Granada high back ergonomic task chair.
Fully adjustable arms.
In jagged storm cloud fabric.
One chair for Maack.
One chair for Lynch.
Local delivery and removal of all cartons.
* * *
My employer bought myself and my coworker new chairs. The above text was on the delivery slip, with slightly different spacing and punctuation. But the text is pretty much as is.
When I read the phrase "in jagged storm cloud fabric", I knew there was poetry nearby -- but I insisted on trying to make the phrase into a poem. After hammering at it for an hour or so, I realized this was silly. The invoice itself was the poem, and I shouldn't mess with it. I can't improve on it -- I'd only end up wrecking it.
So I'm leaving it as it is. Read it again, please.
* * *
Granada high back ergonomic task chair.
Fully adjustable arms.
In jagged storm cloud fabric.
One chair for Maack.
One chair for Lynch.
Local delivery and removal of all cartons.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
National Portrait Gallery Protest 2
In November of 2008, I sent Minister of Heritage and Culture James Moore a letter and a painting. The idea was that I was providing him with a portrait, and wouldn’t it be nice if there was a national portrait gallery to hang it in. You know, like the national portrait gallery he just scrapped.
To date, I have received no reply. My friends, who work with the federal government, say this is unheard of. There are insanely intricate tracking procedures to avoid this kind of thing. Failing to reply to a letter from a taxpayer is akin to using your salad fork to pick your nose.
I let the matter ride for a long time. Then on July 7th, of 2009, I found an online form for communicating with the heritage ministry people. The online form didn’t seem to work and I was frustrated and annoyed, assuming I was sending my voice into the ether. But evidently, my message got through, because on July 28th, this email arrived:
* * *
Dear Mr. Maack;
We received your correspondence dated July 7th, 2009, regarding the National Portrait Gallery. In your letter you mentioned that previous correspondence was sent in November 2008, according to our records we have not received this correspondence. In order to properly respond to your concerns about the NPG, would it be possible for you to send us a copy of your November 17th letter.
Thank you very much.
Mona Brennan
Gestionnaire des analystes | Manager Analysts
Secrétariat de la correspondance ministérielle | Ministerial Correspondence Secretariat
Patrimoine canadien | Canadian Heritage
[bits of signature snipped]
* * *
I sent the following response on August 1st.
* * *
Ms. Brennan,
I sent more than just a letter. It was a large tube shaped package containing a portrait and a letter. I posted the letter and photos of the portrait on my blog, here:
http://killeverything.blogspot.com/2008/11/portrait-gallery-protest.html
It's funny -- I actually mailed the package from the post office on Sparks Street. I remember joking with the postal worker that it might be easier and cheaper for me to simply carry the package for Mr. Moore over to the Parliament Buildings myself.
I hope the portrait arrived. I had hoped a package of this kind would be memorable. It's a little depressing that it sounds like Mr. Moore never even received it.
Nikolaus Maack
For convenience, here's a copy of the letter as posted to my blog.
[removed]
* * *
It’s been a little over three weeks, and I’ve received no reply. Mind you, it’s the summer, and maybe everyone is on holidays.
So I continue to wait. And while I was waiting…
Did you know James Moore has a twitter account? I sent him the following tweet yesterday:
“@mpjamesmoore Sent you a portrait & letter in Nov 08. Have yet to hear back from your office or you. Wassup?”
And then I provided a link to my original blog post.
Mr. Moore has not responded to my tweet. Instead, he is keeping the world posted on his exciting movements across Canada, as he promotes culture and heritage and sport and other such things.
I'll be sure to send him a link to this blog post. You know, so he has something to read on the plane.
To date, I have received no reply. My friends, who work with the federal government, say this is unheard of. There are insanely intricate tracking procedures to avoid this kind of thing. Failing to reply to a letter from a taxpayer is akin to using your salad fork to pick your nose.
I let the matter ride for a long time. Then on July 7th, of 2009, I found an online form for communicating with the heritage ministry people. The online form didn’t seem to work and I was frustrated and annoyed, assuming I was sending my voice into the ether. But evidently, my message got through, because on July 28th, this email arrived:
* * *
Dear Mr. Maack;
We received your correspondence dated July 7th, 2009, regarding the National Portrait Gallery. In your letter you mentioned that previous correspondence was sent in November 2008, according to our records we have not received this correspondence. In order to properly respond to your concerns about the NPG, would it be possible for you to send us a copy of your November 17th letter.
