Transformers for Breakfast

Food and Markets and Love

2009-08-20T22:53:07Z

They make me happy. I just ate the most divine yet simple meal of oat and honey bread with apple grill cheese(gouda)--I dipped the apple in honey garlic bbq sauce then threw it all in the panini press. then i opened up the toasted bread after and added avocado with lime and sea salt. a side of steamed asparagus, with lime butter and sea salt, YUMMY.
I am also in love with Marusya Bociurwik's book "Comfort food for Breakups" and her blog "Recipes for Trouble." Why I didn't check her out before I'm not sure. Best blog ever, hands down! Mos def inspired this random and few and far between post. Thanks M!

as a random aside the cbc just had a lady say "the barn blew away. we cannot find the barn."
out of context i find this hilarious. tragic in reality but hey.
toronto actually has a tornado watch right now--crazy shit--this is not tornado land.

hope all the folks in lj land are lovely

apparently my dog found the book quite tasty as well

TransAction Stage 2009

2009-06-29T22:57:43Z

Dex

2009-06-29T22:24:08Z

i have so many photos of Dex. He is a rescue dog i'm fostering for now. i want to adopt him but i work a lot, live alone, like to travel and don't have other dogs. he is a total dogs dog. he will be happier in a house with other dogs probably. he is totally happy now too but i think he can be even more so. a yard would be great. i live in a second floor studio apartment, so no yard. it will be hard to see him go but i love the guy. i know im more attached to him than he is to me.

knaan soobax (come out)

2009-04-16T00:57:24Z

Spain and Scotland

2009-02-21T01:39:07Z

when the trees still had leaves

2009-02-12T04:34:14Z

i dont remember how to lj cut and im too lazy to look

Under Construction

2009-01-26T02:08:16Z

Naila Keleta Mae poetry except

2008-08-30T15:28:37Z

". . .don't calculate vengeance
ain't nothing worthwhile nor worthy in it.
just hold on to proper folks:
ones who forgive you wordless
rock you gentle
scoop you up off ceramic
brush foundation on your jaw line
whisper your name when you forget your own damn self
look through you and love sense into you.

hold on to them."

artofthebawdy @ 2008-08-14T14:54:00

2008-08-14T21:54:27Z

Those of Us Who Think We Know // Stephen Dunn.

Those of us who think we know
the same secrets
are silent together most of the time,
for us there is eloquence
in desire, and for a while
when in love and exhausted
it's enough to nod like shy horses
and come together in a quiet ceremony of tongues.

it's in disappointment we look for words
to convince us
the spaces between the stars are nothing
to worry about,
it's when those secrets burst
in that emptiness between our hearts
and the lumps in our throats.
And the words we find
are always insufficient, like love,
though they are often lovely
and all we have.

From Stephen Dunn: New & Selected Poems 1974-1994 page 58.

It Takes Time

2008-08-12T19:01:32Z

It Takes Time

it takes time to be there
beneath the surface
where nothing is cautious or delicate.

delicate or cautious is nothing
where
surface
the beneath
there be to
time takes it

it takes delicate or
time to cautious is
be there
nothing where
surface beneath
the

be beneath cautious
delicate
is it
nothing
or
surface takes there
the time to
where

Z 2 A

2008-07-30T18:05:52Z

Ze said
You look almost familiar
Xxx in your eyes
World renowned and intricate
Vision lost to
Ultra-conservative
Tension
Spared by sex-workers
Really
Quite
a People person or
an Open book
Not yet read
Mercy and
Lion tamer love
Kinky knight
a Job
Incarnation
Held in
Glory
Found in
Escape Artist Handbook
Dogma
Caved
Bounced
Away

Rain by Dr. Draw

2008-07-23T20:06:19Z

this is a nice toronto rainy day soundtrack.

Random Thought

2008-07-16T16:19:42Z

i'm thinking about how some of us, or me at least, like to be able to think clearly rather than feel clearly. it's i fine balance i suppose.

a palace in segovia

2008-07-11T21:26:16Z

artofthebawdy @ 2008-06-24T09:19:00

2008-06-24T16:20:50Z

How to make a Dadaist Poem
(method of Tristan Tzara)

To make a Dadaist poem:
Take a newspaper.
Take a pair of scissors.
Choose an article as long as you are planning to make your poem.
Cut out the article.
Then cut out each of the words that make up this article and put them in a bag.
Shake it gently.
Then take out the scraps one after the other in the order in which they left the bag.
Copy conscientiously.
The poem will be like you.
And here you are a writer, infinitely original and endowed with a sensibility that is charming though beyond the understanding of the vulgar.
-Tristan Tzara

A nomad at heart: photo post part 1

2007-11-27T16:37:55Z

look if you wanna see

love ya

the english countryside

the Fam

Brixton

Even the Rain

2007-09-05T18:17:26Z

i am in love with the piece

by Agha Shahid Ali

What will suffice for a true-love knot? Even the rain?
But he has bought grief's lottery, bought even the rain.

"our glosses / wanting in this world" "Can you remember?"
Anyone! "when we thought / the poets taught" even the rain?

After we died--That was it!--God left us in the dark.
And as we forgot the dark, we forgot even the rain.

Drought was over. Where was I? Drinks were on the house.
For mixers, my love, you'd poured--what?--even the rain.

Of this pear-shaped orange's perfumed twist, I will say:
Extract Vermouth from the bergamot, even the rain.

How did the Enemy love you--with earth? air? and fire?
He held just one thing back till he got even: the rain.

This is God's site for a new house of executions?
You swear by the Bible, Despot, even the rain?

