Logos

The Rules of Etiquette. How can you avoid all kinds of trouble? Never be impolite. Being polite is a tricky thing. It requires that you predict the move of your opponent by one step. You have to forsee and avoid the oncoming barrage instead of getting embroiled in a conflict. The Rules of Etiquette follow the rules of common diplomacy.

But how did you transform in front of me in the elevator, Motion? Why did you tell me that I was everything you could see. I was all that you could see? How did you transform into something that looked exactly like me in the elevator? How did I write the code that changed the world? Why wasn’t Montreal allowed to have the Night of A Thousand Screams? Why haven’t I been able to have my night of a thousand screams? Why did I have to Bleed on the night of No Blood? I was doing Kung-Fu and it happened. The metal end of the half broomstick. How did I get the voice of the Universe?

Sifu, why was I chosen? Why don’t I know how to control my own powers? How can I walk so normally through life and no fly in the sky when I want to, or float through the minds of all humanity at the same time like I used to? Why can’t I perform the Crane as perfectly anymore? Why is Gravity so heavy and quarrelsome with me right now? Why have I gained so much weight since putting my shoulder back in place?

Why must I be so confused by all the information that my life has gathered? Where are the voices that guided me this way and that like eunuchs at the court of a Chinese emperor? Why has Fay Wong been allowed to win? My mortal enemy? Why aren’t I still bad-ass? How was I able to talk to Gravity? How did I defeat Gravity at the Fountain of Youth? Why have I grown old since?

Dear CSIS, why was a led around Montreal in military convoys only to meet the head of Hell’s Angels? Who were those Arab guys at the bar who looked through my bag? How did I survive that encounter without being shot dead? Why were there so many guys coming out of the shadows at that bar? How did that man at the Greek restaurant know to find me there? How did he know I would react the way that I did? How is it all started when I emailed the CDS? How is it that that coincided with Putin meeting Bush at Walker’s Point? Why did I have Henry Kissinger’s phone number in my Palm Pilot?

Dear Birt, who was that Motorcycle rider wearing the black ski mask? Why did I have to see him on my way back from the Synagogue? Dear Sifu, why did I see him again when I went to the martial arts equipment store? Who was that masked rider?

Was that Fay Wong? Was that the fight that I was supposed to fight? How did I manage to duel that taxi driver when I came back from the martial arts equipment store? Did he understand that I was paying with two-dollar bills that I had spent my entire life saving up? Why did it mean so much to me?

Who was the taxi driver who was taking me to class that day? Why style of martial arts did he practice? What were the flower and the feather left there for me? Who were those two men in the BMW who watched us duel? Why was that the most beautiful duel I have ever had? Was that the fight that I was supposed to win? How did I have so much floating energy?

Logos

Where are you Motion? You came into my life at just the right time. I had just defeated Gravity at the Fountain of Youth, and was about to begin my Triumph. You were to show me to the CDS. You were to show me a good time. Where were my three blonds and my twelve lictors? Where were my planes in the sky? Why didn’t that girl with the big boobs undress before me in the street? Why didn’t my bike key work on that random red car we walked by? Why weren’t we in the future? Why did it take your brains that long to figure out what I was talking about? Did you actually think that we were in the future? Or was I talking so fast you thought culture had advanced by leaps and bounds when it hadn’t even moved by a single afternoon? You weren’t from the future were you? You and everyone else had become so confused that you thought you had grown so much on that single night. But I still got the joke. But worse, I had to pay the price. I didn’t get to celebrate my Triumph. You rained on my parade, Motion. And you stole my camera from my hand. I lost my keys because of you. And you gave me nothing in return but a silly rubber ball. And you never showed up again. Except in the form of my camera, which happened to show up in my apartment a few weeks later. Why did you tell me you represented the CDS? How could this have happened to me? But more importantly, why did I want it to happen the way it did? Because my mind is in control of my life, and I need to prove you wrong, and I needed not see the CDS’s face when I went up to the Royal Suite of the Queen Elizabeth Hotel. I just needed to answer the phone, sit on the bed, and look out the window. The world had not changed so much. Only people had found their centers of gravity. Some of the world was still different that night. Some of the people were still being pulled by me.

