Thedrick Wood's Motivational Speech

Method acting is the process of shelf-
building;

essentially, it gives you a place to eventually put it
all.

Wet Dreams That Make You Cry

I went to a singles bar.
The bar was located in the middle
of a rolling field.

It was in a field because teenagers
have raves inside of cocktail lounges
nowadays.

The fields were in full bloom;

also, they were littered
with bundles of mismatched socks.

The haphazard socks were rolled into
neat little balls.

The worn toes of each sock
were nestled into the space where feet
are supposed to go.

The Gusto: or, Prolific Songwriter, In a Vintage Cowboy Hat, Earnestly Confronts His Impending Doom

I am working very hard
to open the clearest, universal, absolute,
one-time channel of communication,
everywhere; and to say something
that needs to be said,
and then that’s it.
I am using this as a vehicle,
and the easiest analogy
to make you understand,
very clearly,
you know that I want people
to be very clear about
why I am doing this.
Say, like, when Buddha comes,
in the year-- whatever year he came,
and he’s dealing with peasants
and potatoes
and a certain mentality,
but very important
that the message be said,
and then repeated
and documented
in that way.
Well, I just chose to use
the worst fucking technological
absolute time
when people are distracted
infinitely more, and said
that I would do this job,
which is: I am
doing it.
And, um, I’m not going to say
any more about it.
I am just going for it,
the gusto.

***

The preceding is a found poem

from the documentary Dig!

You may view it on

Youtube,

here.

Denouement Sonnet

'Dad's

pushing

our

sister

over

a

cliff,

before

chucking

bridge-

parts

at

her

feet.'

The Skull Sonnet

The

egg

is

to

the

spring
chick,

as

the

hatch

is

to

the

fall.

Today, In Front Of a Masonic Temple, I Was Struck In The Back Of the Head by a Wayward Pigeon

Today, in front of a Masonic Temple, I was struck in the back of the head by a wayward pigeon. It happened across from the Canadian Tire gas station at the intersection of Davenport and Church and Yonge. The cute, rosy-cheeked woman in front of the cookbook store was handing out some sort of chocolate balls. She did not offer me any. She said I looked too much like trouble. Her breath left her lips in plumes. The plumes looked like afternoon cloud-cover. Next, she said that she was through with guys like me; guys whose heads attracted errand attacks from above. I said I was a lowly man, a man who knew his station, a man who just wanted to get to Tim Horton's. She said that Tim Horton's was that way. Then she pointed in ‘that way’. I used the last of my birthday money to purchase a decorative spittoon from a nearby Pottery Barn. I then placed the brass object upon my head, and I walked on. I entered Tim Horton’s and bought a 20-pack of chocolate Timbits. I tried to pay in Canadian Tire money, and the people behind the counter pelted me with pigeon feathers. I imagined that the feathers were tickertape. I ate 18 of my 20 Timbits on the walk home, and then I heaved the two remaining chocolate balls at the nearby Masonic Temple. The first Timbit struck the broad side of the Mason Temple. It broke through the only window. A bright light burst forth from the mangled window pane. The light reminded me of a child bursting through the double doors into a recess yard full of untouched snow. I heaved my last Timbit, and it completely missed the Masonic Temple. The errant Timbit zoomed right into the cloud-cover. I heard a wet thud, the sound of cursing, and then the skies began to rain rosy-cheeked women. I walked back home through puddles and puddles of rosy-cheeked women. They pretended not to see me, and I pretended not to see them.

The Almost Advent Sonnet

If

your

apologies

were

fruitcake,

yours

words

might

have

survived

the

long

trip

home.

One Million Writers Demand Email Submission Sonnet

At 4:21 pm, a tube sock salesman
appeared at the screen door
in my alleyway.

He left my presence without
becoming any richer.

He put a hat with money in it in my hand.
Upside down, the hat held $1.37 in mixed coins.
The salesman told me to get some
noodles to eat with it.

He also gave me some knee-high socks.
‘For warmth,’ he said, ‘and dreams.’

Currently, my warmth and dreams are filled with coins;
not one red cent is spent
on postage.

A Review of August Rush

This poem will appear in The Facebook Review #4.

A Review of Gladiator

This poem will appear in The Facebook Review #4.

