An acquaintance of mine recently posted this on her wall:

“MFA thesis defended!”

These are the comments that followed:

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Congratulations!

Way to go, Sloan!!

You did it, you’re the best!!xoxo

Awesome. Just awesome.

It must feel great to accomplish something so useful!

Congratudonlences!

That’s great, hopefully the debt won’t be too crippling!

You’re going to be a poet, I hope! A nation really can’t have too many of them!

That’s eight years spent in academia that you can be damn proud of!

So. Fucking. Brave.

Very sorry to hear this. WHAT NOW???? At least your mother died believing that you’d never finish that degree!

Thank God somebody is finally going to give some attention to Gender Dichotomies in the Kitchen: Feminine and Masculine Qualities of Spaces and Artifacts as exhibited in Queer literature of the 1990’s! It’s been a long time coming! You rawk, Sloan!

Idiot.

Hopefully after all those years you committed to that institution, you have a good relationship with them and they might offer you a job as a diversity officer or something!

Sloan, you have just taken your Blog to the next level!

So, so, so sorry to hear this. Big hugz!!

My ex works at the Starbucks on College and University, and I am sure he can get you a job there while you write your novel. Private message me.

Fantastic news! You must be super proud! See you at the Slam Poetry workshop on Sunday!

First of all, before I write my message, I want to thank Mother Earth for all the resources that she allows us to use, and honour all First Nation, Métis and Inuit people whose land we settlers now stand upon. We ask your forgiveness. YOU ARE THE BEST, SLOAN, YOU MUST BE SO PROUD!!

Have you told your psychiatrist yet?

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It was almost three in the morning when she walked home after her shift at the bar.

This time, this twenty minutes, was a pause in her life that was always her favourite part of her day. It was like a clearing in the woods, an opportunity to slow things down and start the process of cleansing herself of all the want that filled the pub each night, clinging like smoke in her hair.  All the solitary men who needed drinks, who needed her to pay attention and make them feel valued as they sat there at the bar, searching each night for some unlikely route to love. And there were the needs of her coworkers, always wanting her to cover shifts so that they could either go to a party or recover from one, always needing her encouragement or complicity, and then simply the need to have a job, to get somewhere on time and serve the needs of others, always dressed in a prescribed, deadening uniform that made her feel like a stranger in her own life. All of this, all of this started to fall away when she walked toward home.

And one night she came upon a pigeon lying on the sidewalk.

She barely saw it, but she did, and as she leaned in toward it, the bird spasmed and flapped about in useless, frenzied circles. And then exhausted, collapsed and looked up at her, it’s chest heaving. She did not know exactly what she saw in those eyes, but she could not deny whatever it was that was calling her. It was her burning bush.

She picked the bird up, held it tight to her chest, and took it home. And as she delicately cleaned it in her kitchen sink, it struck her that she had never before felt so whole. Over weeks she nurtured this bird, restoring it to health and flight– and then other birds followed, and then others, and without any conscious intent her life began to organize and cohere around these lost and wounded creatures, and the person who inhabited the body she had travelled within for 37 years was finally discovered.

It was a startling thing to see in downtown Toronto, this unadorned and pitiless majesty.

Had the bird taken it’s victim in mid-flight, plucking it from unsuspecting air?
Had it tracked it’s prey at great velocity, and then it’s sharp, sudden talons piercing the animal, and then the wood upon which the creature had been scurrying?

My eyesight is not great, and the bird receded back into the camouflage of the tree. I stared up at that tree– that tree which could have been two centuries old– for a long time, hoping to see that world flicker back into mine, but it did not, and this vivid life of blood and bone would remain known but unseen. A reminder on a cold, November day of this other world, of how quickly, astonishingly and with unsentimental finality, it will one day make it’s presence known to each of us.

******************************************

On a winter day while hiking through the woods, Rachelle’s father Terry came across the imprint of an owl’s wings and body in the snow. From the tracks, he could see that it had been following a mouse of some sort, and then swooped down, picking the creature up from the surface and carrying him up and off to death. He took a photograph of the imprint, and it’s amazing to see such a moment crystallized, to see just the shadow of this small and brutal divinity.

