Greater Wrong of Right (part 2)

Leslie brings me back to her room. She said she had a book I might like. Once in her room I sit on the bed. Leslie kneels down, opens a drawer and pulls out the book, then tosses it to me. I look the cover, Life of Pi. I’ve never read it.

Leslie turns around and unzips my pants, pulls my underwear aside and stuffs my flaccid cock in her mouth. After a few strokes with her warm lips, I get hard, yet I feel indifferent about the situation. While she is busy sucking, I unbutton my pants and pull them down farther. Leslie begins to fondle my balls in her right hand, pulls me out of her mouth and licks my shaft down to the base. Leslie then tongues my balls, then sucks my right ball in her mouth while she strokes my cock. I look down at her, she looks at me, letting my ball fall out of her mouth, she smiles. I don’t smile back.

Leslie gently blows her warm breath on me, then puts me back into her mouth and begins to bob up and down, faster, tightening her lips until I’m about to cum. I pull her head off my lap and begin to climax. At first a small gob of cum shoots from me and lands on my right thigh, followed by a thick, but short, stream which arcs and lands mostly on her bed, the rest settles on my thigh. A few more spurts dribble out and run down my cock and Leslie’s fingers. She laps at my freshly exploded head, squeezes a bit to milk the residual cum from my shaft and lets it rest on her hand, briefly, before she lifts her hand away and flicks my cum into the trash. I feel nothing for her.

“Hope you enjoy the book.” She says.

* * *

Sitting in Starbucks for me is like sitting in a box of a theater waiting for someone to shoot you in the back of the head. This began a year and a half ago when I had a brief two month fling with a barista. Audrey was flat and did nothing in bed. I broke it off and that’s when the text messages started, which inevitably ended up with “coincidently” seeing her everywhere I went, including seeing her ‘98 red Jetta parked outside my house at 3 a.m. almost every night. I never lock my doors.

“Well have you thought about taking time off school to work?” Darren asks.

“Why would I? I’m thirty-thousand dollars in debt.”

“Exactly, you’re thirty-thousand dollars in debt. Do you think it will just magically disappear? You know it’s just going to get higher don’t you?”

I’m well aware of this fact. “Yeah, but it will all work out.”

“What you need is a budgeting strategy.”

I look out the window and see a red Jetta. A wave of nausea washes over me, I begin to squirm in the hard, wood colored, plastic seat. The Jetta passes, it wasn’t Audrey.

“You know that’s what you need. Budgeting is your friend, why don’t you ever plan ahead? I’m just trying to help you man.”

“I’m leaving.” I say.

“Are you, or do you just want to smoke?”

“A little of both.”

“Alright, let’s do it.”

We grab our coffees and go outside. The greyish wisps of cloud hover in the sky, for some reason they mean something to me. I light a cigarette and sip my coffee. It tastes burnt.

“Fag me.” Darren says while fluttering his fingers in my face. I toss him my pack; he pulls out a cigarette and lights up, then tosses my pack back.

Misrepresenting The North

“Vice Versa: Poetry up Here” is written and directed by Josh Massey and Justin Foster. It was uploaded on vimeo.com—the video can be found here: http://vimeo.com/51248950—11 October 2012. This project was produced as a component for Massey’s Master’s Thesis (also available online via UNBC Library). The video is split into three parts dubbed Versas. It features Gillian Wigmore and Barry McKinnon (Versa I), Jeremy Stewart and Si Transken (Versa II) and Ken Belford and Derrick Denholm (Versa III). The finished video means to represent the north via its poetry “community”, but it fails to achieve its objectives.

The tagline claims “six northern poets face up to the realities and stereotypes of their society.” But how? 

