I know the Anti-League of Anti-Canadian Poets meeting is coming up in a few hours but let’s just go out for a coffee. I understand that the idea of “out for coffee” is itself so absentmindedly mindlessly mindless, especially with me as your partner in tea. I’ve sloppily read you mackerel minstrelry have you macroscoped my penmanship? Yes. She left. It took me only a few hours to find her (smoke break from that downtown condo she shares with that dufous. It was cold and he had left hours ago. I knew him from his jacket blurb and the reviews in Quill $ Quire - Squallid Squire – and I read his leftist centrist rightest manifesto which omitted all verbs, the letter e, and also had once chapter devoted to each letter of the alphabet – gathered round a dollie quivering in the mud of a floodered Haitian birthday party. I have no thoughts on tone. Such a thing does not exist. I am no formalist. More a Ba’athist. Good writers steal bad writers borrow my ass. The only thing preventing the mass hysteria erupting from my book sales, critical reviews and anti-pasta mania is the lack of a book. The only thing preventing the book is a couple of solitudes. Survival is all about me anyway. I’ve seen survival with my bareheads, warped tantrums below the bellows of advert screens at Bloor and Yonge. Where there was space for a wasp to sting, there was space for a blade of raw visual residue; I bought every product ever devised to despise and ground it up for the pulp of these pages. Me and Nat thumbed thru. Trudeau’s waspy hair. I would be that wasp.
Since the age of Nixon’s buttock I have fluttered round politics as a kin for my writing. The only person qualified to lead this country is the one who has written the greatest poem. My great poem will begin. I’ve been bragging and grabbing. Excuse me.