Thank you very much.
Mona Brennan
Gestionnaire des analystes | Manager Analysts
Secrétariat de la correspondance ministérielle | Ministerial Correspondence Secretariat
Patrimoine canadien | Canadian Heritage
[bits of signature snipped]
* * *
I sent the following response on August 1st.
* * *
Ms. Brennan,
I sent more than just a letter. It was a large tube shaped package containing a portrait and a letter. I posted the letter and photos of the portrait on my blog, here:
http://killeverything.blogspot.com/2008/11/portrait-gallery-protest.html
It's funny -- I actually mailed the package from the post office on Sparks Street. I remember joking with the postal worker that it might be easier and cheaper for me to simply carry the package for Mr. Moore over to the Parliament Buildings myself.
I hope the portrait arrived. I had hoped a package of this kind would be memorable. It's a little depressing that it sounds like Mr. Moore never even received it.
Nikolaus Maack
For convenience, here's a copy of the letter as posted to my blog.
[removed]
* * *
It’s been a little over three weeks, and I’ve received no reply. Mind you, it’s the summer, and maybe everyone is on holidays.
So I continue to wait. And while I was waiting…
Did you know James Moore has a twitter account? I sent him the following tweet yesterday:
“@mpjamesmoore Sent you a portrait & letter in Nov 08. Have yet to hear back from your office or you. Wassup?”
And then I provided a link to my original blog post.
Mr. Moore has not responded to my tweet. Instead, he is keeping the world posted on his exciting movements across Canada, as he promotes culture and heritage and sport and other such things.
I'll be sure to send him a link to this blog post. You know, so he has something to read on the plane.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
One More Twitter Poem
Read it in school?
It wasn't worth reading.
Art boring you stupid?
You're in a museum.
Dull, dead, dried.
Institutionalized.
* * *
The City of Ottawa rejected my application for an art show in one of their little galleries. I might be slightly bitter about it.
It wasn't worth reading.
Art boring you stupid?
You're in a museum.
Dull, dead, dried.
Institutionalized.
* * *
The City of Ottawa rejected my application for an art show in one of their little galleries. I might be slightly bitter about it.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Embrace the Elderly (and grab their butts)
This isn't about revelling in mediocrity. It's about seeing the beauty in ordinary faces, in ordinary people. Sometimes I see a little old man walking down the street, and I can't stop myself from saying, "Wow!"
The wrinkles in his face. An ill-fitting dress shirt from twenty years ago, stained yellow with sweat. His small, faded blue eyes that tremble and tear up. The hair coming out of his ears. His jowls hanging down. White, long, unwieldy eyebrows. Strange dentures that clack together in his mouth. A black cane in each hand. Skin so transparent you can see the bones and veins and scraps of muscle. And he's looking up at the clouds like he's scanning the sky for the angels that will swoop down any minute and carry him away.
I want to photograph him. Paint him. If I were totally allowed my way, I'd strip him naked, first. Get the real, raw, naked, frail, broken humanity. Get as far away from airbrushing and cleanliness as possible, and do a series of portraits of naked old men, just standing there, staring straight ahead, looking strangely dignified and depressed.
Why worship the flawless skin of youth? That stuff is everywhere and it's so boring -- miles and miles of pink rosy flesh, without blemish. Screw that. Give me pale, wrinkled, hairy, freakish, ancient people with knobbly elbows and knees, who scowl at the sun. Yellow toenails and fear of the unknown. There, my friends, is art.
Or why make art? Why not kidnap little old men and make them into living sculptures? Strip them nude, shackle them to pedestals, and line the streets with them. No one would miss little old men, except other little old men. And this way they'd all be together, on display, their raspy cries for help unheeded as people admire their bodies.
This one time, I was in Shopper's Drugmart, and I saw this little old man with gray hair and a black toupee on top. He was about the size of a pencil eraser, with long spindly arms. It was hot outside, but he was wearing a long brown coat. The clash between his real hair and his fake hair was blinding. And that rug had to be a family heirloom, passed down several generations. It looked matted and fake -- like a beret made of hair.
