New Wave Resumay

Clayton McCann
505-555-5505
bwgreview@gmail.com

look. you need Clayton McCann. people are retiring left, right (thankfully) and centre. where can you find help? these ken & barbie infants fresh out of high school? come on! that’s, like, totally, like, you know?

whereas Clayton McCann appears in the doorway: smelling of limes, staring into the sun like Mayakovsky (Russian poet & playwright, died during a heated game of Russian Roulette), bursting with the perfect sort of energy (batteries, charged by celery)

several phrases come into your head when you see him: 1. needs to learn to capitalize the beginning of his sentences. 2. who IS that? 3. where is my Canucks mug?

leadership? you bet! (Q. what does this mean? A. nothing.)

Finally: call now to secure an interview with Clayton McCann–perhaps the last employee YOU’LL EVER NEED!!!*

___________________________________________________________________________
* or not, some restrictions apply. must have meaningful work to qualify.
see Clayton McCann for details. not valid in the U.S. or other fascist regimes. produced by the Committee to Find Clayton McCann a Career 2012.

Career Objectives:
A corner office, definitely. Or a regular office with two windows. Three. Three windows, regular office. Regular, three-window office with desk and chair. One of those plants that never die and a secretary that can take dictation–no, wait, strike that. Did you strike that? Because it looks like it’s still there, in the little text box reserved for “Career Objectives.” All I want in there is the stuff about the office. No, YOU look, Mom. You know I can’t type as fast as you, and I may not know a lot about computers but I–NO, DON’T LEAVE! I’m sorry. I did say it. I’M SORRY. Alright? Alright, let’s get down to–YOU’RE TYPING EVERYTHING I SAY?!! WHA–? WHY WOULD YOU DO SOMETHING LIKE THAT?!! Well, fine, i just won’t say anything…

Work Experience:
Not Sure (Oct 1983 to May 1987)
Sam Spellerman Yorkville Ontario Canada—Spellerman’s was a dry cleaners on Yorkville Ave. in busy downtown Toronto. But they didn’t really do any dry-cleaning. At least not the kind you think of when you hear the words “dry cleaning”. My job was to sit at the cash register and make out “receipts” for “customers” contingent on who was running at Woodbine that afternoon. Also I would hear sob stories from “customers” when they couldn’t drop off the “clothes” and crazy stories from old man Spellerman about Canasta Ike D’anastazio, Max Berlin and the ghosts of Hogtown’s early gangster days. That’s all I did there, I swear.

Grounds Maintenance (Jul 1977 to present day)
my dad Port Hope Ontario Canada—Mostly I listened to my dad go on and on about how the mower needs to be scraped after mowing, about how a shovel is like a paddle/you don’t stick a paddle blade into the sand/why would you stick a shovel blade into gravel like that? that’s a spade, for soil/not for gravel/there’s gravel shovels for that kinda work/you know your sister did a better job with the lawn/too bad she went off to university/’guess we’ll have to make do with a guy who doesn’t know the difference between…
stuff like that.

Vendor (Jul 1974 to Jul 1974)
Self Port Hope Ontario Canada—Worked at my lemonade stand. Manufactured lemonade (water, lemons, sugar). Customer service. Handled cash, etc. Worked unsupervised, self-motivator. Cultivated the cute child look. Sometimes sold cherry kool-aid when lemonade was out of stock (therefore inventive problem-solver).

Training and Personal Development—After years of hearing stories and traveling light, I can spot bullshit a mile away. Also, I was forced to take a first aid course, Occupational First Aid Level 1 as part of a deal I struck with a judge over my brother-in-law’s paternity suit.

Also, I have personally attended three Amway seminars (that i know of), as well as trained to be a Nu-Skin rep. I decided against making the final $5,000 Distributorship investment on account of I couldn’t see moving to Labrador.

Skills:
1. Dedication. I can get behind anything. For a price.
Just like the time Stew & I had to drain
Doc Leacock’s frog pond because the
old lecher dropped his mistress’
bracelet in there and you could spot
it a mile away (and so could his wife).

2. Wit. Q. What do you call an Italian gentleman
with a rubber toe?
A. Roberto!
You see what i mean?

3. Charm. cannot be described–must be seen to be believed.

Interests: A. I enjoy a few martinis as much as the next guy–but strictly over lunch. Nobody who works for me drinks on the job. This is one of my five “golden rules”. The others are work-related.

