Soft october rain dinning upon the molded window sills can awake the deities from ages 3 to 8. Father has left early to breathe the breath of others, aboard the Tohoku express bound for Nagoya proper. Mother is simmering miso, feeling the tightness of her apron, and listening to the rain gutter into the concrete courtyard. Small feet in small tab i scrape the top of linoleum tiles as they make their way to the aroma of the breakfast soup Ohayo Gozaimazu Little fat hands on the little Congee bow! in little high chair at big white table. Slight steam from the rim Seaweed shreds stuck to fingertips The rain on the roof The glowing kitchen sony has manju, sweet tidings and speech, kittens made of syrup absorption Brian Haley At the B.C. Prison Arts Foundation Poetry Reading Poet Emeritus Al Purdy a dopehead? Lowly prairie verse-monger Lorna Crozier has the best glasses? A poetry reading to benefit criminals? that’s okay, poets are thieves themselves, stealing from the open drawers of an unknowing humanity, explaining what we see and feel... listen, | imagine that I've been...overlooked I've somehow lost my place alongside my poetic comrades on tne dusty UBC Library book shelves where no one looks. I've been scoffed. By half-wit high-school English teachers, by various editors of crusty creampuff literary collectives...I've just been ripped off. Now here’s the sombre Patrick Lane lumbering drunkenly onto the floor...a cigarette in one hand, Labatt’s Blue in the other: he wants to make all the other widow-sons weep. He’s half-bald, half-quiet, and half-drunk and | concentrate on how ridiculous old Mr. Lane would look without hair...silly, silly... No one needs these words or these ideas they represent the social cliché that poetry is...that last cling-on to our primeval, rhythmic impulses which were lost when Queen Victoria showed her dirty face...only the primi- tives knew procreation without guilt: poetry thinks about sex too much... Then there’s Musgrave who mounts the podium like it’s some half-wit lover, some clumsy dilapidated man with a broken back and a white cotton shirt ...she told us secrets only the wind should know, damn her...now our cold concrete ears ache with guilt... How does Patrick Lane write? Laying in bed like this? How now Crozier composes? After mounting a tea-party on a sunny afternoon with homemaker neighbours visiting and how are the kids? and well, those rhododendrons need tending, y'know and old Crozier gobbles all that gossip and living-room prejudice and spits it out into her word processor...processed verse sand- viches... words words words eat time and space...what are libraries and bookbinderies for? eat diction : words reap admiration from people who fear them some people think words are like bulldozers and could ram over their houses; and this language is so dirty, too...English... like chewing ice cubes instead of peaches, if you get my drift (see lines 24-25) then these poets come along (I swear I’ve been fucked around) these poets come and strings words like tiny bombs...the wires they use tangle all over the place like nerve endings red green blue orange wires tickle my intellect. my intellect laughs...something it rarely does anymore... wires connecting just words? Then come those braindead ones to whom words mean jewelry...they’re old hippies, just their hair cuts are neater, their beards are trimmed...they always end up on the CBC sooner or later burping up their profundities to Meister Gabereau... like whoa! a heavy trip, man! meaningless notions and thick turdish words...you can imagine Them (the ex-hippie poets): sitting at eld oak tables scarred with cigarette burns...yellow light... there are three or four ash-trays littered about and all these poets are sitting there, staring at the ceiling, copies of Rea Wedge Monthly lying around... wondering when jimi will get here with the wine... cool... Poor old Padre Purdy, he’s a victim of all that... maybe once he was a junkie, eh? no...he’s married...his body's just wasted from years of cycling wisdom, knowledge, strength, power, charisma, humour years of cycling all that stuff into words did | tell you about words? Along comes the woman with the womb stuck in her throat... Shelley's voice consumes me, melts my limbs on her tongue like spreadable Philadelphia cream cheese...! could taste her saliva from across the room...her new brashness from new attentions... her long politician face and umber eyes hollowed out by mountaintop winds, unexpected storms on the home