first hit with a brass bullet

f stands for first. first hit with a brass bullet, a small one, just a toy- the rimfire 22. that's not a man's gun a man's gun's got power velocity speed duress. this is f for female first fast forever foremost fountain forgetful fatigued fucked fantastic futuristic frugal french free always leave a present for the life that you take, grass honey herbs or meat. and do it by hand piecemeal taking the time to caress each task with love and respect.

bloody turkey

34 years of menstruation. 12 months times 34=408 menstrual cycles minus 15-12 (child bearing) =380 menstrual cycles.

Oh. It's not that much.
It's not like a Friend's rerun.

right. vapid soft serve poop.disseminating special brain power soup.
I'm talking about blood the stuff that makes our machines full
the stuff that our great great great ancestors shared
with fire and furs and dried meat
in a cave sharing the heat

This was sopposed to be a story about a small hamlet
in Turkey. I don't know what happened.

trouble in the hippocampus

the great idea do you remember
no
but you remembered yesterday
i remembered what
you remembered that you forgot about the great idea that we had the day before. Remember
what
we had a great idea but we couldn't remember what it was
then how did we know
because we remembered that we had it
had what
the great idea
we remembered that we forgot what it was
yes
and now we forgot that we remembered that we forgot what the great idea was
yes
still can't help us
I know. But at least we remembered.
Yes.

la belle village

Montreal will always be about poverty and freedom stuck in a cage. dreams that manage to float above the corrugated steel. beer in a bag and bums squatlegged on a cardboard with the quintessential dog and the bilingual sign can't work give me argent stp
can't won't can't won't
this town was never about working and vivre la difference was projected in the offshoots and roll offs of acumen and the lesser gods. welfare mothers pepsi cola chips and chocolate icecream sweating garbage men picking up maggot born bags spewn open on the curb in the sweltering the purply sky of summer humid live caldron of heat wave in your face no place for sweat to go it sticks on your skin like an infringement to space can't go out to dissipate can't go in to have never been stuck in tight jeans and on backsides rolling down the slippery shallows of body voluption great tits by the way. tacky ouash! bingo signs on the doors of churches with their steeple way above the third floor building restriction once upon a time you just had to look up and remember that god was watching you in every neighbourhood on every street corner. it's in the dreams and in the collective unconscious. it's in the water. green grasses parks salted through the neighbourhoods bicycles everywhere. i lived on all these streets these streets where the sex and love and drugs and the lungs and the voice your voice and others flying through the broken glass the tainted glass the brushed and smoked glass the isadora of pandora the isis of poetry how it oozed from the crumbling and the dank and the dim like those long apartments facing the east side-never any sun, everybody knew that. flatroof town. i loved you and i smoked you to death.

Montage from photos by Michel Saint Jean

43.5 mile house specimen b

The ticktock is in my brain. On most days. On most days it's a waiting game. All of my breathing is for waiting it's the abstractions that make us forget. Though distraction can also make me remember. Echoes of past resonate from the geodescence of my immense landscape of imagination they coming down with centrifugal force hammering the dull gray fatty matter of my neurological brain, my events, my story, my world my time my clock my ticktock that which is what time is it it's half past my ass and a quarter to my elbow I live to die I die to live my name is sophie and I have full blown full blown full blown aids full blown full.