by Jay Millar
demonstrate his songwriting abilities, appeared at the window and
began firing at Kurt Oswald. Bullet holes appeared about his head as would
a halo, holding the wild, triumphant look in his eye. A signature photograph, if
ever there was one. Neither Gwendolyn, nor baby Francis let out a scream,
but looked on with admiration. This, after all, was their family reunion.
Kurt finally slumped in his chair, gambler style, and we all said goodnight,
to Kurt as well, who thanked us for coming, (he shook our hands most
vigorously, although I admit there was something odd about it), until the
gun-man accidentally shot out the light and we watched death throes
seen only by strobelight.
Perfectly Ordinary Dream #4555 (July 7, 1997)
In one of Pound’s lost polaroids we find a cat in the shape of a human
dancing. It is a black cat against a black background, absolutely
grotesque, a puppet of souls. In another, there is an infant sleeping,
accompanied by a simple melody: ‘kyrie, kyrie, kyrie..’ In a third among
the hundreds lost, there is a potted flower sitting beneath the photo-
copied page from bissett’s Sailor, pinned to the watercolour of a space-
ship beside the shelf holding the radio and a collection of compact discs
and tapes. You can listen to the music. On the other side of the window
hangs a bird feeder where sparrows and other small birds, as yet
unnamed, gather to take the seed. Each one of them holds a polaroid in
their beak, an entire flock of clouds. Pound’s polaroids were lost at sea,
and at the present time, not one of them has been found.
Perfectly Ordinary Dream: An Essay (January 13, 1971)
Everyone needs a Book Thug. In fact, every publishing company should adopt a Book Thug, and then we’d see what could become of the industry in this country:
It was so exciting now that his new imaginary publishing company, Book Thug, had produced a first edition of poems. He had been out of his mind for weeks, planning it into being, and now that the imaginary deluxe edition by some obscure poet who had already received her half of the profit had hit the streets, manuscripts were pouring in from every obscure writer he could imagine.
While other publishing companies busy themselves producing massive quantities of identical textual material, in often boring and unattractive physical states, Book Thug only produces imaginary books in small editions, say between fifty to one hundred copies. (Oo! there’s one now!) Each one is an original, hand-made copy, and a delight to behold. Not only that, Book Thug splits the edition (the profit) with the author instead of paying her the usual ten percent royalty:
He did not feel cheated in any way that the author of the book had received exactly half of the print run as payment. He had merely built an acceptable piece of architecture for the author’s conception of a language, so both of them had had an equal responsibility to the finished product.
The question as to the success of an imaginary publishing company such as Book Thug lies only in the number of people who are willing to adopt it. Call it what you will, and when you do, and act upon it, you will discover both the freedom it offers, and the problems it presents, at any of the National Book Fairs, for instance, or in journals of literary review. The best thing to do in this case is to remain as imaginary as possible and let culture continue to battle at will:
The author was overjoyed with her half of the Book Thug edition. In fact, she was so pleased, that she herself had began producing her own imaginary publications under the name Ten O’clock Sharp. In just under a week she had built just under seven beautiful editions, and had distributed them accordingly: fifty percent here, fifty percent there, always placing her half of the profit on a shelf she had built specifically for that purpose. But it was becoming tiresome to have to explain to anyone who happened to visit her bookshop that the shelf was not empty. Exactly why people couldn’t see her books she could not imagine.