front... all in one room: Crozier and Shelley and Lane and Musgrave and Purdy; Herrick and the rest... drop a bomb and kill eternity... Andrew Robulack {At the B.C. Prison Arts Foundation Poetry Reading Poet Emeritus Al Purdy a dopehead? Loly prairie verse-monger Lorna Crozer has the bes glasses? ‘poetry reading to benefit criminals? that’s olay, poets are thieves themselves, stealing from the open drawers ofan unknowing humanity, explaining what we see and fee. listen, imagine that Ive been..overloked {ve somehow lost my place alongside my poetic comrades ‘on te dusty UBC Library book selves where no one looks. {ve been scoffed, By halt.wit high-school Engish teachers, by varus editors of crusty ceamputtiterry collectives. ve just been rpped of Now here's the sombre Patrick Lane lumbering drunkenly ‘onto the floor..2 cigarette in one hand, Labat’s Bue in the other: he wants to make all the other widow-sons weep. He's ha-bald, hlf-quiet, and haf-drunk and concentrate on how ridiculous ‘old Mr. Lane would look without har. sil. No one needs these words or these ideas they represent the social cliché that poet is..that ast cing-on to ‘ur primeval, hythmic impulses which were lost when Queen Victoria showed her diy face..only the primi tives knew procreation without quit: poetry thinks about Sex too much. Then there's Mugrave who mounts the podium Ike it’ some hawt lover, some clumsy dipidated man wth a broken back anda white coton shit she old us secrets only the wind shoud know, arm her. our cold concrete er ache wh uit How does Patrick Lane wite? Laying in bed he tis? How now Cromer compote? Aer mounting tsp on 2 suny atermoon with homemaker neighbours visting and hw oe the ki? and wel, hse radodendors eed tering, aco and ol Cover gobbles al that gospand living-room prejudice and sits it out int her word rocesoe..procesed verse sand- sche, words words wards etme ord space. what rites and bokbinderies fo? ft ton words ep admiration fom people who fear them ‘some pple think words eke aldozers ond could ram over thei house; ‘nd this language isso dt, too. English. lite chewing ice cubes instead of peaches, if you get my cit (see lines 24-25) then these poets come along (| wear I've been fucked around) these pets come and strings words fie tiny bombs. the wires they use tangle ll over the pla ike nerve endings ‘ed green blue orange wires tickle my intellect. ‘ny intlctloughs..somethng it rarely does anymore. Wwites connecting just words? Soft october rain dinning upon the molded window sills can awake the deities from ages 3 to 8. Father has left early to breathe the breath of others, ‘aboard the Tohoku express bound for Nagoya proper. “Mothers simmering miso, feeling the tightness of her apron, {and listening to the ran gutter into the concrete courtyard, ‘mal fet in smal tab i scrape te top of linoleum tiles _asthey make their way tothe aroma ofthe breakfast soup Ohayo Gozsimaau Lite fat hands onthe litle Congee bowl inte high chair at big white table. Slight steam from the rim Seaweed shreds stuck to fingertips The ran onthe roof The glowing kitchen sony has manu, sweet tidings and speech, kittens made of syrup absorption Brian Haley bor ‘Then come those braindead ones to whom words mean jewely..theyre old hippies, just thei haircuts are neater, their beards are timmed..they aivays end up onthe CBC sooner oF later burping up their profundites to Meister Gabereau lke whoa! a heavy tri, man! ‘meaningless notions and thick turdsh words..you can imagine Them (the exhippie poets): sitting a ld oak tables scarred with cigarette burs..yellow light there are three or four ash-rays tered about anda these poets ae sitting there, staring a the cling, copies of Rea Wedge Monthly lying around. wondering when jimi will gethere with the wine. 00. oor old Padre Purdy, he's victim ofall that. ‘maybe once he was ajunke, eh? ‘e's maried.his body’ jut wasted from years of cling ‘wisdom, knowledge, strength, power, charisma, humour years of cycling all that stuff nto words did tell you about words? ‘Along comes the woman with the womb stuck in her throat. Shelley's voice consumes me, melts my limbs on her tongue lke spreadable Philadelphia cream cheese! could taste her salva from across the room, .her new brashness from new attentions her long politician face and umber eyes hollowed out by ‘mountaintop winds, unexpected storms on the home front... alin one room: Crozier and Sheley and lane ‘and Musgrave and Purdy; Heck ‘nd the rst chop a bomb and kil etemiy, Andrew Robulack