The Fall

This piece is entitled: Bateman, the first fish to sprout the evolutionary wonder of ornamental legs, gets lured into a patch of that dreadful temptress known to survivors as Anthemusian siren kelp.

by Ryan Bird

Cost: $10

The Abyss

This piece is entitled: Friedrich Nietzsche's untimely death, via complications from elective rhinoplastic cosemtic surgeory, inspires a yet-to-be-composed Wagnerian opera called 'That Which Does Not Kill Me, Will Only Make Me Eternally Bangable.'

by Ryan Bird

Cost: $17

The Gift

This piece is entitled: Ravena the lopsided Minke Whale circumnavigates dangerous pirate wreckage with the help of her trusty magnetic tumor; a growth which she ironically developed after eating 57 percent of the ship's cache of ill-gotten gold dubloons.

Cost: $15

The Tough Questions

This piece is entitled: Yellow-spotted plateosaurus hesitantly ponders how, scientifically speaking, he ever found this discraded ostrich-feather burlesque fan at this particular point in the Mesozoic Era without the aide of some fun-loving, yet benevolant Creator.

by Ryan Bird

Cost: $10

What Are Your 3 Favourite Movies?

One time,

I was dutifully removing

my dirt from my

Boss' ditch

when a trusted,

if slightly madcap,

nightly news anchor

ordered me to lean out

of the nearest window & yell:

I'm mad as hell,

& I am not going

to take this

anymore.

As it turned out,

just as I was about

to voice my displeasure

with the depression,

the inflation, the Russians

& the crime in the street

whilst, mid-triumphant-sentence,

I felt myself painlessly succumb

to the ravages

of Iocaine poisoning.

Skepticism Song

"The number of
intermediate varieties
which have formerly
existed
on earth
must be truly
enormous.
Why then is not
every geological formation
and every stratum
full of such intermediate
links?
Geology assuredly
does not reveal
any such
finely graduated
organic chain;
and this, perhaps,
is the most obvious
and gravest objection
which can be urged
against my
theory."

- Charles Darwin 1902 edition.

Remembrance Day Song

The monkeys were waving their

crimson bed sheets as the albino

tigers charged forth from the

barrel of my standard issue rifle.

I could hear the piping-hot

organ sounds of The Entertainer,

& the squeak of twisting balloon

animals rising up behind me.

Roasted peanuts crunched underfoot.

My left sneaker stuck to the

floorboards of the elephant cage,

which made no sound at all.

The floorboards would not make

a sound for nearly forty years.

Even if their grandsons asked, very nicely.
Especially if their grandsons asked, very nicely.

Lifestyle Song

Come jog with us, Danny;

we promise to use our vegan powers

only for good.

Jillian Song

"Look,

nobody

wants

to

buy

thier

home

from

someone

dressed

like

a

Spanish

teacher."

Jogger Song

My self-respect feels vaguely like
a shopping spree at Runner's World.

The seeds of my Fair Trade pomegranate
feel more energetic, now that they're healthy.

After a brief cool-down in the lotus position,
my laces untie themselves
like handled snakes.

After School Special Song

As an avid Dog the Bounty Hunter fan,
I should give my aunt a quick sympathy call,
you know, 'bout her Man.

We could dish & junk, about what a big, old clit he is-
Oh, who am I kidding? The smart money says she's

all kinds of racist.

7 Possible Chapbook Titles

1) The Whole Banana Syndrome

2) Naked Ape Seeks Non-Smoking Mirror

3) Screaming Blue Bloody Murder

4) Look Out, His Ray Gun Looks Genuine

5) So, You've Decided to Touch Yourself

6) They Called Him Backsass McGee

7) Each Little Keystroke Sounded Like a Kiss

Blood Sausage Song

This is a stained-glass homage
to my dog: Marley.
Her breed is a mixture
of English blood sausages.
Her temperment resembles
that of cheap luggage.
She will spend hours
licking her right dewclaw.
She will spend more hours
licking our patchwork bedding.
She needs to sit down
using seven distinct steps.
She sneezes in reverse
whenever the Queen
appears on CBC Newsworld.
Also, she likes to bark
at the doorbells
that lives in our walls,
& lick our novelty doormat
into submission.

