la carovana della violenza [outake no. 26]

might th wrong time
be in
these days?

       mid-twenties speakeasies
       are th rage
       w-all my friends

                          black eyes   red bread   

                                hammer bisexual martinis

                          he hammerd wooden nails

into my dreamfloor, come over draped in bloom
so we have sickles in our eyes so what

       a windmill
       a good funeral dance

                           we only lastd 35 hours dead

down here in my creek [th rolla sesh iii]

you are birds

                                                       people don’t need love
                                                       they need success of one form or another
                                                       it can be love
                                                       but it doesn’t have to be
                                                                                                -bukowski

says, an appearance
you are birds

                              two burgers
                              & two cold beers

two burgers & two cold beers, says, 

beside you -- goodnight -- little world war two

oh, is that what you are calling her

                              iv been called worse)

th german version
on special occasions, or in th bush

on sunday. you got a little fresh in th dark. yes, 

everything is so predictable, yes,

everything -- two burgers, two cold beers & world war two

on special occasions

down here in my creek [th rolla sesh ii]

work, drink, rinse, repeat

Th best showers were when I was a bartender, & th
faint smell of booze on my body. th northern
sun that rises at four in June. th black candle against
th blinds of everyone
I thought of love. b/c I was new

& it was nothing to do w hot water or becoming
clean, but th black candle & th fact it was bright
again before I’d go to sleep. in my pockets
$$$ from th men & women
to hear th twist of a bottle or another hitting another

for I was born yesterday & what th devil holds
at home alone for th waitresses
who were ready
for someone to happen. our black clothes were uniforms
& we laughd at nothing or summer rains
in anticipation of hard drinks on th soft red chairs
when th doors were lockd

seeing how things were hard before, like th top of th bar
was th top of th world
for dancing, & knowing little of th future I wld fall asleep.
in & out of th shower, I wld count my $$ & laugh
& pull th blinds

down here in my creek [th rolla sesh]

City fear to humour & we laugh along

Take a city artist & stick it in the backcountry for a week to see what comes.

A video screening from last year's Muskwa Kechika Artists Camp at Donna Kane & Wayne Sawchuk's place in Rolla last weekend revealed one possibility.

By floatplane & packhorse, artists Sally McKay & Von Bark were thrust from Toronto's College Street deep into northeast B.C., along with a number of other artists. Not the everyday transition.

But that's one of the hooks of the now annual camp: shocking artists into a foriegn environment & asking them to relate the experience.

& in this case, McKay & Bark could be cast as confused & scared. Humour, often a by-product of fear, was a main theme in the videos; they were more along the lines of B-science fiction movies & children shows than an Audubon documentary.

McKay's first of two short videos was a spoof on grizzly bear enthusiast & all-round nut Timothy Treadwell, who lived among the bears in Alaska's Katmai National Park for 13 summers.

In the style of Treadwell's raw video footage, McKay trekked through downtown Toronto to the visit the grizzlies at the Toronto Zoo. It was darkly humourous when she reached the bears' pen, where they appeared unhealthy & lethargic.

The point was clear. However, despite his death wish, the "Grizzly Man's" strength was his passion, & McKay was ignorant of that fact.

However, the trip through the concrete forest did succeed in disorientating the viewer, who may have expected something more pastoral, which set up the proper reaction for part two.

Many artists-- like her father, poet Don McKay, for instance, who was on the same trip -- try naively to understand nature (even by claiming they are not). They sit on a rock and stare into a creek, waiting for a revelation (which is incidentally pervading them at all times). But McKay's takes a refreshing short-cut.
Her second video featured a fairy nymph (an actor reminiscent of a SCTV extra) that dances through hyper-morphed camera tricks against a backdrop of Muskwa scenes. Jerky movements & scared facial expressions relay the inner-turmoil the actor faces in nature.

The nymph strides over lakes & through forests to escape a bear. The backcountry is a dreamland. But it was funny & we laughed.

Now, Bark is not a good singer, nor, apparently, a videographer. He is one of those artists that thrives on nonsense, & therein lies his merit because he makes it watchable.

