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.