Hazel’s Dream (you are now in the present, reading)
In Hazel’s Dream she is not only a part of the world, but she is the
world, a whole planetary moment of breath and anguish and love, here
for her own sake as the planet is. When I saw the words ‘Legalize
Freedom’ scrawled across the bathroom wall of a restaurant some weeks
ago, I thought immediately of her, wanting to be permitted her own
stride during her time here without fear from the tyranny of assholes
et cetera. Or if she couldn’t be the Planet, perhaps she could become
a part of it without the sudden afterthought that others around her
will think her wrong or stupid or unsympathetic. In other words, the
freedom to participate wherever she may be upon whatever mind she
feels free to be, without making enemies in the process. Even if she
chooses to be uncomfortable with her surroundings. For me, language
is an entire planet, every angle of existence seems hinged upon it. I
have become a part of a planet where freedom of speech is the natural
product of experience. My general state of grief comes from spending
my working days in a place where such a phenomenon is not only
unappreciated, but does not exist. As D said when he stopped by one
morning to drop off the posters for the Scream, I’m deep behind enemy
lines, but because of the language (the planet, in all its ongoing
possibilities) life there is bearable, and at the same time I can
observe Success from a safe distance where I can learn the details
without the pressures of being involved. In Hazel’s Dream we are all
involved, everyone is on their own private level, interacting safely
and with vigorous appeal for the future of human knowledge, happiness
and the like. No matter what we do we are all allowed to do it, no
matter what we choose we have chosen it. There are no real sides
other than the ones we carry in our minds. In Hazel’s Dream we start
to work on those dividing lines, borders that never existed in the
first place until those pesky humans came along. I have met at least
nine incarnations of my wife to date, and I have to admit that each
one of them has been incredibly patient while the drunken orangutan
was writing, but you should see all of them walk into a room
together, no one on this planet could hope to write like that.
Notes
1 Note to POD # 1860: lives cannot be of any other being, only our own, until it becomes confused by the ongoing commentary of sexuality, (kiss me, kiss me you angel you beast) but because of our sudden admiration, where it may appear, we are often amazed that anything exists at all beyond the sensations we experience as they occur. And with all these beauteous forms, who must be considered at all costs, we shall bite the nails of lifeand die. Blake’s craggy deep opens upward, there is no place else for it to go.
James Liar was born in Edmonton, Alberta, in 1971, and moved to Toronto when he was 30. He lives near High Park with his wife Emma, a librarian and bookseller. Two previous books, The Sun Is So Dark (1998), and Wharts (2001), have appeared from Coach House Books.
portrait of James Liar by Alex Cameron
Short Ghosts
John Elliott
Remember childhood smallness
forever witchcraft,
openness, and a life
(alive) (eyes)
was they both looking out?
when could i tell the difference
between the small & now
specific points are so small
to the deity of tome
speak such a small language
&nbs
p; says we are anything at all
J.M.
Suicide Note on My Wedding Day
come & sit a while
I want to talk to you forever
things will always
never be the same
Heaven1
everyone is so asleep all the time
aren’t we such agile sleepwalkers
Hell2
everyone is so asleep all the time
aren’t we such agile sleepwalkers
Bike Poem3
on the bike
moving’s pace
Van Gogh’s Irises
are so blue against
taking a piss
the burgundy wall
into the toilet
there to receive
into the visions of it
Long Playing Record
the child’s first memory
would of course be the rain
falling out of the sun
& into the sky & at
the exact moment it touches
the earth evaporating
Untitled*
This poem is called FUCK YOU & is dedicated
to all those whose tyranny & greed will forever
spill me into contemplations of living poverty
within the trenches of stress, which is
Satan’s realm for these, the tears of our
present torment, as our hopes & joys,
happiness & the like, are struck down
in these the years of our lives, the core of which is now,
& tomorrow, & for all time. Someone is yelling
at me about the present. It is not my fault. As long as the
flood of the violent awash the land & work their ways
against the useless & stupid golden sun
Utopian dreams of our ancestors. These, all blazen
with colours/feelings/conversations & the like
COMMUNITY
the manifold of beauty in our otherwise meaningless lives,
WE ARE ALL GOD FOR THEIR SAKE
/////
they all become stressed to the point of non-being
here inside the lurching shine of false democracy
fake/fake/fake
(tyranny/democracy/greed)
Vote Now
Of Joy & in Sadness
There’s a particular brand of rain
Music that falls through the old radio
Joy of falling without worry
Landing exactly where you meant to
Listening to Rachmaninoff & the rain
Down Near The Creek Where The Rainbow Trout
walking beside the creek dad
points out how the setting is made
entirely of its components
just by being there it seems &
I declared the experience of nausea
in what appeared to be a spoken language
& everything
immediately witnessed was necessary
to disappear within myself
until the experience
&
I puked till I felt better
sorta digested spaghetti coating
the autumn goldenrod
quite a surprise no an honest shock
to find it there
the glistening sway
within the scenery
&
each of the components
one after the other
turn around as I turn around
that sweep
took them all in again
climbing up from the edge of the creek
over & over
until I am gone
dad waits there chewing tobacco
What It’s Like
balanced precariously the half shells of broken eggs
each containing the yolk of a slightly larger species
the delicate squashed membrane bleeds perfectly within itself
walking upon them is much like falling over
without fear in your heart
of the possibility within each one of becoming a whole collection
i was concerned with my political state upon waking
that my first thought was of this language & in it itself everyday
Eclipse
I have not perhaps
remembered
seeing your eyes
for days
aloneliness
messinessness
two fried eggs:
eatin em right out of the pan
eatin right outofa sway the middle
of the kitchen floor has now
taste?