A Letter to Tony Robbins

Dear Tony Robbins,

I have co-written a textbook for
your alma mater, Glendora High:
Go, fighting Tartans, would you
not agree, Mr. Robbins? Of course
you would. Anyhow, my textbook
is called So, You’ve Decided To
Touch Yourself. It’s been lovingly
reviewed on Amazon.ca, by none
other than the Mr. Sherman “By-
His-Own-Bootstraps” Helmsly.
He reviewed my new Glendora High
textbook as follows: “I was looking
for the young ficus plant which
is purportedly shaped like Issa;
you know the one which playfully
bows over the edge of it’s chipped,
earthenware pot in order to gaze
upon his own roots? Come to think
about it, I got very distracted
by this book. This book made me
forget all about the things that
I used to think were cool: TV,
microwaves, robotic vacuums.
In fact, this new book seemed to
get distracted by me, or at least,
it took me a little too seriously.
I think it neglected to concentrate
on it’s own sense of impending
Void.”

Sincerely,
Ryan

High Song

Pity,
you
couldn't
score
adrenochrome,
dude;
but
this
here
Rice
Crispy
square
shall
suffice.

Rocinante Song

Our
saddlebags
are
packed,
&
we’re
ready
to
go.
Look,
how
our
breath
spirals!

Here War Is Simple Like A Black Site

- after W.H. Auden's poem

Here word is fashioned like a covenant:
A foreigner is working on a man;
Satellites declare the troops insurgent;
A girl mouths these words: There is no more man

Alive for long who is braver than God,
Whose words are fastened like hunger and teeth,
And who shall rend the divine from the rod,
And, like an ideal, shall trigger belief.

Belief begets truth as each man disappears,
And we can watch him await the houri
He’s both owed, and he fears:

And our satellites can get blurry
Where our questions expand:
Baghdad. Poland.

The Small Press Junkmail That Suddenly Got Uncomfortably True

"hello again twaddlemagazineexcuse me, did you say you had a really small cock?http://www.rozlady.com/,

Dietrich Hogh"

Buy your copy today!

email: twaddlemagazine@ryanbird.com

Locksmith Sonnet

It is not the lovers

in our beds that matter,

but the part-time jobs

that keep our

parole officers

at bay,

that is until

we can hear

the tender click

of cog on

tumbler

within the earpieces

of your ill-gotten

stethoscope.

.5 Act Play

Bunny: Dear, do pass the Our Compliments' grated cheese product.

Clay: The wind is low, the birds will sing.

Bunny: (Addressing the studio audience) He's not listening.

Clay: That you are part of everything.

Bunny: Aparently, Clay, my regular passive aggression is a touch too bland tonight.

Clay: Did I ever tell you that when I was five, or so, I used to tell people that I wanted my eye colour to directly reflect whatever was in the sky at that particular moment.

Bunny: (Directs the studio audience to look towards the rafters) He's not listening. He's up there now. Look around, around, around (Points to the rafters).

Clay: Leave this warm, little warren with me, darling. It's perfect, yes. But it's also cold. And maybe a little doomed.

Bunny: (Points to Clay) You know, back when I first met him, I thought he'd have been more malleable than this.

Clay: Call me Fiver.

Bunny: No.

Clay: You know if I had those special eyes, right now they'd be the colour of two satellites. My irises would be mostly grey, with Russian flags stuck to their greyish sides.

Tinlids Haiku #5 (Manga Frige-Magnet Poetry Edition)

"go up demon moon
travel well sacred arrow
sit down hunting dog"

*

This poem uses words
taken from a Manga themed
frigde magnet poetry
kit.

The unused words were:
Kikyo, travel half-demon bicycle.
Naruka, do shrine shard wind battle, er, sword duel.
Um, Tetsusiago, Sango, Kagone.

Plaintive Song

This poem will appear in a forthcoming issue of the Montreal Magazine LanTERN #3.

Awkward Silence Song

The girl is pushed into the pool;
the boy swallows his laughter,

like cold side dishes.

The cannonball rolls into the
soft hollow of a log.

The tides stretch taut;

the coastline ruffles its edge,
like distant finish lines.

And So It Was Ironically Coined

With his white tube socks
flashing beneath the eager hem

of his black denim pants,
the boy with transparent braces

mouths the words Impressionist,
Suffragette, Tory & Big Bang,

as he sprints across the leafy hill
towards the academy for

Canadian Law Enforcement,
located kiddy-corner

to Good Life
Fitness.

A Foldout Map of North Purgatory

Today, at 12:16 pm, I recieved this email from the Co-Founder & President Brand X Press:

Ryan,
Bad news, I am afraid. The review board for the Press has overruled me on the potential publishing of your chapbook 'A Foldout Map...' noting my own guidelines dealing with number of books previously published by a possible author. You have 5 books listed - that's two too many.