This little old man was asking one of the young Shoppers Drug Mart clerks for help. She was petite, blonde, and caked in make-up. And while she smiled politely and nodded, you could almost hear her thoughts screaming out of her head:
"Get the fuck away from me, you disgusting thing! You're not even human anymore. You're some sort of loathsome albino reptile wearing a hat of fur. If it were legal for me to kill you, I'd wrap my young fingers around your pale throat and squeeze the last three breaths out of you. But I know it's been years since you've been touched by a woman -- that's what stops me from strangling you. I know that as soon as I went to choke you to death, and my fingers brushed the wattles of your neck, you'd cum in your pants."
Stupid bitch doesn't understand anything. If I could make her see the little old man beauty, she would fuck that guy then and there in the Shopper's Drugmart. Her young, fresh, eager body, giving pleasure to the old, wrinkled, decaying, and malodorous little guy. She would do it, and weep with gratitude for the opportunity.
"Brad Pitt is a walking abortion," she would sob. "Real beauty is old, broken, experienced, flatulent, sad, and small, with fake teeth and fake hair, and the smell of socks worn too long. God bless the little old men of the world! I'll fuck them all, one at a time! Let me into your senior's homes, your bingo parlours, your libraries! I'll even do the little old ladies. Why not? I'm queer for the elderly!"
And it will catch on. The latest thing. The biggest fad. Youth is so passé!
Soon all the young women of the world will be hot for seniors. And young men too. It will be sexy to have wrinkles. Senility will be a turn on.
"Oh, you're incontinent! That's so awesome!"
"I can't remember where I live, either! Let's sneak into this back alley and make love."
All the fashion magazines will feature grinning skeleton seniors, their eyes pink and runny, their gums showing. Being bald and old and dying will be in. Hospices will be full of orgies and sex toys. Young people would try to make their skin look old.
"Is that a wrinkle between my eyebrows? Do I have crow's feet yet? Oh god, please, let me wake up and be in my 80s!"
It could happen. In ancient Greece, women were considered ugly. No one wanted to see a statue of some naked chick. They were all considered whores. In ancient Greece, it was all about statues of fat guys with small cocks. A tiny cock was considered decent and respectful. That's all anyone wanted.
So don't tell me some sort of renaissance of the elderly can't happen. It can. It will. It must. By god, I'll make it happen.
Or not. I am kind of busy right now. Plus elderly people are annoying.
Yeah, just forget I said anything.
The wrinkles in his face. An ill-fitting dress shirt from twenty years ago, stained yellow with sweat. His small, faded blue eyes that tremble and tear up. The hair coming out of his ears. His jowls hanging down. White, long, unwieldy eyebrows. Strange dentures that clack together in his mouth. A black cane in each hand. Skin so transparent you can see the bones and veins and scraps of muscle. And he's looking up at the clouds like he's scanning the sky for the angels that will swoop down any minute and carry him away.
I want to photograph him. Paint him. If I were totally allowed my way, I'd strip him naked, first. Get the real, raw, naked, frail, broken humanity. Get as far away from airbrushing and cleanliness as possible, and do a series of portraits of naked old men, just standing there, staring straight ahead, looking strangely dignified and depressed.
Why worship the flawless skin of youth? That stuff is everywhere and it's so boring -- miles and miles of pink rosy flesh, without blemish. Screw that. Give me pale, wrinkled, hairy, freakish, ancient people with knobbly elbows and knees, who scowl at the sun. Yellow toenails and fear of the unknown. There, my friends, is art.
Or why make art? Why not kidnap little old men and make them into living sculptures? Strip them nude, shackle them to pedestals, and line the streets with them. No one would miss little old men, except other little old men. And this way they'd all be together, on display, their raspy cries for help unheeded as people admire their bodies.
This one time, I was in Shopper's Drugmart, and I saw this little old man with gray hair and a black toupee on top. He was about the size of a pencil eraser, with long spindly arms. It was hot outside, but he was wearing a long brown coat. The clash between his real hair and his fake hair was blinding. And that rug had to be a family heirloom, passed down several generations. It looked matted and fake -- like a beret made of hair.