B. I like burlesque, sure, but mostly because I love jazz. I’m sophisticated that way. Nothing like a sour whiskey, a good cigar and… some jazz… to make… good.

C. I go shooting once and again. I keep a 44-40 under the seat of my Crown Vic. It shoots like, how did Brautigan say it? Like a fat man through a narrow door.

D. I’m an avid reader. I’ve got all the classics: Zane Grey, Franklin W. Dixon, Clive Cussler. I’m really into Pope (Dudley) right now: that Ramage! Now there was a man. Part street hustler, part pirate, part… well, I guess some of what he does is illegal.

References: Myself, Clayton McCann

tristes tropiques

a song in
my head
shut
off
it won’t
some
thing
guy with
song his
head on end
less loop he pulls
he pulls
his wires try
con
nect
his heart it bursts
to flame the song
goes on on, ononon on:

a song a man whose
song in heart
it comes to life
loose from
ribs lung jailor wings

thissong
jangle string of
catchy-as-fuck
giant pubic
hair &
sung &
falls & seems a
hole sketch’d wide
walk side it
flies stretch-etch’t

a wire this song
to desert
sung to lone
snake sunk
‘pon floors
of deep or frozen
seas this song so
long
sung so long
in real for
gets it was a song for
gets the he
art
throat chest where
once it dwelt this
song it flees and
finds my love and
tells i’ll
die with
out her how i can’t
go on the
song sez:

i
wept and sore how
sorrow broke and
break recede
til sun in me
warm’d a piece
of life this song
gr
ew
grow fill
ed my headheart
pulled out all
my spiders leech
pull’t
black mold cask
it pine
made for her
a place inside
th’song so bright it
lit by tin
sull
moon burst calm
it
spark
uhl
dust
that song
went just like this:

on island tropic palm the shade spread late
waters fade fires orange the black two lovers sit the joy
the man he say, “i must to forest & catch a golden
bird, i love you, show this love of mine,”

the woman say, “don’t, for any bird or thing—happy here,
fire, our love is fine: don’t you love me, won’t you stay?”

but the man just turns and sets the night,
away, away he flies—a little golden bird.

now, wait the song it doesn’t
go like this how could it
such a sad when
i’ve been saying it was
the sort of catchy number
inside the head the
heart my lover brings her
back no really it
just goes: “Lah!”

or, rather: a song in my
head it won’t shut up
of a guy with a song
his head his love
she’s gone
he sings
to keep from broking
sings to
stop the shakes he sings
he pulls out all his
strings seeks the short
the fuze in vain con
nect it all it’s arc’ing
sparks his heart it
burst to flames he
sings it over over oh:

a song an eye
land
tropics palm
the shade spread late
the sea
the coals
lovers red
sweet the joy

and lover say
“you left with
out a word
you left you did now
you want it back—the bird,
too late, my bird, too
late the hour, it is,
selah, selah: so long.”

and the man he’s me
he say,
“this song
of a fool
with hole in heart
flames in head,
the song it leaps
to save
it self the man a hole
his heart on
fire the fool the
song it leapt
from jail
a bird at
loose at last be
yond the broke
in rubs ling wang bar chains

this song
song done
with sung
sang
fool, the man,”
that song
a giant mess of
jangled public hair
of notes and sharps and flats
tremble bass bull whip
coda clefs al fine
second chorus of longing
every good boy deserves
some
thing it seems like
a hole when it
falls
sketch the walk
ways naked trees
it soars!
a wire out
‘pon desert sung
itself the lonely snake
a wing to silent mice
in mattress song
the grasping owl songs
fall the ground
piano ants, worms
teacup bits sink
to downs of a deep and ancient
lake pianissmo sturgeon silent
throneroom clam
green & gilded halls
stained glass waves
song so long
with added verse crescendo
diminuendo il postino
the song forgets it is a song
for
gets
the dia
phram
lung wing
’til flaming heart verse twelve
the song recall and seeks
my love, my heart
just die alone
the song will, too
reveals
i wept and wept some
more
the deep woods dark
July and June
my knees to beg
himmel: please!
how sorrow broke
to million, zillion fire-fly
lies
light night light
my heart a bit of rib or
lung or wings
until this song
it lives!!
and fills my he
art
pulls spider flies
(gave them all good names)
tore up my fear
bleach’t black mold
pried long-chain’d doors
wind
ow
wide
sheets clean
velvet waits
a place she’ll never
cleanse
the song so bright
by tinsel light
moon reflect our skin
so comet stars
aurealis
borora sun
and flame t’ward noon
red cloud coals
the song just had
to go
to find
to show
and the song just went
and went
and it went like this:

smashed
into her song
headlong
sung not of me
sang not to me
sings of song herself
her song:

“sh-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h!
i’m never coming home.”

born to be mild


“may love not wound us (…)
may it burn in the pure air”
– Zbigniew Herbert, “Winter Gardens”

my god, Ainsleah,
it’s quiet tonight
as i breathe memory to life,
into your partial,
threadbare ghost.

each moment
into the long corridor,
vacant lung of morning.

whispered: i burn for you.

christ, but it’s not getting
any easier, Ainsleah,
and i know i’m making
you thin out of
air but i’ve
never written a real
love poem–let this be my
first: all this
time since we’re
finished, this aching
grows on: a freak
child / tumour /
silent mold on cellar
door.

oh, why can’t you hear
me, Ainsleah? my
powers falter, words
fail, frail at this
most crucial hour.

and i know, i know, i
know, i know, i know:
even if i said it
all, uttered the curse,
spelled it exactly right,
you’d still not
return.

Stan was in
hospital, and it
rattled me terrible, Ainsleah,
to see the young, strong
horse of a man confused and in
pain, collapse.

i’m gonna die,
aren’t I, Ainsleah,
without kissing you again.

say at least you love me,
or, “it’s impossible–we’re
impossible,”
or, “fuck off and die, McCann.”

sung: i’ve been awake since March.

and the ghost in your
name, she’s not
you, she’s not you, she’s
not you she
is.

_ash me

“the shadow of white Death (…) and at the door, Invisible Corruption…”
– John Dos Passos, Manhattan Transfer

1. stayed up half the night watch a still of her face the light poured off firelight tawny

even now i shake recall the nightlong her eyes mine not meeting

every hour get up stagger the room advance the film one frame
lay back wait in vain for her to live

day slow rise over Black Mtn.

starve the week haunt this house gray the former tenant did the same until they took him
it is this place it is all places when failed men wash ashore and blear over toast tv dinners in shirtsleeves anger moan

2. oh i thought i’d write all day but Dos Passos and heartbreak, finally, a deli sandwich not wanting to rest and think about how horridly alone

afternoon runs down my leg into my shoe cold

i want to go over to John McGregor’s and write down all his titles

on the verge of madness unsure go out into dusk running or remain forlorno dribbling shit onto a notepad

she must have received the poem by now (“Winter Song of Yearning”) she must have

i don’t care
i don’t care
i don’t care
(yes you do)

out over the city scuddy clouds begin sponges to fill with light

i feel i might kill myself so the unending unmeaning cycles cease:
up at dawn stretch and clothes in thick blue diffusive light
down to the basement robot the multiple tropic suns–empty fill add check
up onto the high streets jog speedwalk worry heartattack
down to the cafe frantic for a word from HER nothing always nothing
complete puritan nothing grows cover everything salt ash
driving the city silent mutter old man already
home again furtively listen for cops thugs lie abed
dribblng shit onto a notepad

yeah i could hang myself who would know just think of the rest:
my agenda—wide open

3. maybe this very moment
she’s climbing on a bus
slush-brown greyhound
the Vancouver-Okanagan
already out by Chilliwack
(“…gone so long…”)
or onto the flat expanse of the brown Frazer

be she’s sleeping
as the bus climbs the Coke
droning in third or second gear
maybe she’s awake
watching the lights of Westbank
red and white on the hill
“Jeez,” she thinks,
“back here again,”
or,
maybe,
on the bridge over to downtown
thinkng it was all a mistake
maybe she’s crying

when the bus stops at Kelowna station
she waits until the crowd departs
approaches the driver
“Is this bus returning to Vancouver?”
and it isn’t
until she realizes
she hasn’t the fare
then she calls me

i recall, at last,
why i could never love her.
fuck this life
i don’t care
i don’t care
i don’t
(yes. you do.)

start stopping

 

Alright… Herculean pub crawl last night… now washed up on Rutland shores… liver contracting… only Al Bowlly can save me… please… if you read this… send a float plane… for Wilson and I… Ack…!…Wilson!!! I’m sorry…! … Wilson!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!