     “[L]ooking back from the melt breaking up the ice/where the poems meet a moment of reflection” are two lines over laid on a shot of the Fraser River taken on the Cameron Street Bridge. The local pulp mill is framed in the upper right of the screen. This is followed by a shot of a snow covered river bank with white text: “northern dialect(ics) [sic.] a dialogue between the lines/6 poets ride an eddy at the confluence.”  Neither before or after the poems is there analysis of the “[h]arnessing [of] the transformative powers of shared words.” Was each poet to come to some realization by reading the work of another? What realization could this be? Maybe a different word would have been better here (if I had written it), or geez, I like this poem more than I thought, or when I say these things I feel like I am another’s work? “[A] dialogue between the lines” implies that the viewer is required to make an inference about what is going on in the film. At face value, the poets are “[riding] an eddy at the confluence.” Dare I ask, so what?

At this point the audience, I assume, begs to ask: what realities? What stereotypes have been faced up to? Are we to assume that by a man reading a woman’s poems, and vice versa, we have challenged something, anything?

Prince George, alternatively, is presented with a clear vision:  the footage is washed-out, eco-depressing: the camera tracks debris floating in salmon habitat, Mr. PG -- that symbol of resource exploitation/ jobs, a small organic garden with little produce. PG, from this film, looks a Zellers’ washroom (RIP Zellers). 

Gillian Wigmore

Gillian Wigmore and Barry McKinnon are the poets that make up Versa I. Wigmore reads McKinnon’s “Writing on the Ridge,” and McKinnon reads Wigmore’s “Ksan.” The theme of the poems are autobiographic curse (poem is life) and geographic observation (poem is mountain). Following the producers train of thought, I struggle to see how Wigmore reveals anything of McKinnon’s work, his intention, the meaning of the poem (if there is/are meaning) and vice versa. Why is there no context? Who are these poets, and why does this reading matter? Am I supposed to guess? Ok. I will. Based on the poem choices, I suspect that McKinnon is paranoid, and Wigmore is in touch with the pomo eco-poet gods. It is interesting that these readings are solely filmed inside – neither poet gets to go outside. In contrast to the other readings, this might mean something.

Barry McKinnon

It is interesting that Wigmore appears coy, occasionally looking up at the audience. McKinnon, in contrast, looks tense, especially at the poem’s conclusion when he looks up with a visibly tight throat. If there is meaning in these observations beyond the literal, I imagine they are discussed in Massey’s thesis. In the absence of analysis, commentary or context, the audience is left to guess. I think McKinnon’s in a tough position.

Versa II introduces Jeremy Stewart in traffic and Si Transken spray painting toys by a dumpster.   Both readings are affected by the elements, traffic and wind. Stewart looks and talks like a hipster, the kind that the government warns you about. His maroon cap and sleepy delivery are symbiotic with Transken’s casual, proletariat persona. Both readings are spliced with jump cuts to new locations (Stewart to a vegetable garden, Transken to her creative room, then to Mr. PG). Stewart reads “Casual Pleasures of Ageing Well” (the British spelling is Transken’s). Transken reads “theory of The North [sic.]” by Stewart. Versa II is when this video goes from slightly misguided and open to interpretation into complete nonsense. It’s interesting that Stewart uses a lowercase “t” and an uppercase “N.” Does this mean that theory is small in the north? Stewart begins his reading in front of the Prince George Hotel—which is now a vacant lot. Does this imply that Stewart or the poem he is reading is will disappear? Weird. The content of Transken’s poem: “But 2 of the worst are dead - 1 of a heart attack, 1 eaten by cancer” juxtaposed by the sunny day is also weird. 

Jeremy Stewart

The cuts jump from the community garden to the Civic Centre and finally to the Prince George Hotel, while Stewart repeats: “through distance in detachment.” What does this mean? Does moving from location to location represent geographic displacement? Of who? Stewart? Reassuringly, in the garden Stewart reads, “I can’t know everything. My life is too full of joy, learning, going forward and educating others.” Then Massey and Foster cut to Transken: 

So. It’s, it’s hard to be creative and functional. And to make changes in the world, and our own worlds. And not become like those other people, right? Those people that are, let’s say heartless, like in that one up there. [Transken points to something off-screen] Or who are mean, or bitter, or shutdown. [sic.]

