O_________________Kay ___


large adjectives that splattered the speech it was going like a tripe spinning 
 around its splintering sides and a blather and a bang bang bang of its what was that? you asked
its warning keeping around the long ascending hen come to me my children round like a  
    flock a geese round her mother of the sunset its kale away lake O my loud ones how you
      feel this drop drop drop  no one holds its like this and the last thing you want to hear is
the overdubbed keening of the cockamamie quail 
  talking is one thing as its worked to the punch of the reboot the breath the sentence coming up
from the consciousness deep in the well of the hid stomach's dark lining and over the castle
  light fading over the ridge silhouette clinging to the eyes re-knitting the gold and light  kindling
  up the clearing  and there's the bending branches backwards that dance particular to the view
of its heart scope hope and the blaring river   did no one remind you the yellow flecks favouring
their view and cascading coarse on the tide upping on the beach rock and the way it sounds
as a  bell melancholy but no sadder than  a day of meadow and cloud clear rows and orchards

  on the widening mountain the dustied up roady going over the side and round the bend your
eye can't see past  the raid-on sights and the close pen where the moo bulls pull and mull the pond

or the sunk out land with its bog root oat the what do you call trench rung round the bounded 
  rim she knew the christian name of every person boarding that boat and of the scholarly nights
she was acquainted and knowledgeable as one should be in the face of its cardinal points and rumors
of towns and facts of history tabulating its chronicle as proper to its station in the rising decay
of time's dong dong cock a doddle ding and the downgrading of its outline and she raised it to
the roof risible to the decibel of its larder and the laughter of the love come applauding to greet her



Vivaldi Winter


Winter Concert - Norway Mari Samuelsen - Violin


---------------------------------------------------------------------- This version of Vivaldi's Winter is the emotional and astonishing thing I have heard, ever? perhaps ever is too big a word but it threw me right around, tears, gnashing of the teeth , swirls, Ups DOwns __ the whole thing indescribable .. it would take me nights to do so and I don't have time right to describe it ... when did I ever have time ? time to write to breath? to love __________________



figment of a ,

 as i worse predicted president was worsted wool its increase was
  day to sun summer fool canned by its whipping post the poor
thing was green to her summer leave-taking the rope tense
 with wicked one pushed by its severity contrasting Isabelle's
tenderness of once its thing a ma-bob her breath and surreal
door came before ringlet of hair curled back beneath the brown
   hair glistened its air in  sun dark and day over moor heath peat-bog
 brogue belfry outside of the duck toad working hand and feet
whiter as pale geese it's your knees i am holding it out to your cell(s)
  it was her hips and smile worked first caught your attention
what cloud had come along opening out a direction  lean-to
  mild as weather river taking off each letter curled it  tack
lettering along the ridge or seam as you would call at the kiosk
   at the newspaper collector's home what it would lion? she knew
it never was the si'm /hocking her open mouth a lover's dog

crowded by every sunday messenger she's could it pend?
a question every parliamentary member gulped down  its liege to
legislative power soured no not soured by won by every staging day
passing its minute woman there is a pharmacist whose pen carries this tone





the materiality  and non materiality of blogs is what I think of/ ponder consider
 am glad of and frustrated about

 without being slight or silly or light in a  way frivolous

it's akin to  the not dissimilar materiality and non materiality of the body

  and the question, or one of the big ones  anyhow, at the heart of human consciousness

is the body's life      ~    and matter ,,  resurrection    it's the question arrayed behind every human fear it's there in  all the poetry, a ll the religions    all philLoCopSophy!

does the body died and when it does rather do we die with it? is the end of our being  physically the end of us ?  do we move into another plane

Another plane   __  the air-plane of consciousness and its green wish

  more soon   from the conscious being on his way out the door the winter night

   fogging in the bringing     

  the ringing

 christmas cards?  toboggan  sleigh bells

  horse  smell pulling the carriage up to st joseph

______________________Add stamps as needed/
   a poem can work anyway
_____________________added up to the totality of its things




  that  link's  become your denote 

  time passes changes the sturdy one
and regains passage with mighty alacrity greed
knocking back a dozen or so

women waitresses gather like 'Canada' geese 
  remembering their preternatural youth and love's loyoalty  through body thick and thin

   fairhead to the visible  its ancient dead
tiring by the invisible dare to metamorphosed  'content ' as the redundant dissonant form of  a sound