It has always reminded me of this poem by Mary Oliver:
White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field
by Mary Oliver
Coming down out of the freezing sky
with its depths of light,
like an angel, or a Buddha with wings,
it was beautiful, and accurate,
striking the snow and whatever was there
with a force that left the imprint
of the tips of its wings — five feet apart —
and the grabbing thrust of its feet,
and the indentation of what had been running
through the white valleys of the snow —
and then it rose, gracefully,
and flew back to the frozen marshes
to lurk there, like a little lighthouse,
in the blue shadows —
so I thought:
maybe death isn’t darkness, after all,
but so much light wrapping itself around us —
as soft as feathers —
that we are instantly weary of looking, and looking,
and shut our eyes, not without amazement,
and let ourselves be carried,
as through the translucence of mica,
to the river that is without the least dapple or shadow,
that is nothing but light — scalding, aortal light —
in which we are washed and washed
out of our bones.

************************************

The Citizens for Constitutional Freedom Press Conference, January 12th, 2016

Ammon Bundy: Our intelligence officers have informed us that David Bowie has passed away. After careful study we have confirmed this as true, and not some prepared government disinformation constructed to demoralize my patriots. The news came as an absolute shock to The Citizens for Constitutional Freedom, and we feel that we’ve lost a brother in our fight against tyranny.

Ryan Bundy: He was our Diamond Dog, may the Lord hold him in his sweet embrace! Swing low, sweet chariot!

Ammon Bundy: David Bowie was a formative presence in my life. It was difficult for many of us, confused young militia men marginalized by government tyranny, to come to grips with the strange and new feelings we were experiencing while growing up in remote Nevada.

Our constitutional urges were so strong and they felt so true, yet still, the mainstream shunned us for them.

David Bowie…. okay okay, just give me a sec. His passing there, guess it dug deep… Giving me feelings… You know how you put stuff in a closet and you don’t look in there, and then something happens one day and it all just comes spilling out in tears, gunfire and arson? That’s what this is like. I’m just a little emotional here, but let me tell you, if there’s one thing David Bowie taught me, it’s that it’s okay to be different, and I will be different for the Constitution, knowing that it is okay to enforce my interpretation of the Constitution on the nation by any means necessary.

Ryan Bundy: Hallelujah, they named a knife after the shape shifter! Bowie was the man!!

Ammon Bundy: As you might imagine, many of the men are shaken, some so much so that all of their resolve has left them. We lost five men to grief last night. Crippled by sadness, they drove home to their wives and families, and soon will be watching the NFL playoffs and listening to their favourite David Bowie songs. We wish them godspeed. However, the rest of us have rededicated ourselves to the struggle David would want us to fight. David Bowie, apart from being a creative genius, generous spirit, and fashion icon, was first and foremost a patriot, and he would want us to continue in our battle against tyranny.

Ryan Bundy: Anybody who slept with Susan Sarandon and lists Frank O’Hara amongst his favourite poets is okay in my books! He’s my starman in the sky!

Ammon Bundy: And so, until the government– stooge to the bird lobby– cedes to our demands and gives us, The People, all the land they own, we will remain, defending freedom.

We will be heroes.

Ryan Bundy: Please, American patriots, do not forget to send in food and snack donations, keeping in mind some of the warrior’s dietary restrictions, such as nuts and gluten! Nuts and gluten are weapons of tyranny! Just press Donate on the Donate tab on our Facebook page. Long live our Space Oddity and death to tyranny!

When I got into the taxi I was startled by how pleasant it actually was outside. The weather, if I had to describe it, was rather gentle and I was entirely embarrassed to have thought there was some sort of storm thundering around outside.

I told this to the driver, explaining that I was originally from Ottawa where winter was a bare-knuckled punch to the face and there, I wouldn’t have even noticed this little snow shower. He laughed, “Yeah, I know what you mean, man. I’m from Calgary and winter is a different game altogether. I used to be a trucker out there and often when you’re driving, you’re in the wilderness, and when you come across the mountains, well, I tell you, it’s something else. It’s like they have their own weather systems. You’re alone on the road and you feel absolutely tiny before them, and all around you, everywhere you look, just blankets of snow, snow covering everything! I actually found it eerie, and when a storm swept in off one of those mountains, oh boy! Suddenly, and I mean this, you couldn’t see a thing, complete whiteout, and there was nobody there to help you! Just keep your hands on the wheel,  your eyes open, hope there’s no avalanche. It really felt like nature was just going to swallow you up and vanish you from the face of the earth. And keep in mind, I was driving a huge rig, but hell, that was just a toy in comparison. I swear, I never felt so vulnerable or mortal, and after awhile I couldn’t take it, which is why I took up driving a cab. I feel safe in the city, this,” he gestured to the outdoors, “this shit is nothing.”