After the bones--those flowers--this was found in the urn:
The lost river, ashes from the ghat, even the rain.

What was I to prophesy if not the end of the world?
A salt pillar for the lonely lot, even the rain.

How the air raged, desperate, streaming the earth with flames--
to help burn down my house, Fire sought even the rain.

He would raze the mountains, he would level the waves,
he would, to smooth his epic plot, even the rain.

New York belongs at daybreak to only me, just me--
to make this claim Memory's brought even the rain.

They've found the knife that killed you, but whose prints are these?
No one has such small hands, Shahid, not even the rain.

My new love affair with bp Nichol

2007-04-14T17:22:04Z

It took me way too long to get into his amazing work.
taken from: An H in the Heart

The first piece in the book articulates something i have tried writing about--but he gets it so well. It's about carrying our histories in our bodies, knowing things intuitively even if our histories have not been captured by the endurance of texts--I often think and talk about carrying my parents battles and lives with me as if they are mine--even tho i haven't lived the lives they have--in this lifetime--even if they are invisible.

here is an excerpt, it's the first piece in the book: Too you, Nikki

"All of us are born out of someone. Too many of us spend a lifetime tied to that moment or trying to live it down. But family, what you came from, what came before you, live in the body like an organ you only know the shape of thru x-rays or textbooks. Who were they, really, those early ones who suffer from the diffusion of histories lived with no importance given to writing them down? We, all of us, move forward thru time at the tip of a family, a genealogy, whose history & description disappears behind us."

"what is the structure of heaven
it is a circle within a circle ad nauseam"

love ya'll

ry

Picture this

2007-03-28T17:41:08Z

You're walking down the street and everything is gorgeous. Spring is in the air. Yum.

Trick or Treat

2007-03-15T04:58:21Z

i have four open books on my bed--all self-prescribed--none that i am paying to read. i should be writing academic bullshit but instead i write to you--whoever you are. it feels like a dear self letter is in order--either that or dear gawd. HOw 'bout dear jesus--mary was a dominatrix--you were her greatest trick--a treat really--look what it did for your career--

it if weren't for the immaculate conception Mary's career never would have taken off.

What would allen ginsberg do? write a poem about bowel movements--bash the academy--take a pill.
I've tried all of these--except the first topical piece of poetry.

What would anis nin do? ani d.?

what would i do if i could live with the future in mind rather than the moment?

I must be radically misreading zen. I tend to live in the moment--compulsively even--in reckless abandon sometimes--but i don't think this is the idea--oh spiritual guide come find me before i destroy myself.

Illogical sequences ( ?)

2007-03-09T18:40:59Z

A wolf.
A stranger.
An owl up at 7.

A balloon. A tourist. A nomadic crash pad.

A coffee date. The heart of spades. A cute boy down the street.

The language in-between our ears
translates words into feasts

Procrastination is an art. I'm a foolish ass. Bless you all.

xoxox

artofthebawdy @ 2007-02-18T08:51:00

2007-02-18T17:54:51Z

1) ode to androgyny

laughing as
resistance
a take on
hostility
toward ambiguity.

the difference
between the
distance.
choice.
question my
motives my
identity
question my
stability i am
without weight
soaring
the suns heat
hostility beneath
me the absent presence
i am allergic
to your prescription.

Random Encounters with Strangers

2007-01-23T19:52:10Z

Walking through the market this morning to grab espresso before the subway ride to York, I passed a woman on the street who said, "Plato and Socrates both committed suicide ya know?" I said: no, no I didn't know that.
And we both continued walking in opposite directions
while she continued talking to an indecipherable group of people in her head.

Random encounters with strangers.
I wonder where she pulled her story from?
I enjoy people and their idiosyncrasies.

It becomes more evident to me all the time that I have quite a bit in common with allegedly 'crazy' people:

Crazy feels alive, it feels
authentic and indulgent and I can
remember a time that I thought this crazy in me a curse
rather than a direction to roll fluently with.
We all got a bit of it in us.
Don't we?

I'm a raindrop building puddles to bathe in on a spring morning
expressing have truths in half intoxicated grace
while the soundtrack loops on repeat
and the wet cement smells familiar and strangely refreshing.

hook,

we met somewhere
somewhere between ancient and future nurturing
the most under-appreciated parts of ourselves
practicing conviction with humility
we talked for hours in a back room lined with books
and forgot the rest of the world until
the doorbell rang and I answered, delighted that an angel singing soulful house found me welcoming her in. I believed her. I believed her
music. it was sad, unapologetically.
and joy comes from that place
layered between struggle and stamina
searching for footing. Joy comes from that place
where hope sings through the flames of the candle
sitting on the table between us
cards laid flat.

and then us
sprawled between struggle and stamina
loving wildly in flux
the heartbreak kiss after the sex.

experiencing delay

2006-11-17T16:59:14Z

This being human is a guest house
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

Rumi: Guesthouse

artofthebawdy @ 2006-09-05T15:24:00

2006-09-05T19:35:24Z

this is a piece, broken and put back together, of a Fantorpe poem called Atlas. Im posting this in light of a conversation i had this morning about the evolution of relationships--and the way things tend to go in ways we may not expect--this is for my chosen family.

There is a kind of love called maintenance
Which stores the WD40 and knows when to use it

. . .

And maintenance is the sensible side of love,
Which knows what time and weather are doing
To my brickwork; insulates my faulty wiring;
Laughs at my dryrotten jokes; remembers
My need for gloss and grouting; which keeps
My suspect edifice upright in air,
As Atlas did the sky.

There is a kind of love called maintenance
Which stores the WD40 and knows when to use it