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.