girl meets world

girl meets world

moving too fast

still getting

put on blast

for dirty dishes

battling dirty deeds

one tear at a time

crime pays

so she in line

for unemployment

cheques bounce

like her head nods

to instrumentals

new essential

nutrients

finding solace

in the snare

and benevolence

in the bass

reminiscent of

space and time

lunchroom rhymes

of fellas playing

hook line and sinker

with moves

that would only

sink her

self-wealth but

investments

in real

self-interest

has her out of the red

no more being

smoked out

choked out

looking for a

way out

in the mirror

images are clearer

12 mega-pixels

in the graduation

picture

from hey young girl

to woman

of the world

knowledge is power

so she bats clean-up

always coming home

to the real fan

real man in her life

lil’ man learning

how to clean up

respecting when..

she cleans up

after him

and doesn’t

holla or stare when…

she cleans up

mother not ma

when she steps out

careful not show out

rockin the clutch

in clutch moments

still learning and atoning

all the while growing

world meet girl…

accept her and  her terms

word.

guy and madeline on a park bench

Being a fan of indie flicks is a May - December relationship, armed with not much more than a brief synopsis and a trailer, if that, you often go in on a flick and sometimes come way very disappointed. This past week i caught a flick i had very little to go on, guy and madeline on a park bench. Described as a jazz musical, it caught my eye given my love of jazz and growing love for musicals.

Without going in too deep on the synopsis, first -time director Damien Chazelle creates a jazzy yet sometimes stark and  frustrating landscape focused on the boy meets girl, girl falls for boy, boy leaves girl narrative. Title characters Guy, a musician whose first love will always be music, and Madeline, a girl searching for something, anything in life interact with a series of interesting people throughout the film ultimately to meet again in its final scene.


What struck me at times was the director's reliance on the actors to use their facial expressions and solely that - the movie is not heavy on dialogue. While frustrating at times, with sober second thought the realism it conveyed was spot on. The up and down moments of relationships and life in general don't often come accompanied with "coffee is for closer" type speeches. Its the look on your partner's face that is the indicator that you've messed up.


I should have written this when the movie was in town last week, but it may return. If it does, its definitely worth a viewing.

dope scene from guy et madeline

colours...

white wine
black books
kind of blue
reminiscent of
summer brown
life much like hair
is an exercise of
dealing with greys
chasing
monochrome dreams
to get out
of the red
til then
i'm green
like envy behind the ears
and not in pockets
found lint
instead of her love
thought repair
was a yellow page
mission
but this purple
is all i got left
thinking damn...
orange would have looked good on her

players

I was at a dilla tribute party last year at a spot deep in queen west and the dj had gone through your "typical" dilla standards and the amazing samples that provided the inspiration. The crew I was with was dropping hints to the dj it was that time, the party was dying down the crowd had filtered and a few loyal supporters were remaining at the bar and a couple tables. dj finally dropped the record, a collective cheer/sigh went up and at that moment, strangers became family, drinks in the air, drunken staggers morphed into rhythmic two-steps, we acknowledged the DJ and stumbled out into the crisp winter night hooded and goosed up… players.

One of my fav things to do is drive or venture on foot or bike around the city while most of it sleeps. Driving slow, as Kanye West once put it, is a practice that meets at the intersection of deep contemplation and casual observation. Driving with no direction down empty lit streets and letting whatever the vibe of the moment be your guide. Players by Slum Village is often the soundtrack for those moments, the subdued, the laid back vibe of nighttime.

We don’t care how or where

we end up there, wherever it may be

no compass or telescope

but finding depth in one word answers

and finding common ground with

exotic dancers

fully clothed

curbside dividing cab fare

stretching a dollar

after stretching for dollars

no discrimination, all colours

lipstick and collars

blue and white speeding thru the red

while we wait for green

posers provide the inspiration

no racing, embracing the slow but steady

save the ready set go for rush hours

There’s power in patience

And patients suffering insomnia

gazing out of window panes

gazing at the caddy in adjacent

lane

gazing at the amazing way

midnight plays the blues

the crew cruises through

smoke stacks and ascends

like wind off the lake

we relate, debate, and laugh it off

drive off solemn in stewardship

players…

two sides of the same coin

certain parameters given to me in a challenge defined the following piece.
read #1, then read #2, then read #1 and probably read #2 again and see if you can figure out what the challenge was.

#1
regrets? no,
but caresses foolishly friction bore fiction
this crumpled paper laid
on
stages winning award
on
parts played
we
embrace this
delayed departure
colours neutral
stained heart
my death approaching
was she love peronsified?

...

#2
personified love?
she was approaching death
my heart stained neutral colours
departure delayed this embrace
we played parts on award winning stages
on laid paper crumpled this fiction
bore friction foolishly
caresses
but no regrets

untitled.

words form like mindstates
barely legible and bound by lines
time heals wounds
and practice makes better penmanship during rush hour
in the interim i'm scribbling and sinking deeper into
a system of off-beat rhythms
finding colour in the monochrome
and searching for love amidst the monotone
dialtones hoped for
but similar to HBO i'm wireless
only secure plan in life is data
they say no man is an island but at times
i'm pondering who's ladder
i'm climbing up
soliders of cross double crossing
got the flock and the shepherd
looking lost caught between jacob and jesus
these days its more than the weather
that changes from season to season keeps us
teething
seething
feeding
needing
breeding
believing

burn...

