for when you find all of it so fucking useless.

when i think about being a little baby in the arms of the friends and families of my parents i think about them looking down at this little ball of squealing flesh and shit and tears and they probably had all these lofty hopes for what i would grow into, like a safe and comfortable factory worker or maybe an accountant? but i doubt that as their eyes welled up with joyous tears they ever imagined i'd be drinking expired bottles of beer i found in some boxes on the side of a semi deserted street on a monday afternoon.

taking it easy and having it taken out on you

an older couple walked up and sat next to me this morning while i was sitting in the park watching people hurry off to work.
the man had a furry little beard that made him look comical, like a stuffed animal version of an old man. he even had the little hat.
his wife wore a yellow spring jacket and some blue jeans. i didn't really pay them much attention.
but then all of a sudden i felt some one else's voice was trying to come up out of my throat. i could feel the air being pushed out, i started to panic and choke a little bit.
i looked around with wide panicked eyes because i thought i needed some help. but i saw the old woman and could see that it was her talking and not me at all.
i just felt her voice in my throat and it tried to kill me. they got up and hurried along. i thought about the neighbours in Rosemary's Baby.

all you need is love

so this is the life of an adult

looking through my books so i can find some that i'm sure i'll never  read again in a pathetic effort to try and sell them to a bookstore so i can get enough money to buy a coffee from the corner store so i can steal sugar and milk so i can drink the discount instant coffee i use as the crutch to get through the day.

whats better then an epiphany?

being unemployed and drinking instant coffee with creamers stolen from the café on the corner. thats when you know you're on the right track. because it beats having to slowly kill yourself.

although a simpler life seems fine when i daydream i'd probably end up getting a rash

i'd say that it was about five minutes after i got out of bed that it happened. there was a feeling in the air that wasn't the thick humidity. from somewhere in the hall there was a real guttural scream. the kind you have to open your mouth all the way to let it out or it can fuck up your face for ever. but it sounded like it hurt the asshole, like he never knew it was coming. 

seconds after there was this loud crash. i imagined a huge block of grey concrete falling from the sky and landing on the metal stairs outside my apartment. it was so loud i actually got up from sitting on the couch (staring at nothing) with the idea of going to see if whoever was out there was alright. maybe it was the shock and reverberations from the commotion but it turned me into someone i'm not. 

about three feet from the door i gave up. i came to my senses. it didn't concern me. this is the city. everyone fucks their neighbours. 

when i went out to get some bread for my breakfast there was a policeman standing at the bottom of the stairs. he was casually chatting on his cell phone. like this was exactly where he was supposed to be. at the bottom of this stair case at this time. and i was supposed to be walking down. and we were supposed to give each other shit eyes as i walked by. 

when i came back the police were in the apartment below mine sawing the drywall and cracking concrete. they were searching for something. so it wasn't a block of cement falling. it was the sound of a steel door being broken down at eight thirty in the morning. a blonde police woman said bon matin to me. i looked away and kept my mouth shut. 

if i counted up all the best moments in my life most of them wouldn't have any humans involved.

standing in some bushes

i took a piss with a dog.

like, we started and stopped at the same time as one another. 

(weird right?)

at first i was all like

get the fuck outta of here! 

but i looked in his eyes

and he looked into mine. 

the piss kept pissing. 

everything melted away.

there was nothing but me and the dog and the piss. 

no universe

no job

no home

no people.

just piss. 

and it was the nicest thing that's happened in a long time. 

regardless of all the greyness there's still some beauty left

i walked up a side street i'd never been on before. nothing special, just houses and people doing yard work. it ended on rue notre dame ouest, right by the reptile emporium and the strip club and the dollar store.
i could see him from about a block away. he was sitting on some steps in front of a door painted dark copper. the paint was peeling.
he was an old bum. his hair was white and hung down around his head like long greasy fingers. he was laid back in a way that made you think he had it all figured out. he was propped up on his elbows and had his left leg crossed long over his right knee.
(people walking by had to make allowance for his dangling foot)
when i got closer i saw that his face had the rough skin of an alcoholic who spends all his time outdoors. his eyes were rolled up into the back of his head and he was muttering an indecipherable language just loud enough to hear if you strained and gave a shit to listen.
(he could've been possessed)
but he laid there on those old concrete steps and looked like a king; a man with more class then all the people that ignored him combined.

we've had to make some real tough choices*

if all your heroes went mad,

committed suicide

or just drank themselves to death what chance do you have?

probably a poor one.

but you can try and prove them wrong.