Sifu, why didn’t you tell me sooner that you had dislocated my shoulder? Why was I forced to walked around in the world with such a deformity? Why is my right hand no longer cramping into a stiff claw anymore? How was I able to repair my own body? How? The blood in the veins on my right arms were at the point of bursting. Now my arm is perfect again. How was this done so safely? How did you give my right arm back to me?

In the end I needed to heal myself for the supermove to work so well. Only my own consciousness of what I had done could have saved me and the rest of humanity.

Logos

Logos and the power of gravity. Deep thoughts current parity.
The frat house and the Rathouse. I went to Ikea today.
This day in history is marked by a new mattress.
A single soul. A heart. A pulse. A vibration throughtelephone lines.
It is soft.
Ikea is something I like to think about. It is only a word. But it is a soft word. Swedish design.
The emperor resigned. The mattress was made in Poland. I bought it in Vienna. And it is called the Sultan.
Sultan of my heart. Empress of my soul. I used to sing to her. Delphina.
I used to bring to her. Wild flowers and tales.
I saw the applicants at the Academy today. Is my future in there midst. I feel at home today.
It is soft.
But the logic of my rhyme. The rhythm of our times. The system the wisdom of our sight, lies beneath the surface. The purchase of a word. It brings objects and sounds and sights together. In a painting. An Idea. An approximation always, but always good. It is alive and vibrant. Gender-neutral and violent. Silent and my rent. So many forces pull us down and up and around and then again. I said it again. But friend. Foe. Ho. Mo. Behold a man. Ecce Homo. Voila un homme. Pontus Pilate said, and so did Napoleon when he first saw Voltaire. Voila un homme. I am a man, a woman, a son, a path, a lamb, a steak. Mistake, rephrase. Unphased. Malaise. But Bangkok was flue-ridden. Now I am bed-ridden. And Beijing will be crowned with laurels at Notre-Dame. The glory!

I walked by Beethoven’s 1803 house today. He moved around a lot in Vienna. Around twenty times, they say. Hearsay whisper softly. Killing me softly. Who else is left? Grads and accolade. Lady Marmalade. Forget-me-nots sprouting on the night’s Calpernian shore. Sprightly sayings. Refrained. Gusto from Godiva. She rode naked through the streets, and all the Emperor’s clothes couldn’t make her more savoury. Sausage of all nations. Bent and boiling. Troiling coiling foiling toil and trouble in a cauldron technique with Rommel and vixens in the desert. I was a quartermasters before I became a strategist. Now that I am a man. Gabriel and Luke were made. Gospel means good news. Eli Eli Lama Sabaktane? My lord, my lord, why hast though forsaken me? I am fortune’s tool. Logos.

Harbour

Tickle me. I have fingers long and slender.
Sickle and hammer. Karl Marx was a communist pig.
Down with the Reds. Sickle and Hammer.
No more applause, fickle and clamour.
I founded Al Qaeda by pickling my glamour.
I took part in the September 11th attacks on the United States.
I have plotted to injure innocent women and children.
I confess to my crimes and deserve to be shot and hung twice.
Tickled yet? Fickle yet? Fame or foe? Formed? Deformed am I?
Twisted like the sickle and bent and pickled am I?
You with your long and slender legs. Unused to the farm.
The amour the sledge. Did we become one? A Soviet of Saints?
Terrorist twisted in a tail of two cities. New York and DC.
Quebec and BC, actually. If you care to know.
But I am guilty and deserve no trial and punishment.
I am free to speak of the possible plot to overcome liberty.
Missed the statue but a hair. Long and slender.
Finally.