its the 3rd degree
but no PhD.
looking for a PhD.
while she masters
the mistress
damsel in distress
two tiered
health care
got her
feeling the burn
in pocket
to go with
discomfort
and humidity
worthy of summer time
got that summer shine
lack of melanin
surplus of pain
but nothin some
calamine lotion
and career counseling
cant overcome
student loans
and cell phone
bills
makes that trip
to the salon
a hard one
add to the fact
she can't lean
strapped for cash
and burnt ash
on back
smells like...

slr

a challenge i've accepted this month is to write and post something new everyday. 30 for 30... and i'm already a day late so i'll be needing to make it up down the line.

there is
a beauty
in bokeh
seeing what’s
necessary
against a shallow
depth of field
that is
until the shallow
depth of field
is solitary
on stage
so light and dark
hues tints and shadows
all exist
away from
best focus
the beginning
of
the slip and loss
of grip
on one's locus
missteps
occur
this is where
starting
to fade
can't be fixed by
potions or lotions
hopeless as the colour
balance is attempted
on soaked coasters
and fallen posters
amid
the creases
and pieces
the
natural
way
to
sepia
is
discovered
mesmerizing are the melancholy
viewing image history
and seeing
how things went from
untouched
to photoshopped
to shopping parts
and hearts
on the open market
left tryin to
viewfind self
stealthily through
turning points
and after thoughts
after much thought
and poignant conversation
preservation was best
left as a task for self
it appears
we are highlighted
by the wealth
of errors crystallized
in the moonlight
its nights like this
where my aperture work
is more miss than hit
and i question how
the composition
went from symphonies
of bliss
to scattered riffs
so I’m learning
to live
through
transition
from the
point and shoot
and smile style
to the intricate
narrative of a
single lens
reflective

of montreal

you

are the one

who slips away

or rather the

one i slip away

to

long enough

to get caught up

short enough

to let curiousity

come before

contempt

blend

disjointed discours

and staggered

step

mon ombre

looks cooler

when you're around

not bound by

stoop steps

but child-like

professing love

or at least

engouement

from le boulevard

til we see again

delete

lack of

control

and no

alternative

options

left us

no choice

token black

man

stretching

a token

as far as it can

go

in a place like

this

early dismissal

reminscent

of days

long gone

and songs

sung softly

like psalm 119

but with brevity

happy are those

whose way is

perfect

so the sad sit

amidst

drying palettes

and empty canvases

making nothin

with very little

breakin bad

and quoting

riddles with no humour

a reprise

of

repossesion and removal

control

or the lack of

with no

alternative approval

a restart is neccesary

but something

is missing.

leave it all behind... by the foreign exchange

it went from track 8 to track 9

quicker than the street corner release

this was live

sadness in dolby digital

from the house of blues

to a house of blue

hues and blue views

on take off

a window seat close

but far from emergency

exits

so its hectic

coming home to you

but knowing a house

of cards

is the weakest foundation

to stand on

while i'm the

last man standing

holding the joker

all in with a bad pokerface

no king and queen meeting here

like roncesvalles to corktown

on the 504

you were something to behold

our stories now grow sordid

i stumble thru streets

off whiskey sours

sweeter than you

it only took a few nights

to need a daykeeper

looseleaf notice

apply within

preferred experience with

valediction

and solo subscription

to issues

troubling

love is all or nothing

here i wave

white flags meant for

de fete

in defeat

with the title track on repeat

pointless but still

i wanna know...

bleeker street

where no parades were held

no flags were drawn at half-mast

for your first lady

your matriarch

salute only paid in hush tones

carried by the wind

from sherbourne

and wellesley

and along dimmed halls

of fudger house

life stories

told by those

the remnants of a

commonwealth long gone

so bleeker street

where no 21 guns blast

and no live to air in memoriam

broadcast

just a somber stream

of people

entering 55

carrying the wind

to speak softly

and smile

amidst the tears

smiles for a life lived

tears for a shade lost

a tree grew on bleeker

for many seasons

and for this reason

the wind carries

from the south-east

parliament

and regent park

pay their peace

passengers on

the same streetcar

of desire

the 506 passes by

to play

symbolic

much like the day

it fades away

into the night

as a lone figure

stumbles through

cabbagetown

a loyal servant

to the crown

removed

from his days

in the kingdom

weary but wiser

reminiscent of

the houses of aberdeen

ontario

winchester

and rose

they pause

as the wind howls

and blows

a lamp

flickers out

the men on the corner

have finished

their stout

they take muted steps home

as the city lights

shine upon the throne

the queen is dead

long live the queen

changes

love

a thug

friends

strangers

seasons

reasons

layouts

payouts

stages

webpages

big box poetic... the intro

2010... old out. new in.

big box poetic is a series of writings i'm working that cover a range of things personal and particular to me whilst interwined with hints of pursuits and passions from my profession and my past... or something like that.

big box poetic
the anti-mixed use plan
with mechanisms equipped for
storage and release of big thoughts
big boxes chase the sun west
a place to rest regroup re-up
retouch a sketch of my soul n heart
photo shopped for promotional purposes
as i shop photos of a previous existence
on the options market
looking for leverage amidst buyers targets
tryin to sell in winter
what i couldn't drop in summer
even tho both seasons be the same
the game told me all season radials
but sold me
static airtime on CB radio
left me assessing checks n balances
but balance hasn't existed
since weight was placed
onto a ship sinking
under the stress of relating
time spent now amounts to something
fading
i'm left contemplating
public consultation
along the avenue
begging for change
but accepting of cash or credit
sometimes i think
just dead it
deal with the debts
in progressive steps
reflect and limit
the waxing poetic
on nostalgic sets
focus on the intersection
and community connects
stage 1 the concept plan
of big box poetic