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Authors: Jay Millar
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life which is,
and i quote: âIâm 34,1 guess Iâd better start thinking about an RRSP because unemployment can only go so far, that guy Mike Harris, heâs an asshole/and i donât tell him that even tho Harris is a complete prick i donât think heâs all bad since he is causing a kafuffle, something that might be good for Canadians at this point in our career, and Skye mean-while is heavily troubled by science fiction, it makes him as âwhat if?â too many times about any given situation, there are all these moments that pass and pass along a little message, and walking home i discover in an alley an entire collection of Russian music waiting for the trash and the kids hanging outside the menâs club waiting for their fathers to finish their beer waiting for the game to end help me pick out which ones to take with me, âTake that oneâ, the boy with the purple stains at the corners of his mouth says, âI made thatâ, the cover of the album is purple with half a treble clef on it, itâs called
USSR Bolshoi Theatre
and he says âI made thatâ, and i believe him, i pick out seven or eight records and get up to leave and the oldest kid there says âHey, whyâs he takin the CDSâ and i explain to him that someone left them in the alley for me to find, some gentle soul who wants me to explore the music of the four corners of the earth, and i can see right away that he doesnât believe me so i ask him if theyâre his and he looks dumbfounded, heâs playing a hand-held Nintendo game and i can tell he wants to get back to his game, so i ask him if he knows whoâs records they are and he shrugs his shoulders and turns back to his game and i walk off, there are all these moments that pass and pass along a little message, and i come home and start to write a little poem about the other morning when i was getting out of the shower thinking about how sweet life is when everything is wet and i asked you âwhy do they call it a towel?â and you said you didnât know and you were beautiful, beautiful as the tiny soprano voice on the purple record the kid had made peeling out that high beautiful note that hangs on the air in so many innocent ways, making me think there are all these moments that pass and pass along a little message
I came to be where I was 5 minutes ago
The first thing I ever tried to learn was how
unfolding as I began to write without fear or knowing what next
The Pail and the Shovel. An idea continued to perform outwardly
for hate, for revenge, because these were the things that happened,
it had become clear thro the ages, anything was permitted to be
Red Sunset over The Lake. A Tree Broken of Leaves. The Beach
Which is Now. And there were those who dried out
looked at from the side, a Space in which each poem is perfectly
it becomes a poem, nothing more. And still you were running
looping into themselves to catch the little mayflies in their beaks,
I am thankful it is your light, my eye, and all of that
5 minutes ago where I was I came to be
Recognising that there was the ridiculous nature of being
âPale grey horse of the abattoir, risingâ. For this was the mark,
the many tricks like a trained gull. Hovering for glory, for love,
And we let them happen, for we were living in a time, when, as
written across a sky of such blank air. As Long As It Was There.
And The Cool Water. There You Go, running as if you had wings.
To follow those one-eyed pigeons of that notion. Literature
chiselled, perfectly sounded and polished still High Buff: from
an idea across the sand, until you stopped to see the swallows
Light As Air the Snap and Swallow. And for that, my love,
with which to see.
Critique of the Living
There have always been
five things in a row:
            footprints, or to speak of
whatever happens
at any free
and i quote: âIâm 34,1 guess Iâd better start thinking about an RRSP because unemployment can only go so far, that guy Mike Harris, heâs an asshole/and i donât tell him that even tho Harris is a complete prick i donât think heâs all bad since he is causing a kafuffle, something that might be good for Canadians at this point in our career, and Skye mean-while is heavily troubled by science fiction, it makes him as âwhat if?â too many times about any given situation, there are all these moments that pass and pass along a little message, and walking home i discover in an alley an entire collection of Russian music waiting for the trash and the kids hanging outside the menâs club waiting for their fathers to finish their beer waiting for the game to end help me pick out which ones to take with me, âTake that oneâ, the boy with the purple stains at the corners of his mouth says, âI made thatâ, the cover of the album is purple with half a treble clef on it, itâs called
USSR Bolshoi Theatre
and he says âI made thatâ, and i believe him, i pick out seven or eight records and get up to leave and the oldest kid there says âHey, whyâs he takin the CDSâ and i explain to him that someone left them in the alley for me to find, some gentle soul who wants me to explore the music of the four corners of the earth, and i can see right away that he doesnât believe me so i ask him if theyâre his and he looks dumbfounded, heâs playing a hand-held Nintendo game and i can tell he wants to get back to his game, so i ask him if he knows whoâs records they are and he shrugs his shoulders and turns back to his game and i walk off, there are all these moments that pass and pass along a little message, and i come home and start to write a little poem about the other morning when i was getting out of the shower thinking about how sweet life is when everything is wet and i asked you âwhy do they call it a towel?â and you said you didnât know and you were beautiful, beautiful as the tiny soprano voice on the purple record the kid had made peeling out that high beautiful note that hangs on the air in so many innocent ways, making me think there are all these moments that pass and pass along a little message
I came to be where I was 5 minutes ago
The first thing I ever tried to learn was how
unfolding as I began to write without fear or knowing what next
The Pail and the Shovel. An idea continued to perform outwardly
for hate, for revenge, because these were the things that happened,
it had become clear thro the ages, anything was permitted to be
Red Sunset over The Lake. A Tree Broken of Leaves. The Beach
Which is Now. And there were those who dried out
looked at from the side, a Space in which each poem is perfectly
it becomes a poem, nothing more. And still you were running
looping into themselves to catch the little mayflies in their beaks,
I am thankful it is your light, my eye, and all of that
5 minutes ago where I was I came to be
Recognising that there was the ridiculous nature of being
âPale grey horse of the abattoir, risingâ. For this was the mark,
the many tricks like a trained gull. Hovering for glory, for love,
And we let them happen, for we were living in a time, when, as
written across a sky of such blank air. As Long As It Was There.
And The Cool Water. There You Go, running as if you had wings.
To follow those one-eyed pigeons of that notion. Literature
chiselled, perfectly sounded and polished still High Buff: from
an idea across the sand, until you stopped to see the swallows
Light As Air the Snap and Swallow. And for that, my love,
with which to see.
Critique of the Living
There have always been
five things in a row:
            footprints, or to speak of
whatever happens
at any free
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