You, my gentle reader, must understand that said email graced my inbox almost a year after they initially agreed to publish said manuscript on December 13th, 2006. In fact, said email said:

Ryan,
The submission board has decided to accept your mss. for the Fall 2007 season. Congrats and we look forward to working with you in the near future.

Oh, but here is the kicker: on December 1st, 2006, they asked me about those '5 books listed'. I told them that the 5 books were not all mine; they were books published by my small press vanity imprint known as Um, Yeah Press. In my reply email of December 2nd, 2006, I clarified that:

Of the five chapbooks, two are by other people ... and the remaining three are by me. They each have about 8-10 photocopied poems and are often given out for free after my poetry readings.
Cheers,
Ryan

To which, the Co-Founder & President of Brand X Press replied on December 5th, 2006:

thanks for straightening that out for me

So there it is. After ten months of expecting a book, promoting a book, & recieving pats on the back from friends, family & well-wishers about the book, I now must tell them that I have no forthcoming book. Why do I not have a forthcoming book? Because I photocopied & folded 'two too many' small press chapbooks to be of interest to Brand X Press.

Oh yes, gentle reader, as I am sure you've paid attention, I am sure you've noted that on December 1st, 2006, I made them aware that I only published THREE books of my own, thus placing me within the guidelines of the Co-Founder & President of Brand X Press.

Your lesson for today, my friends: Small presses are simply saddlestitched millstones for your literary career. Prepare for personal & professional embarrassment. Hooray.

Age Song

If art were explained better,
it would be liked more.

Wind travels to the clotheslines
to breed.

A midlife crisis convertible
performs donuts in the parking garage.

The peeled rubber turns red,
then falls toward the ceiling.

A metal detector beeps
as the rake scrapes sidewalk.

The gardener’s artist’s statement
was self-serving, at best.

Blurb Song

Ryan Bird’s chapbook
The Long, Wet Sucking Sound
is a strange, exotic curve;

an Easy Button
of smouldering eyeballs;

a wolf whistle
of noble
birth;

an ear trumpet
of tributary requirement;

a golden affront to Pizarro’s
bookkeeper;

but above all else,
it is an adolescent conch,
blown to herald

the wet dreams
of tectonic

plates.

A Letter to Nancy Grace

Dear Nancy,

A cupcake unlucked a cellar door.
A fourth wall cried 'No!'

A cupcake overheard no objections.
A thing did things to stuff.

Sincerely,
Ryan

Interview Song

Who are some of your biggest literary influences?

I am a rather nosy passenger.

I ride on a lot of public transportation.

I try very hard not to judge

my fellow passengers.

I think they try not to judge me.

I am pretty sure they do

judge me though,

as I them.

I find that I am most nosy

about their choices in reading material.

In fact, I find it to be

a rather telling, if not shallow,

method of judgement;

I wholeheartedly

endorse it.

For instance, if I see someone reading

a Lemony Snicket novel,

then I slip them a manilla folder

containing my unfinished screenplay

‘Vanguard For Dollars’.

Or, if I see someone reading

a Kurt Vonnegut novel,

then I hand them a silkscreen picture

of an asshole,

& then I tell them ‘I made that.’

Or, if I see someone reading

a David Eggers novel,

then I look away from them,

with all due velocity,

towards the sunburnt girl

who has just put down her copy

of ‘Hell’s Angels’,

in order to hurriedly clean

her glasses.

Or, if I see someone

reading a Jeanette Winterson novel,

then I simply curl up

upon a neighbouring seat,

rest my temples upon

their trustworthy thigh,

& ask them to tell me

a story.

A Word Sonnet for Rudy Guliani

My

milkshake

brings

all

the

boys

to

the

yard,

&

they're

like:

'Nine

Eleven.'

The Constellations (BETA)

I do not fear dying.

I fear going home.