When that pours I tried. Hollered shrill voices on the night’s icy air. Pluto’s shores. Cold and mercurial. I want a divorce. Calpernia! Where is my hound and flesh? Give me my bond. James Bond. No. Gold. Midas. And jewels. Ruby and sapphires. Jades and jasmine. Marigolds and marmalade. There is a sequence of surrender. Suicidal notes at the end of the line. Beethoven and Calpernia ate pistachios on the night’s Plutonian shores. The thermometer’s mercury was made of water. And the orbit around the sun took all night. But at last, she was well dressed, since the divorce, you know. I know, you know, I know, you know. Confucius can be confusing if Calpernia can have her adamantine way. But Caesar will always weep when that the poor have tried. He will leap to paramount plutonian Octaviouses. Cry not.

England was a rock upon a stone tossed from a pebble beach called the continent. It was Normandy to the Franks and the Turks. But to the rest of us it was beyond the pale. The vale cast upon a thousand and one flights over and over again. Circular messages twirling tantalizing paths to land off Plymouth Rock.

Delphina

Forgive me father for I have sinned.
The winds have swayed me again.
To seek in a corner
To think in abstract
Hardly formidable words
Whispers thrown and blown away
I am frayed fomented abstrayed
Hummed humbled bubbled troubled doubled over
Confused confessed convexed perplexed to the extreme
Apotheosis forces
Apex with Amex flex flux lux
Big bucks trucks
Keywords ideas fragmented thoughts
Completed code in today’s phrasioloverse
A curse fill your purse
With bread
He died for dough
My friend.
Google friend and you will find me.
Your father. Compulsion. Revulsion. Propulsion.
Figure skating and MMA fighting
Godfather and Martin Luther King
The hummingbird sings. Faster and faster through colours of green leaves and yellow and orange and red flowers.
Blurs to a bee on a pollen spree.
Napoleon had bees on his emblems
A caliph not a caitiff
You common cry of curs!
Curse the word
Lackaday
I don’t care for weeks.

Since I tried to forget about her a shadow augmented by growing tears
Swelling felling trees and flees
Marketing and business deals
It feels like chicken
Don’t think.
Blink. Spink. Pucker your lips and backflip through the SAT’s and keep the lees for lesser prices and better meals.
It feels like butter I muttered through the streets after forming foaming and finally
To the point I fingered her and figured her outside in and ass-backwards
A few words is all I have left about her
She is only whispers. Less a whimper. A flicker.
The trigger pulled the cows were bulls
Toro for trophies and deals at low low costs
With hands and lead.
I have souls of lead.
I am nearly dead.
No. Not nearly. One hundred percent better. Two hundred percent fitter.
Blip and trip through black tie affairs.
A red tango dress she tore off before kissing my ear with something true:
We are through. I puked and crew cut my hair.
Now it has flare. I don’t care for days. Lackadaise. A vase. Bisou. I miss you.

Pricked by a torn rose. A pose and vogued through a torn ear in Amsterdam.
With a collapsing palace roof.
The proof is in the doodling.
The feeling. The emotion of Radio-Canada. Je suis Quebecois. Toujours. Ma belle province.
Je t’aime. I didn’t have a chance from then on.
Julia walked into the room. She was dressed like a vestal virgin. I thought I was Augustus once. They called me Marc Antony on the lupercal. And thrice presented me with Olympus crowned and drowned and frowned upon in these quarters. But I am a jumble of turds and ideas and fees. Trees cut and blown in a candle sinking thinking ships. A slip. When did I grow strong? When did I switch from mustard to Dijon? The elbow with the asshole and a troll growing pink hair under a brigde in London and pricked by roses and poses and treasure troves of curves. That was her. She was my sin, my single dame. It was a shame. I am to blame. The lamb. I trollied and follied and thundered and blundered and fundered and gunned her down with salty chips and fish in the sea. Forgive me Delphina and all the girls I’ve loved before. I am fortune’s fool.

Guernica 2007

Task Force 107 War Memorial

This war memorial was commissioned by the Canadian Forces for 5000$. I had a moral objection and stopped the commission, but continued to do the painting. As well, while Task Force 107 was in Afghanistan, I marched this 7-foot by 8-foot canvass (with my drawings) onto the streets of Montreal with a bag full of markers and had the people add things.