 Or say as a body in poor
and the pore you always have with you being to the hole that's wax in the fun that rose
clarion  bell between two knees guarding by the delphic angel fox 

   and the connotation working its flight guess

  this love holding her breast beyond a mouth transcendence my love totalizing all foregone and lame
concluding but not precluding the possible wearing odd socks and bent backs each lover knows this
and you are breath as the wind swept past her blonde leg tawny in the back breaking sun hung by the

lantern which only seals get up to watch as the sun pulling its weight each day undertakes
  there are no accidents  but provincial  debts pay our taxes to the rich

the king and mighty kingdoms of god transcendy our betting day

the often only hour


  and one dyed her hair red   
   and another 'upgraded it '  blonde as   the sun    is that what we say?
                                    (a lover too hard on herself )
    (the first thinking red dyed hair'd take the 'weight off her feet')  
        rays shining off the iridescent sun

    but hope was material wealth to all three 
               (the one I didn't name)
disciplined like the    biting word 
   transduced by the coming of the   lord




 I've always felt the call of your love 
   even though the water washed it back
  waves rolling into the tide and
   if that it humbled  the ride then
  I was not afraid to say I love you 

at the birth of water and sound 
 these tracks heard a word flying
  'maybe I'm too healthy' and  me   ' you're too hard
on yourself remember it was a kid that felt
what you did '   and she 'O    ' pause and her beauty felt the way 



on the other hand


On the other hand it's just possible possible likely?  that some of the plays  (Shakeyshakes) were done in 

slow motion? what is speed anyhow? someone once said you could be late by speed? going so fast you miss   miss   miss                         miss                   miss                         miss         

your stop! that's too quick to be on time..... and Imagine the accent incomprehensible high speed or 

over-slow  gibberish. like the old  33 and a half records..... 

      recording reproducing     .... creating making   'in' the new medium which is a place of creatin' 



Our Captain Jean Béliveau


O CAPTAIN!   our Captain! your fearful trip is done

 The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;

   Walt Whitman  (  a  revised for this occasion)


Jean Béliveau funeral



'SPECIAL JEAN BÉLIVEAU EPISODE: Dick Irvin, Ron Reusch and Michael Farber remember Le Gros Bill'


___________________________________________  BUt you know what I m not special there are
thousand people in our city with stories like that....




in a house....


  growing up in   a house ( rue Anger street  Cote St Paul)  

                  you found a Rabelais and Gargantua  illustrated book in the living room 

                     and the thousand adventures of Sinbad 

                  were lying around and the 6 hour fasts 



re: 'The Accidental Archivist: Criticism on Facebook, and How to Preserve It

 This is fine  (and dandy)  where there is a conversation to 'archive' if archive one  wants to do. but where is there a conversation?    ___

a conversation hardly exists  anywhere   (and certainly in fb there is a flattening out of any such  event .... )/hence 

  would one expect it to be different in a media that billions 'use' daily hourly? billions pressing billions of buttons going like like like like like like like ad infinitum .

however, the work continues| but in my view at least those artists, especially those that speak and write in languages in which they are able to understand one another,  are responsible for the failure of conversation to begin and continue

as one of the responsibilities of the artist is the teaching faculty

 to promote discussion among people, 'the' people 'the' populace...

those who think otherwise are simply promoting silence and the end of discourse

 'The Accidental Archivist: Criticism on Facebook, and How to Preserve It


my Captain! Adieu Mon capitaine ! Jean Béliveau


O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done

 The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;

   Walt Whitman

Adieu Monsieur Béliveau!