Si Transken

When Transken says creativity is incongruent with productivity, it seems to undercut the project. When she points fingers at “those other people,” how do we know who they are? At the Farmer’s Market after she reads the line, “You and all your friends grew up with Peasant Vision in The North” I notice how Stewart’s poem jives thematically with Transken’s introduction. When a voice over is produced during footage of a disassembled mannequin, it seems to be a metaphor for dismemberment, maybe even violent crime. For example, Tranksen reads “The North will fuck you over.” When Transken is back on screen, she is standing between Mr. PG’s legs. Her reading concludes with her smiling into the camera.

Are Stewart and Transken “[harnessing] the transformative powers of shared words.” I don’t know. One interpretation of the progressive non-sensibility I managed to extrapolate from this section of the video is that Prince George is antagonistic towards the compassionate left in spite of the fact they are attempting to make the north “a better place” through poems, art and crafts and community gardening. 

The final section, Versa III, is by far the most convoluted of the three sections. Ken Belford reads “Dead Salmon Dialectics” (a nearly incomprehensible work) by Derrick Denholm, and Denholm reads “lan(d)guage [sic.]” by Belford. Massey and Foster begin this section with Belford flipping through a book and appearing somewhat confused as to what it is he is supposed to do. The scene is then cut to Belford in what is presumably his basement. The shot is framed similar to the scene in “A Beautiful Mind,” where Russell Crowe is pining up papers to a cork board. Belford explains that:

Ken Belford

I edit again, and again, and again, and I end up with pieces that look like this. And, for the time being, I have titles on them. Uh. And then when it comes time to edit, after I get the full length of the manuscript, the proposed book, on to a corkboard, then I print it all off again and I stand back from this. And I look at it, and I indicate in some way, or other, what I—a piece that I may think might be the first, or the second, or the third, or fourth. Ah. And I construct them, so that they kind of harmonically reflect upon each other, before. And what is to come. For the next. And, uh, so I take the pieces. Like here I have a new poem called “Textbook Pictures” and I just trim them close to the edge of the—the text. I sometimes think of these as semiotic textiles. And then I just locate it on the board like this [sic.].

Belford is the only other poet, besides Transken and a strange interlude by Denholm and Massey, who is allowed to speak before a reading. Denholm’s brief, seemingly out of place, conversation with Massey about his trip from Prince Rupert is at the tail end of Versa II. It serves no obvious purpose to the narrative structure of the film.

Belford reads in a monotone voice, droning out a series of words that mean, seemingly, nothing.  The reading is spliced crudely with shots of Belford standing on a river bank. In these shots, he seems like he is supposed to be reading, but his lips don’t move and he is voiced over. This is followed by a shot of a plateau and a matted Chroma key of a forest while the camera zooms out, as if it were drinking. Belford’s reading ends with a grumpy look on his face.

The lead up to Denholm’s section is by far the hardest to make sense of. There is a close up of rippling water, followed by a piece of driftwood caught in an eddy, which bears a strikingly similar resemblance to watching a turd being flushed down a toilet for 23 seconds. Excuse my humour. There is no context for this shot: is this “[facing] up to the realities and stereotypes” of the north? It does, however, announce Denholm’s second appearance – his second coming. 

Derrick Denholm

Throughout Denholm’s section there are three montages. His reading is spliced with cuts that include the camera pointed at the ground for a spell, a few matte Chroma key effects, a cross-faded sequence and a two frame shot that depicts boxcars in one frame and the other river bank in the other. Denholms reading is prefaced with an eco-montage of the poet walking along a river trail that shows garbage – an old motor, a discarded BMX, and dead fish, bright green leaves, and river rocks. Denholm – in plaid and denim – appears as the eco-poet personified when he reads directly to a patch of dandelions. 

“Trying to focus on many little parts and how they create many different wholes depends on who and what you are.” To summarize, if I may, Massey and Foster say nothing: many little parts create many different wholes – so what?

I think it important to comment on the soundtrack. It has elements of 1970s pornography as well grunge-inspired indy rock.

I am shocked that Massey and Foster believe this video represents northern poetry, specifically Prince George poetry. The video is amateurish and it is not intended for general audiences. “Vice Versa: Poetry up Here” is an unflattering and inaccurate representation of Prince George, its poets and vice versa.