The bus negotiates the winter night:
a flickering ship in the pine forest
on a road as narrow and deep as a dead canal.

Few passengers: some old, some very young.
If it stopped and switched off its lights
the world would be deleted.

Ford has submitted an audition tape with a number of sample interviews he’s conducted, and this is a small selection:

Doug Ford interviews Deepak Chopra (Indian-American author, public-speaker, businessman and physician)

Doug Ford: So, what do you like better being a doctor or being a businessman?

Deepak Chopra: Well, we are more than just the labels that society puts on us. Yes, it is true that I am a businessman and doctor, but I, like all human spirits, am many things, and everything that I do nourishes my soul equally.

Doug Ford: I’m a very successful businessman. We make labels. We’re called Deco Labels. Three different locations, two in the GTA and one in Chicago. Deepak, let me ask you, you ever been to Chicago?

Deepak Chopra: I have been many times and will be there next week to promote my new book, Why is God Laughing: The path to joy and optimism.

Doug Ford: That’s great. You should take in a Blackhawk’s game and go to Michael Jordan’s steak house. Jesus, those are some good goddamn steaks.  Do you eat steak in India? I mean, you folks worship cows, you’d think you’d know and appreciate how delicious steak is. By the way, I’ve always admired the Indian people, you guys are great, very colourful and polite.

Doug Ford interviews Suzanne Somers (comedienne, actress and businessperson)

Doug Ford: Let me tell you, thirty years ago you were just about the hottest thing I ever saw. Chrissy Snow. Jesus Christ. Hot. And let me tell you, Three’s Company, that was a real comedy. Classy.

Suzanne Somers: Thank you.

Doug Ford: So, you write poetry in your spare time?

Suzanne Somers: I’ve always felt the need to express myself creatively.

Doug Ford: I like to box. Sometimes shot put. Okay, my producer wants me to read one of your poems. It’s from a collection called Touch Me: The poems of Suzanne Somers. I bet you have a lot of takers when people hear you say, “touch me,” eh? Right for the boobs.

Suzanne Somers: I mean it spiritually, not physically.

Doug Ford: Yeah, whatever. So it’s called “Organic Girl,” and it goes like this:

Organic girl dropped by last night

For nothing in particular

Except to tell me again how beautiful and serene she feels

On uncooked vegetables and wheat germ fortified by bean sprouts

Mixed with yeast and egg whites on really big days

She not only meditates regularly, but looks at me like I should

And lectures me about meat and ice cream

And other aggressive foods I shouldn’t eat.

Nice. Okay, I got a two-parter for you. So, what’s the theme of this poem and you ever have any work done? You still look pretty good.

Doug Ford interviews Tanya Tagaq (award winning throat singer)

Doug Ford: Sorry, I had a real hard time there with your last name. If you’re in show business you might want to change it so that it’s easier to say and remember. Just smart business.

Tanya Tagaq: I like my name as it is, thank you.

Doug Ford: (Stares at her, a burning silence for 20 seconds.) Are you saying you don’t care about business?

Tanya Tagaq: No, I’m saying I care about my name.

Doug Ford: You’re First Nations, right? Am I right? Yeah, look, don’t you think if maybe you guys were better at business you wouldn’t have signed all those treaties where you gave up prime real estate for bracelets and you wouldn’t always be asking tax payers for hand-outs? So maybe business is important, okay? You get it? (Aggressively bangs question cues cards on table) Alright, so what the hell is throat singing anyway?

Good afternoon, everybody, happy Wednesday! I hope you all enjoyed the poem I posted on Facebook today. It’s about an Amish girl and snow, really sweet. I thought I’d take some questions, but first I want to address something that’s being weighing heavily on my mind.

I have done some things that are contrary to my values. I tortured some folks. I understand why it happened, and I think it’s important that we all remember how lonely, frightened and angry I was feeling after the Twin Towers fell. I was really furious, drinking pretty heavily at the time and the truth is that I wanted nothing more than to lash out. I think many of us were feeling that way, and I know that my partner-in-torturing-folks, Vera, certainly was.

But remember, Vera, who is a patriot, was under tremendous pressure at that time. She was working really hard at two kitchen jobs, unsure about whether to get back with her ex and had just had her bike stolen.

That’s quite a bit to handle, and she was simply doing the best she could under difficult circumstances. However, having said all that, the simple truth is that we did some things that were wrong.