A Brief History of Time

Mortadella was a sasquatch from the old country. The old country was without a Cinnabon franchise. Mortadella was a modern, professional woman. She read thick books in a circle chair from Pier 1 Imports. She also enjoyed squash, & explaining Netflix to her neighbours. One day Mortadella felt very lonely. She rose out of her spherical chair, & decided to sail to the end of the world. She tried to explain this to her neighbours, but they only ordered another conversation that they had with Mortadella earlier that week; one that they preferred to hear again. Mortadella purchased a decorative, wicker sailboat from Pier 1 Imports. She walked the sailboat down to the pier. Then she sailed, she slept, she sailed, she ate a raw fish, she slept, she sailed, she sailed, & finally she beached in the new country. She walked along the rocky coastline. She felt a gravelly rumble in her sasquatch tummy. She felt the need to fill herself up. She reached into her purse, & removed a handful of wheat. Then she cast out the seed along the beach. “Rise,” Mortadella said. The wheat did not rise. Mortadella then began to throw fistfuls of money at the fallen wheat. “Rise,” Mortadella said. The wheat began to rise. It rose high, hot, & sticky. It rose like a Cinnabon. The indigenous peoples of the beach were ancient, primative peoples. They arrived in droves. They all wanted a modern, professional treat. They all lived hard, indigenous lives. Their professional lives consisted of moving spherical rocks from one end of the beach to the other end of the beach. They all deserved something imported, & sweet. “Yes,” said Mortadella “you do deserve a sweet, imported treat, but not these. These treats are mine. You may order them after I have finished with them.”

The Echolocation Liturgy

This poem shall appear
in a forthcoming
issue of
InDigest Magazine.

Hooray.

Tinlids Haiku #3

'You are what you love,'
spake the great Suggestion Box
'not what loves you back.'

Mr. Manatee Pants Gets Too Real

Mr. Manatee Pants walked into a shoe shop.
‘I want some ergonomic flip-flops,’ he declared.

‘Must they match you pants?’ asked the clerk.
‘Am I wearing pants?’ inquired Mr. Manatee Pants.

‘But of course,’ replied the clerk ‘they’re green.’
‘To match my eyes,’ interrupted Mr. Manatee Pants.

‘I know all of this already, you sassy clerk.’
‘But of course,’ blushed the clerk ‘I’m new here.’

‘Manager!’ bellowed Mr. Manatee Pants,
‘Give this clerk a raise, for he pleases me.’

Then Mr. Manatee Pants turned to leave.
‘But wait,’ cried the clerk, ‘you have no flip flops.’

‘Ha-ha ha,’ proclaimed Mr. Manatee Pants,
‘I fear your fine store has fallen prey to my ruse!’

‘There are no such things as ergonomic flip flops;
I only feigned ignorance about my pants;

& in fact, I used these aforementioned distractions
to shoplift many boots of Spanish leather.’

‘I’ve read all about your breed on Wikipedia,’
said the manager ‘truly, your ways, are noble ways.’

Tinlids Haiku #2

Data entry blues;

I hope we stock new eyeballs,

for mine have melted.

The Odyssey at Wild Water Kingdom

I was locked out of my amphibious car.
My stepfathers had stolen my keys.

They hid them in Wild Water Kingdom.
My fellow water-sliders we no help.

I spoke to the hot girl of the ticket booth.
She sent me to The Old Man of the Sea.

He smelled like Old Spice of the neck.
My dad’s moustache was upon his face.

I asked him if he’d like to have a catch.
We played catch until high noon.

I tackled him beside the wave pool.
We counted every child upon the waves.

The Old Man turned into a Dasani bottle.
I hugged him harder, & he melted.

Every child in the wave pool transformed.
They became tiny, blue OnStar buttons.

I extended a single, menacing finger.
‘I’ll talk,’ cried The Old Man of the Sea.

‘Just do not press them,’ he pleaded.
‘They are too innocent to lead the way.’

Tinlids Haiku #1

Crazy Book Lady

uses brown leaves for bookmarks;

Adam left this year.

The Ballad of a Teenage Cupcake (Act 5)

A cupcake unlocked a cellar door.
A fourth wall creid 'No!'

A cupcake heard no cries of objection.
A thing did things to stuff.

The Ballad of a Teenage Cupcake (Act 4)

Acting is the expression
of a neurotic
impulse...

It's a bum's life.

Quitting acting,
that's the sign of
maturity.

The Ballad of a Teenage Cupcake (Act 3)

Whoever you are,
I have always depended upon

the cupcakeness
of strangers.

The Ballad of a Teenage Cupcake (Act 2)

A cupcake is still a cake.
Cups are the new baking pans.

Only sprinkle my left side;
the left side is my good side.

The Ballad of a Teenage Cupcake (Act 1)

Cupcakes are delicious.
Cupcakes are alone.

Such is their blessing,
& such is their curse.

A Poem for the Moon Festival

This poem will appear in
Pax Americana, #9,

Hooray.

The Blind Date

This poem shall appear in the forthcoming issue of Montreal's LanTERN Magazine #3.