A piece of driftwood caught in an eddy.

Any Place But Here

     It was the first of the month, rent was due and I had drunk it away last weekend. The only thing I could think of to do was to run from this retched den of scum and villainy known as Prince George. Where to? It didn't matter; any place but here. I called Jimmy, told him to pack some clothes and that I would be over in an hour to pick him up. I jumped in my van, put on the radio and turned up the volume:

Run down, run.
Where it leads,
Your compelled to follow.

Run down, running free,
Running down the road you've been before.

Run down, run.
Planting little seeds,
Would you not wallow?

Run down, running free,
Running down the road you've been before.
Run down, running free,
Running toward the goal you've been, Lord.

Run down, run.
Fibers, jeans and beads,
Tearing 'round the hollow.

Run down, running free,
Running down the road you've been before.
Run down, running free,
Running toward the goal you've been, Lord.

Running toward the goal you've been, oh Lord.

      By the time Jimmy and I got to Grande Prairie, it was early morning. The dawn was breaking and my eyes burned. Jimmy was passed out in the passenger seat. I wish it was me who was asleep at the moment, however, Jimmy never bothered to get a driver's license; an unfortunate pain in the ass.
We pulled into Ulrich's apartment parking lot. I pulled into an empty stall close to where Ulrich was parked.   I got out and let the door slam shut. Jimmy jumped and looked at me. I mouthed, "We're here" to him and he also got out of the van.
      We lit up a couple of cigarettes and sat on the back bumper of the van, quietly at first, but soon a conversation arose.
      "How long have I been out?"
      "A while. Probably two-- two and a half hours. Pretty boring driving with someone who's sleeping."
      "I bet. So Ulrich's cool with me staying here the night?"
      "He said he was. Him and Salina are probably sleeping though, so we need to be quiet."
      "You need to be quiet," a chuckle, "you're the one who's loud."
      "Good point."
      I already began to regret this move. If I stayed, then I could have gone back to the college for another semester, since I left, I was pretty much stuck here. No job, no girlfriend and no dog. Just unrolling fields populated with rigs and a spread out mess of a town.
      Oh Canada.
     "-- and we need to be up at five."
     "Sorry, what?"
     "I said, it is three forty-five-ish and we need to be up at five."
     "Yeah. Maybe we should drink through."
     We laughed, but the sad fact was, we probably would have drunk through the night if we had gotten into Grande Prairie earlier in the day.

* * * 

     July 5th 2010
     Surprise, sur-fucking-prise, the cunt running S.P.M. hired two other guys to take our places. Fuck, I hate people. I hope the cunt (Bruce or something else that fucking fruity) spills some corrosive on the crotch of his pants. Going to look for something else, probably end up back in a goddamn kitchen.

* * * 

Lapse, synapse, spilling the rare,
Lemon-guards the maiden fare.
Remember then this summer air,
Where winters last, a season's despair.

Some to do, some who won't,
Rabblers Manchurian goat.

Left behind the fence, or wall,
To spring the fall of consumerist hall.
Fashion then comes close to all,
With nothing, no one, left to call.

The tidings and well wishings,
Came to realize what was meant.
They're worthless, resorting,
They are useless as one cent—

     I paused the video when Ulrich came into the room.
     "What the hell are you watching?"
     "I dunno, some anti-Bush song."
     "Oh, there seems to be a lot of those these days."
     "Yup. I really hope he gets kicked in the balls, or face, on his last day as president. It would bring joy to millions."
     Ulrich snickers, "Yeah, it would be good. Want to go get some coffee?"
     "I dunno what I want. A job would be good so that I could buy coffee once in a while."
     "You need to get out of the house and apply for that to happen." Ulrich stated only half joking.
     Twenty minutes later we were standing in line at Tim Hortons. I was dressed in my Ghostbusters costume I made last year. Ulrich was wearing shorts and a t-shirt. The contrast was pretty stark, and since we were having a fairly serious conversation (mostly about his wedding and what the best man and I would be wearing), people were looking at me; probably wondering if they should laugh or stare silently. Ulrich and I made our way to the front counter.
     I got a sudden pain in my left Achilles tendon and shifted quickly in hopes that it would go away, no luck, however I managed to hit a small child in the head with the home made proton pack that was hanging off my back.
     After apologizing profusely to the now laughing parents, Ulrich and I ordered our coffees and left.