This little old man was asking one of the young Shoppers Drug Mart clerks for help. She was petite, blonde, and caked in make-up. And while she smiled politely and nodded, you could almost hear her thoughts screaming out of her head:
"Get the fuck away from me, you disgusting thing! You're not even human anymore. You're some sort of loathsome albino reptile wearing a hat of fur. If it were legal for me to kill you, I'd wrap my young fingers around your pale throat and squeeze the last three breaths out of you. But I know it's been years since you've been touched by a woman -- that's what stops me from strangling you. I know that as soon as I went to choke you to death, and my fingers brushed the wattles of your neck, you'd cum in your pants."
Stupid bitch doesn't understand anything. If I could make her see the little old man beauty, she would fuck that guy then and there in the Shopper's Drugmart. Her young, fresh, eager body, giving pleasure to the old, wrinkled, decaying, and malodorous little guy. She would do it, and weep with gratitude for the opportunity.
"Brad Pitt is a walking abortion," she would sob. "Real beauty is old, broken, experienced, flatulent, sad, and small, with fake teeth and fake hair, and the smell of socks worn too long. God bless the little old men of the world! I'll fuck them all, one at a time! Let me into your senior's homes, your bingo parlours, your libraries! I'll even do the little old ladies. Why not? I'm queer for the elderly!"
And it will catch on. The latest thing. The biggest fad. Youth is so passé!
Soon all the young women of the world will be hot for seniors. And young men too. It will be sexy to have wrinkles. Senility will be a turn on.
"Oh, you're incontinent! That's so awesome!"
"I can't remember where I live, either! Let's sneak into this back alley and make love."
All the fashion magazines will feature grinning skeleton seniors, their eyes pink and runny, their gums showing. Being bald and old and dying will be in. Hospices will be full of orgies and sex toys. Young people would try to make their skin look old.
"Is that a wrinkle between my eyebrows? Do I have crow's feet yet? Oh god, please, let me wake up and be in my 80s!"
It could happen. In ancient Greece, women were considered ugly. No one wanted to see a statue of some naked chick. They were all considered whores. In ancient Greece, it was all about statues of fat guys with small cocks. A tiny cock was considered decent and respectful. That's all anyone wanted.
So don't tell me some sort of renaissance of the elderly can't happen. It can. It will. It must. By god, I'll make it happen.
Or not. I am kind of busy right now. Plus elderly people are annoying.
Yeah, just forget I said anything.
Thursday, August 06, 2009
Twitter Poems: The Mayor and More
I kissed the pretty mouth under her nose.
I kissed the ugly mouth under her chin.
Is it a menage-a-trois, if she has
a parasitic twin?
* * *
Catch a kid selling oregano.
It's not pot so they let him go.
Mayor Larry's of the same mettle.
What influence has he to peddle?
* * *
She was pretty and so fun to stare at
But then I heard her speak.
Knowing her mind is so weak
She looks like a donkey chewing a carrot.
* * *
My best first date has to be
Witnessing a flying saucer crash,
Pulling an alien from the trash,
And the romance of an autopsy.
* * *
The apple is so very red
And appears so full of life.
You won't taste the rot inside
Until you take a bite.
* * *
Once upon a time, a dead baby
Decided it would join the navy.
"I don't mean to preen and gloat
but I possess the power to float."
* * *
Follow me on Twitter. Because everyone else on Twitter is writing inane crap about the minutiae of their lives. Not me! I'm writing stupid poems.
I kissed the ugly mouth under her chin.
Is it a menage-a-trois, if she has
a parasitic twin?
* * *
Catch a kid selling oregano.
It's not pot so they let him go.
Mayor Larry's of the same mettle.
What influence has he to peddle?
* * *
She was pretty and so fun to stare at
But then I heard her speak.
Knowing her mind is so weak
She looks like a donkey chewing a carrot.
* * *
My best first date has to be
Witnessing a flying saucer crash,
Pulling an alien from the trash,
And the romance of an autopsy.
* * *
The apple is so very red
And appears so full of life.
You won't taste the rot inside
Until you take a bite.
* * *
Once upon a time, a dead baby
Decided it would join the navy.
"I don't mean to preen and gloat
but I possess the power to float."
* * *
Follow me on Twitter. Because everyone else on Twitter is writing inane crap about the minutiae of their lives. Not me! I'm writing stupid poems.
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