Red Fisher: Jean Béliveau was a special man on and off the ice



Jean Béliveau est décédé: un pan de mur de l'histoire du Canadien s'écroule 



Wednesday Habs Links: Remembering the great Jean Béliveau







re: .. since


: .. since 

  Ted   Hughes wrote that in Shakespeare's days the plays were performed at high speed and the language spoken very fast... which explains a  lot   ...
Shakeapearean performances had to be fast ... too much to absorb so the speed got it out there and across and later the printed plays  added 'weight'  as it were to what had been performed  so dangerously....

  dangerous you ask?   well, the theatre back in those days was  a messy place wasn't it? not like the 'centaur' theatre back in Montreal and even the cute little 'fringe'   theatres.... the best theatre is  where you least expect to find it... and  on film..  because at least in film they can control their milieu  in theatre that's not possible ...  live theatre ought to be a place where control is the goal but as  a means to producing a real dirty theatre, a piece of live booty (my bootless cries to heaven..  out out brief candle  ... these our actors as i foretold you .... )  alive   alive on the stage gesticulating and howling   then crying the lowest whisper of perfect intelligent lines intelligence as beauty.....

 and no one doing good theatre thinks about sW's intentions they're long gone....


 O sweet Jesus lest I be accused of being a jackass , which would only prove the true hope of any writer to be abused by his fellowship of readers (so called) I have not forgotten the great

Orson Welles film versions of Shakespeare. All of which were notoriously  equal to the task at hand,__
to wit,___ creator to creator.

Unlike certain recently deceased American writers who tried to equal their betters only revealing thereby their inferority and rancour before superior talent. ! what! speaks here a ghost of grandeur and rank? O that ranky panky!

One writer, who was a popular figure of  the so-called beat generation    exemplifies the worst of resentment and hatred for anything that's great and beyond his scope....

We won't name him! lest his soul perish in the flamy letters he left behind!

------------------------ god bless even this hybrid addled writer. a damned race if ever there was one.



roundelay  Rabelais

                                                    i  was right       the hidden letter  .


.. since


there's prb. been no  version of Shakespeare done in English, with the British language that's equal to  its work since the 19 th. c.

    there might  be on the other hand hundreds of unknown and  exciting  ones done outside of the sphere of the official and schooled interpretations.

  a few years ago  M. told me about a punk version of Macbeth that'd had been done in New York... that sounded amazing.  I think Lady Macbeth had pink punk hair and her  .. more

but the ones produced a t the official level even the so called great film versions esp. those in britian are awful

 Peter Brook is not included here his version of King Lear is astonishing and no less than visionary.

  Carmelo Bene's Italan film versions, at least the ones that I've seen  are beyond anything that Stratford or those type of places can imagine

Polanski's Macbeth was good     Akira Kurosawa   ... what I have seen is visionary but I have not seen a complete film....  .. I think the contemporary educated British accent  no matter how hard they try, just kills Shakespeare and makes a  mockery of it..

 so for god's sake read the books for yourself with your voice and in your own accent 

that is it's easy to mock when hearing... I find myself mocking  some of the greatest lines ever if I hear these type of interpretations....

 That horrible long Hamlet with pompous Branag was almost great but he killed the soliloquy with his stupid music.. it ruined the film

   a great artist cannot make mistakes of that sort    I 'd never want to have to go through that again.. I wanted to shout out

and its been a few years and I've still not forgotten how horrible it was : I wante d to shout

Shut the bloody garbage music of  f please .

I learned a lot from watching that film    how music can betray and steal from words... I learned a lot about the underhanded way in which the best music can stab the words it purports to carry forth and assist......

                      I don't blame music! I blame the cretins who try to use it that way.

  And as for Milton, well what can one say about his poetry? in terms of accent and interpretation. its a  pathetic and suspect and dead paltry sad thing

when words that strong are reduced to the 100,000 bad readings of them given everyday.

Better that texts are silent than be heard   that way.

 ___ In sum for this is a quick sum , a quick accounting of JM and WS the two friends who were two sides of the same coin,

Don't ruin them with the English British    __ find your own way of reading and performing them.

  the everyday British are not stupid people they know that Shakespeare and Milton's best left to them and their gifts, their talents and genius and not to that class which keeps down all great talent.