* * * 

     July 9th 2010
     Jimmy and I were out all day plastering resumes at every place we could. Over all the day was pleasant. Around three or so I began getting lazy and resorted to just leaving my resume in random spots around the stores we visited. Like a bad Canadian novel, I feel bored, isolated and lonely. I'm trying to keep my mind off it. I've been reading a chapbook called Invisible Symmetry. Pierce gave me a copy because he thought I would enjoy it. So far it's really good. Not entirely sure what is going on in the story, but it has given me something to do so I don't get too stir crazy.

* * * 

     Four am, Ulrich is up and in the shower. He has to be outside for five. He works as a Frac'er. I have no idea what a Frac'er does, but Ulrich has been telling me that I should be harassing the rig companies to hire me as a Frac'er.
     "Think of it as Warcraft. Your profession would be like alchemy if you get on working in the chemical shed. If you were running tube, it would be like a repeatable daily quest--"
     This made sense to me; even though I hadn't played for the two months before running out here.

* * * 

     July 12th 2010
     My goals, I don't know how else to define them, so here is a list:
- Quit drinking: So far I have managed this with minimal discomfort.
- Get a decent job: This may seem easy, but it's not; some asshole always making promises.
- Eventually go home: I want to be able to sex up my girlfriend, pet my dog, finish school. These seem to be the things I'm most concerned with.
- Finish writing, and publish a book. Maybe I'll revisit some older work at some point.

* * * 

     Well they give me all kinds of advice. Designed to enlighten me
     Jimmy and I were driving around, drinking coffee, listening to John Lennon. We passed by a youth correctional centre and Jimmy said, "That's where the bad kids go." We both laughed as the chorus kicked in.
     I'm just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round
     It was another hot, windy day. Earlier I felt like I was getting vertigo sitting on the small deck of Ulrich's apartment. Like John Lennon's song (released in 1981 after he was shot and killed by Mark Chapman), I was just sitting and watching fields of wheat across from the apartment building wave in the wind.

* * * 

     July 15th 2010
     Was walking around the strangely spaced strip mall across the street from Ulrich's apartment. I really want a Mighty Morphin' Power Ranger's costume to hand out resumes in. Reason for this? It would make me unforgettable and increase my chances of being hired.
     Met a few biker's from BC (it was good to see some BC boys, even though 80% of the people living in Grande Prairie are from my home town), and helped stop a shoplifter from making it too far from the liquor store he had just stolen a 26 of Crown Royal.
     This made me want a Power Ranger's costume even more; or at the very least, to make myself a costume and go out at night to attempt to stop crimes.

* * * 

As above, so below.
Simple things, we all know.

In the night, the darkness beats.

Someone walks to a car,
Even now the darkness beats,
Eventually kicks the glass, a scar!

I look down the street,
The wind picks up, a mighty blow.

* * * 

     "I need to get the fuck out of here." I said to Jimmy, while we walked around downtown Grande Prairie. It had been three weeks since we arrived here and I still hadn't found a job. I was almost out of ways to entertain myself.
     We walked by a small bistro style restaurant and we saw a server who looked like our friend Garcia waiting tables. Jimmy had been hired at Tony Roma's as a line cook.
     "Just get a kitchen job. You know what you're doing, and you'll probably get a raise after two weeks."
     "That's just it, Jimmy, I don't want another fucking kitchen job. There is more to life then filtering the world through a pass-bar."
     We walked past a tattoo shop. Jimmy opened the door and walked in.
     "Yeah, but you're getting broke, so just find a kitchen job for right now and look for something else."
     "Like what?"
     "Well you have a better shot at gettin' on the rigs then I do. You at least have a driver's license."
     I rolled my eyes, "Good for me."
     The girl who owned the shop looked up from tattooing a hipster's forearm.
     "I'm sorry, I don't do drop ins" she stated in a monotone drone.
     "That's okay, we wouldn't want to be tattooed by you anyway." I say, and then I walk out.
    She sets her gun down and follows me outside.
     "Hey fuck you! I wouldn't want to tattoo you anyway you piece of shit!" She walks back in, and Jimmy walks out.
     "Man, fuck that place." Jimmy says to me.
     I laugh as I light a cigarette.

