Hat Trick

Curtains and tights.

Doves and canes.
Caps, cufflinks, gloves,
shining.
We were that joke about
the truck, who turned into
a cornfield.
                                                  HEY ravens! HEY crows! these stalks aren’t for ignoring.

Pendants and saws.
Repurposed coffins.
Lights so bright or
none at all.

                                                  (crystal, but with a joke about balls. A twitch and a wink)

Capes, capes, capes.
This knife can cut through an
ordinary leather sofa in
ten minutes. Think what
the whole set could do.
These shoes were the finest
taps in all the land, we
can be your cobbler.
Keep in mind, we used to
be people who used to be
a truck.
                                                      HEY! Rally, motorcycles! HEY!
                                                      Rally, flamethrowers! Rally, chrome-                                                                                                                    winged-donkeys.
it is so unfair that these
things repeat themselves.
Nonetheless, we were velvet curtains,
waxed goatee, blazer. Twirling
a rabbit on our finger, blowing
a kiss in sparkling blue pastel,
what they wanted to see,
harsh realities not withstanding.

                                                (this knife cuts through cob)
                                                                                           WHEELWHEELWHEEL!

Firstbooth/coldfeet

Been annoyed at "the grid" lately. partly because technology is less useful when you're working on hand-drawing, collage art, etc. I've got a booth tomorrow at the Rainier Beach Artwalk and I'd like to have some new stuff to display, but the time limits I've put on myself (through procrastination, largely) lead to stress, to confusion, to more procrastination. Pictures up later if I don't hate what I've got.

Even if I crash and burn (which i don't plan) this'll be a good experience for me.

"Oh, like the downtown street acronym."

Here is what I'm working on now.

I haven't committed myself to drawing in any capacity since a few of the Lobster Manor show posters, and this is way bigger than that. This is kind of huge and terrifying.

It's raining in Vancouver, but I don't give a fuck

Monday night I'm doing my feature at Bellingham's Poetry Night, the reading I cut my semi-adult to adult teeth at. In preparation, in addition to bugging people to re-arrange their entire lives in order to make it to B'ham, I've also made a few broadsides of new poem "When Saying Mean Things About Strangers." Which mayhaps I'll post here at some point. But the point is, I'm using this blog post as a way to put off the hand-drawn illustrations part of the artistic process, because once the ink is on there, its on there.

So. Check out my most recently published piece. . . yes, I think online counts. Especially if it's as clearly-planned-and-cool-looking as KP tends to be.

Also, you can read the blog I write for ZAPP, which currently gets updated as often or more often than this one.

Today: So frustrating. So many "almosts" with regards to chapbook completion, art-making and things getting done. Tonight: more work. forge ahead. listen to Japandroids in an empty house on Warsaw street.

Chapbook update, travel plans, etc

So I've been oscillating on whether the chapbbok should be 1) a bunch of unrelated poems people will like or 2) a themed batch of connected poems written since I've come to Swansea.
Plus side of 1: Easy and fun to perform. Quick. Versatile to different audiences.
Plus side of 2: Relevant. Challenging. A more rewarding read.

Thinking it over and getting feedback from folks both side of the pond it seems folks are veering towards 2-- but really want both. And so do I, really. I'd like to produce a book I can read from when I don't feel like talking about Wales, but I want the cohesiveness that comes from a theme. So the next week will be polishing and finishing a few pieces I put on the back burner in an attempt to walk the tightrope.

because why do anything easy?

speaking of, tommorrow at 555am I take a train to London for the Southbank Centre's workshop/orientation for all the partners in the Global Poetry System. I don't have a place to stay or much money, but hey-- flexibility. go see some art galleries and shit, come back with a GPS Plan of Attack.

progress report #1.

I am 1,250 words into the first story of my collection. Tenatively titled "seagulls," so far it's about a guy who loses his hat and can't find one to replace it.
It may or may not have him being stalked by birds, losing his girlfriend and/or comitting acts of violence. I am realising that in order for this to be an effective collection, not every story can have acts of violence or slightly surreal nature-interfering-with-man stuff.

I'll revise and post the new version of the poem tommorrow.

Interesting turns of phrase and corners

If it had been as sunny a few hours ago on my (short) walk home from church as it is now, with me curled with reading and writing material and just happy to let my windows become magnifying glasses and myself the ant, well, I probably would still be on a long walk.

but. God or the Weather or Caleb the Cloud Formation didn't see it fit, so here I am.

interesting turns: Matt, Jen and Courtney's friend has been in from NC. Every time he says "Chapell Hill" I want to mention Archers of Loaf, but I don't. We do talk about old cartoons and comics. His presence has facilitated a lot more out-on-the-town in one week than I usually, but maybe we made up for it by everyone piling in Jen's room all day watching disney movies.

amidst which a somewhat sudden but quite consistent flirtation with one Susie Wild (actual name) that I suppose started in earnest last friday at an art show/gig in the back of skate-clothes store. so far it's real vague and if I have the situation pegged right, is likely to remain that way. which is fine; count me intrigued but not worried. interesting people are interesting and that's welcome.
plus, she's one of those folks who seems to know everyone around and one of the guys who runs the Elysium Gallery wants me to send him some poems to print in their general-arts newsletter (a mix of news and, yeah, art.) the introduction went something like: "this is John. He's a great artist. This is Graham. He's a great poet. You guys should get along."

of course, these are also the sorts of conversations artists have late at night over belle and sebastian and johnny cash, cheap tequila and expensive cider. grains of salt are often in order