The first, Blair Witch-ish video has Bark tent-bound & humming a song about having six fingers. Then he rolls over and goes to sleep.

The second video features a backdrop of cardboard mountains, which probably wasn't filmed in the Muskwa, & was soundtracked by another song of random lyrics.

Everyone enjoyed the videos -- mostly through laughter. But the artistic merit became secondary to how the two people from from Toronto dealt, through art, with being trapped in nature for a week.

While the camp produced a multitude of work in different mediums, it can on one level be seen as an experiment on how artists from different areas of the country express their natural, northeast B.C. experience.

Bark's videos seem to have no real point, but at the same time it's better than another poem that wrestles the mystery of nature to exhaustion.

my chemikiller pt 7

[a re-write]

my chemikiller pt 6

we walk around & drink some more
breathe in th cedars & th’ocean blood
flowing over th stones of black
rock tee’s

some of this magic is centuries old
or only just sixteen

december’s cuts are finally healing
in this field

there is no place to disappear. bedroom anger shows
on webcams, shooting yourself
through a shower curtain

black gown rain. beneath th dark flower
speakers to heaven. believe th grass stains &
in th warm beer. th screaming sins



after th show it is dark & we follow
lit cigarettes across soccer fields
to th bus stop

taste th dye in a stranger’s hair

follow th virgin’s tracks across th stadium

see th killer in a blue sweater

drag

mosh. old & young body frustrations

th baby open

I was at a party standing in th kitchen &
I’m nos ture how th topic
got on me & a baby

But this snake abt four-months pregnant
came in in her underwear &
startd to try to sell me her unborn
for $6,000 obo

Not even knowing th going rate
I looked back & forth from my beer
to her bottle of water & to her
smooth white – thinking where did this
come from – round stomach & told her straight up
I had no need for her offer

But addd that I wld like to be inside her
instead
for th modest price of nothing
towards my dream of sleeping
w/a knockd-up snake

jays lost

for bowering's sake
I tryd watching another baseball game
but there was really nothing poetic
abt it

my chemikiller pt 5

                                  all th cracks in bc
                                  led here tonight

nowhere. thunderbird,
this is th weather of our
anger. w/o skin &
it’s rolld out in ceremony 

somewhere, back in th womb
now they have turnd on th sirens
for us 

children unleashd
in saint anger
in mother’s red dress
in father’s old politics. listen,
justice is done
at th door of colours – come down
w/th stadium killer 

eyes as wide
as white holes. this howl we love
when we are alone
& in pillows hear footsteps
howl silently

     one at a time 

                   thousands of voices        ( screaming

stop

my chemikiller pt 4

it’s as easy to imagine that we are th shadows of society

that form in th pain of

I want to go out tonight alone. miserable

fists, widow kiss, rise against, th stars turnd away

to look at you. strangers are so white & beautiful     ISM

                phantoms
                phields

                I want to go out tonight alone on th
                to look at you

in mascara rain, so depressd & so ded
following you in suburbia. did I ever tell you 

                I feel
                you

never let th welcome in. torn fashion face,
wet from rain

give me th strength to walk th stairs

to th children we’ll not have tonight                 never coming

coming home never coming home never coming home never ISM
home never coming home never coming home never coming ISM
never coming home never coming home never coming home ISM
coming home never coming home never coming home never ISM

why cant I scream
 

my chemikiller pt 3

why shld I care

                miss black fingers
                miss black hair

miss wasting away. gone
blue for sky. waiting  

for something to come
absorb th rain

~

th hearts to be sacrificed again
th’endless lies
th corporate fuckers
th median rage
th media minds
th strange bedrooms. th shots. th window escapes. th’aqua blue 

lip rings. th vancouver eye
liners. th night traffic 

th’endless shots / th pain. th singer

my chemikiller pt 2

Luz, you obey th dark cries. like war comes
to a quiet village. tanks
through a forest & upon th house
that has been there

Forever. at its feet, th body of th beast
is long &
it climbs into yr bedroom, up th spine &
to th heart

What yr body is worth. you crawl on th wet
grass while
singers fight. hold you to reach towards
a hospital stay

     th punk prostitutes
     th pain

mfortable.