*title taken from a recent letter of rejection.

in defence of leaving the house

i went to the grocery store this morning. i saw two different men in customized, or wacky hats.

1 - it was a dark/forest green baseball hat. what made me notice it was a brown - can really only describe it as a blob - stuffed thing sticking up out of one of the holes in the hat designed to let out head heat. then i noticed that there was all kinds of shit attached to it. buttons and a plush bee. bits of metal attached to the brim. he even had a little tiny disco ball hanging from the back that swung into his neck like a beautiful wrecking ball with every step he took. but it didn't wreck him. other then that he was dressed like a board member of ducks unlimited. his only freedom of expression his hat.

2 - the other wacky hat was on a man with a singular vision of fashion. he looked like what most people would call crazy. he had a grey striped shirt open to the waist, a silver chain on his chest, white pants and white shoes and he stood beside a bike spray painted white - wheels, chain, everything - and had wrapped his seat and back spokes in aluminum foil, giving the bike a futuristic/space age look. his hat was one of those straw types that look like a cowboy hat but are usually seen being worn by tourists in hot climates, or come free in a case of corona. the hat, like the bike, was white and he'd taken a silver christmas garland and wrapped it around the base of the part your head goes into and it rested on the brim. i thought, now here goes a motherfucker with some style.


some days give you more then enough reasons to love everything.

these are the days of high emotions and total gratification

earlier today i was walking around and i had a funny feeling in the back of my neck, a little itch. i looked up and saw a family in a nice, expensive looking car. they were staring at me. their faces all twisted up, they way you grimace in horror when you see something disgusting. you know, like an animal smeared across the pavement, or when you slip in a fresh pile of shit? and as i looked at them, scowling myself, i thought that it sure is nice to be able to interact with other humans on a regular basis.

woke up to the people in the apartment next door fucking. they dont make any noises, just the sound of the bed thumping against the wall. he fucks away at her with great irregularity. he never gets into a good rhythm, or can keep the pace. 20 or so pumps and then 45 seconds of silence. 20 or so pumps and then 45 seconds of silence. but i guess that's his pace. i want to lightly tap on the wall and intimately whisper 'slow fuck her pal, there's people trying to sleep.' But i don't, i just pull the sheet up over my head and wait for their silent orgasms to pass.

isn't it great how people are so great these days

everywhere i went today people were giving me weird looks

like there was a great big smear of shit across it and they were just too polite to tell me.

but there was nothing to tell me,

thats the joke.

it was just my face.

three men with stained shirts and scraggly beards trying to get a jump on the day

the first thing i did today was take some empty beer cans back for the deposit. i needed bread. plus the fruit flies or the gnats or whatever the fuck you call them had been outnumbering me for quite awhile.

when i got to the grocery store with my big black garbage bag full of cans there was a dirty man with dirty travel bags stuffing cans into one of the machines.

there was another dirty man with a shopping cart full of bottles and cans and filthy bags to. but he was just standing there yapping at an uninterested employee stocking the discount bread shelves.

so i went to the other machine that's there. thinking i was real smart. like i'd a get a jump on this dope running his mouth.

the dirty man with the cart came over and muttered something. i couldn't tell if he was speaking french or english. at first i thought he was gonna scold me for jumping the line. his lips flapped and i had to strain to get any idea.

what? i said

it's full, he said.

it's full? i said.

i talked to an employee but… he said.

ok, i said.

i found a corner and stood there with my big black garbage bag full of empty cans looking at the ground. just another dirty man with nowhere to go.

a reverse elephant man

i go to a job every day and sweat and wear my body down for the benefit of some one else. and when i see her ugly fucking kid in expensive clothing fucking around on a macbook a little part of me that was beautiful - like the wind or the sky - dies and shrivels up and becomes hard and black and i carry them, these hard black spots, around with me everywhere i go; carnivals, the pharmacy, bed, the park, my hometown, vacation (jk whats that?) and for the rest of my life they're there. and they multiple inside me, making nests in my soul, and they make me more grotesque, more monstrous and some day i'll be nothing like what i thought a human was supposed be. i guess the jokes on me.