no, i don’t think so
stupid plastic yellow & white
hunger so dull you just fill it
another day coming to end
darken into light decay
where you are what you
are doing tonight
On Imitation
after Jay MillAr
I remember having to give
a talk for a philosophy class on
’the sonnet’ & not having
time to reseach anything
wrote all the poems himself
& placed the names
of famous writers
at the bottom of each page
except the one by Shakespeare
for he is the source of all imitation
a cliché sadly
& what we must all become
spend a good hour talking
about them in the third person
Looped
:
the
city
to
repeat
or
restrict
the
:
Liz Phair
the birds have started using the feeder at last
small bodies the size of each feather made to
shift variously as angels other than themselves
regarded one eye at a time, stealing seeds & glances
through the dirty window language pulls at the air
of gravity along a line of the planet flying
then silence caught up in the frenzy of sunlight
New Breath
what wanted to say something
to yr voice (the theme of any telephone
connection always so fucking over
whelming) your voice after all & strong,
enough of everything to reach
yr form, being an aura, wherever
it is & what it is doing (a magnetic
pull, toward the sound itself) the
silence of noise as it is resounded:
HELLO…
& I can think of anything at all
’pon that breath (for what are tears,
really, but what they truly are) a
vacant emotion & noise to come
out of, (refraction in the
purest sense) the very most human
in & of
BeerTour
Tuesday morning glory in absolute sunshine & I remember
being near traintracks positive no clouds were there
Somewhere between St Mary’s & London
the radio too describes early nineties pop musicalism
to the rumble of the engine the five of us are on
& the back seat is stacked with bottles of beer
Spring almost present in the blue blue sky
& the air so light & lengthening I will remember always
the shine of melting snowbanks close to blinding & the smell of them
where we stopped to take a piss
Dirt road’s gravel & the spring melt there
pebbles gathered under us as the scenery chants
a memory or postcard & memory as it happens in ways
flimsy but incredibly perfect & placed openly above
Drunk in the fine weather or at least totally sober
finally in the lengthening days of spring
& feel
ing that for once we were who we are
yes alive blue, white, & moving calm
calm as the sun
& clean as the blue blue sky
Even the cops there are friendly
& give everyone tickets they will never have to pay
Home
(taken from a notebook)
The Home, an extension of your skin. The Home, it draws breath, exhales, pumps its own blood. The Home has shape, it consumes daily, excretes daily. The home radiates internally, like the human heart, an angel. It sings space familiar.
The things of your offering make up its shape, its hospitality. You own its design through the very thought you had to place this photograph here, a bookshelf there. You make a space feel safe, comfortable, like a warm shower. It is the place where you return, where you eat, where lovers meet in the night. It is where human secrets can live easily, where human stories are born. Mythology.
Moving from a space lived in over a long period of time into another space is traumatic, like removing one’s body & replacing it with another. I’m sure it’s not all that different than a terrible scar received in an automobile accident that heals, replenishing the skin, mending itself into a similar shape, not entirely the same as it was before. But the things remain the same, are joined by new things. There is a shift in consciousness delicate enough to allow for human growth. One changes slightly to accommodate the new space, as does the space to accommodate you.
It is harder to sleep in a new space for the first few weeks. This is the transitional period. You cannot sleep how you used to sleep, dream the dreams you used to have. The sheets are different, they have a new texture, the sounds are more quiet, the direction of the wind coming in through the window is from another part of the world. The window itself is bigger or smaller, the position of the moon & the stars are not the same. This transitional period is actually a dream in which you find yourself in a new territory, an altogether different part of the universe.
Imagine what creatures dwell there. What myths you will write. How it will grow.
Bazooka
Life is not tedious. Life is not boring.
Each day is not a mindless repeat of the last.
The people in your life are not stupid/uncaring/thoughtless.
