Here he is dawdled scrawling liquid fat on the sidewalks of High Park this massive 1970 wreck room that is Toronto. This is layer 12, within hours the blood will dry; long bulbs of fat dent the concrete from the opening intersection to the park off Bloor all thru round trends to the stage – a rock landed in the forest via space velocity – a meteor plummeted here for urinals sake. Each liquid fat lair is a layer to the lair, a trail for the punks and uptights that frequent such poetry readings and the poets themselves massive sign seeable from High Park subway station says follow the light and like out of the words which he would kill the fat to light up some nights many weeks down the road and the zombies trail thru dark park to the rhomboid stone home tome tomb crypt and lectern.
Fuck, right on his shoes. No bother. Sipping thru the holes nose to warm his socks and clutch them in moments tight carcasses around his feet. Takes the bucket to the company car, fills the tub again just keep on the hot edge of liquid by a ciggy lighter in backwards. It’s chicken gravy off all their george foreman grills, it’s salvaged remnants of a television program in which popes are held hostage, drained of their fabulously facades and corralled into lingerie competition (the cardinals involved in the judging being grossly underpaid.) For all he knows it is milked from the solid waste of the very poets who hope to speak (read? squeak?) the Anti-League of Anti-Canadians; for all he knows it is the solid waste of himself and his family, unmilked, filtered for months with bugs clarified by ultrarouge lights in black smokeless cafes.
Smokeless, a cigarette, a lightening wielding kid, car backfire, anything could light up this path of shit. No. As with all things, not fuseless is the endeavour. At last finished today’s layer of fat, the other bin starts – thin wax coating to prevent easy lighting Lenny sat in the car, they all had to take names of poets they particularly despised and he actually did have a cigarette in his mouth all he did was inch the car forward to keep up the wax and fat trek, I’m doing all the legwork and loving this splashing shit-fat up my legs and round my shoes, coating them again I could cut myself out of them but leave the sneakers snickering into me in a way some metaphor would make a big deal out of.
It’s been four hours since the last paragraph was written and we’ve moved all the way to the end of the road. He’s gotta plunge back and forth down this dirt trail the rest of the way to the meteor-cum. Wouldn’t want no one to get lost not on this evening of poetic reverie and irreverence. I was the gracest writer who ever lived he thought quietly hiking back to the car hucking fat down the dirt-packed path. I would and did and will write this great novel which has withheld so many goddamn commas. Not this. The. The great Canadian novel and book of poetry. He had ideas that he might write a book of poetry when he retired from the biz. And by retired he searched for solitude any number being sufficient. Leonard honked the horn gaoddamne fuzzers on the way says Irv. I got into a run, hopped in back of the SUV, clunking on the way. Park patrol nonewiser and had the afternoon off to see Al. Trip to Picklie Lake in my head.
e premte, 6 korrik 2007
draft pages from the aborted novel: The Last Spike or How to make love in a canoe when you're dead