Waterboarding violates my ideals and values.

Nothing, not even finding out where Vera’s stolen bicycle was, and if it was her ex who stole it, is worth violating our values for. Vera and I crossed a line, and this needs to be understood and accepted, and we, as drinking buddies, need to take responsibility so that hopefully we don’t torture any more folks in the future.

Kids, let me say to you, torturing folks is wrong. It’s not what Michael Murray stands for, and it’s my hope that this sad series of incidents over the summers of 2011 and 2012 and 2013, remind us once again, that our character has to be measured not by what we do when things are easy, but what we do when things are hard.

*********************************

Adega

128 Palomino Drive

San Francisco

415. 866. 2014 (Reservations recommended)

The fish’s head, with eyes as gleamy as Brigitte Bardot staring up at you from the beach, the waves washing against her legs like the breath of angels that always knew your name and your love and your god, and the hot yes and now of it,

had been set on the bottom of the bowl so that it looked up at you as if asking you the question you always knew that one day you were to be asked, and beside it the chef had placed another piece of trout, this one rolled with herbs and sea salt and smoked just to the point of ruby-hued doneness, like a sunset fallingfallingfalling and then rising, now within. It was one of the most exquisite things I ate last year, and I would return to Adega in an explosive, radiant, madly speeding BOOM. Highly recommended.

New Town Coffee House

98 Madison Avenue

Chicago, Illinois

(Phone number not available)

Careening into the New Town Coffee House the first thing that struck me was how the sunlight exploded and ran about the place like a mad, dizzy child hungry for the face of God. Hungry? Yes, all my life hungry, hungry for it all and more, hungry for her hair curling around her chin hungry for the broken promises and the industrial man hungry for all the images through all time spinning like daisies, hungry for a grilled cheese sandwich? Yes, Please! I ordered one straight away, my need for it an electrical current ripping through my body like sex, but I had to wait, I had to wait, I had to travel back in time, to the cow before the cheese, to the wheat before the bread and it was too long it was too damn long and so I spun out of there flashing flashing flashing.

At any rate, Rob officially registered to run for re-election on January 2, being the first and so far only candidate to do so. It was at this time that Rob unveiled the official campaign slogan for the October 27^th election: Ford more years!

This is where the mayor and I run into a disagreement. I think it’s a bad campaign slogan and that he should have gone with one of the suggestions I made to him during one of our late night brainstorming sessions:

1. EVERYTHING IS FINE
2. ROB FORD: BRINGING THE NFL TO YOU
3. ELITES MAKE ME PUKE
4. ROB FORD: THE DARK KNIGHT
5. FORD TOUGH

6. ROB FORD: FOR A BIRDLESS TORONTO

7. MOVING FORWARD AND FORDWARD.

8. GET LUCKY.

9. IN FORD WE TRUST

10. ROB FORD: A FORMULA FOR SUCCESS

11. FORDING OUR STRUGGLES TOGETHER

12. ROB FORD: WORKING FOR THE WEEKEND

13. FORD YOU!

14. ROB FORD: SHOOTING THE PAST IN THE HEAD

15. IT’S ROB’S JOB, DAMMIT!

16. A PUSSY IN EVERY POT

17. HOPEFULLY CUTTING THE WASTE/WAIST

18. FORDAPALOOZA

19. ROB FORD: TOO LEGIT TO QUIT (This one has theme music and signature campaign parachute pants)

The present regime is concerned that this is not reflective of the sophisticated, even progressive nature of Iran, as well as being an obvious diplomatic hindrance. With that in mind, the government is considering some alternate slogans, a few of which appear below:

1. AMERICA, WE ARE CONCERNED ABOUT YOUR OBESITY!!
2. AMERICA, YOU ARE BEING UNKIND!!
3. AMERICA, WE DO NOT HATE THE JEWS!!
4. AMERICA, THE TWERKING, IT IS NOT DECENT!!
5. AMERICA, WE HAVE NEVER INVADED ANOTHER COUNTRY!!
6. AMERICA, YOU DO NOT KNOW WHAT FOOTBALL IS!!
7. AMERICA, ARE YOU HAPPY?! WE WORRY!!
8. AMERICA, PLEASE HEAR OUR POEM!!
9. AMERICA, THIS IS QUITE SERIOUS
10. AMERICA, WHEN WILL YOU BE ANGELIC?!