* * * 

     July 22nd 2010
     I can't fucking take this place anymore. I should have stayed in Prince George; at least I had a job there. The only good thing about this past week was the street festival this past weekend. Ulrich's son had come up with his mom and I spent most of the day with him, as Ulrich and his mom were discussing his wedding in September.

* * * 

     July 26th 2010
     Thursday, I had two interviews, one at Boston Pizza for a serving position, one at Princess Auto for a supervisor position. Both places I just left my resumes laying around in random locations in the stores.
     I got two calls back later in the day, both telling me the same thing: "Sorry, but we feel that we do not require someone with your qualifications. However, please feel free to re-apply in six months."
     It was at this point I started to panic.
     'What do I do? Stay here, unemployed and miserable, or pack up my shit and go home, be employed, miserable at my job, but be with my girlfriend and my dog?'

* * * 

     July 28th 2010
     I finished reading Monster by A. Lee Martinez, and Heaven Is Small by Emily Schultz today. It is amazing how fast one can read when there is nothing to do. I really should just finish writing that goddamn book.

* * * 

     It was nearing the first of the month, and I had been walking around the brown bricked college a few blocks away from Ulrich's place. It was sunny, hot and only slightly windy that day. I was taking photographs of myself at different areas outside the college. While this college looked huge, it wasn't. The hallways were narrow, and the library was the size of a classroom. It wasn't a college I was considering going to.
     After about an hour, I realized just how isolated I felt in Grande Prairie. This city had no room for me, and I had no love for this city. I decided I was going to leave.
     When I talked to Ulrich and told him I needed to go, he tried to talk me out of it.
     “My wedding is months away, why not just stay here, find a job and get a place with Jimmy for one fucking month?”
    Ulrich knew it would be useless, once I had something in my head; it is very rare that I change my mind. The next morning I moved all my stuff back into my van. By eight am my van was fully loaded, and by 6 pm, I was back in Prince George.

Greater Wrong of Right (part 1)

I am $30,000 in debt. When I run into people from high school this is what I tell them. When they ask, “What did ya spend thirty grand on?” I tell them 2 girls. The $30,000 wasn’t spent on women, or even a woman, it was spent on a relationship. Two years ago I was fired from Red Robin. The next two months were spent on credit and borrowed time.

I am sitting in class and I am $30,000 in debt. There is a poem projected on the wall and the professor is asking, “How does this particular piece make you feel?”

I feel pissed off that I’m paying a post-secondary institution to be asked a question that I can ask myself.

A nasally voice somewhere behind me says, “It makes me feel discombobulated by the indoctrination forced upon the narrator, as clearly illustrated through the use of repetition and onomatopoeias within the sixth stanza.”

I’m nauseated that 60 point Scrabble words are enough to qualify as “knowledge”. I look at the clock, still another eighteen minutes until class is over. Maybe after I’ll get a coffee and try to get some other class readings done.

“Yes, one can certainly feel that way considering the way the piece is structured. Anyone else care to share how they feel?”

Another faceless voice speaks up, “Well, from the enjambments, I feel like this is a very urgent work, like there is some sort of, um, importance. You know, like in the Beatles song!”

I feel dumber for having heard this comment. Viet Nam, second wave feminism, J.F.K. shot in Dallas, Ken Kesey and other day trippers driving cross America, all of these were of greater importance than Revolution becoming a hit.

I am $30,000 in debt sitting in a class listening to how a poem by some hack makes people feel. I suppose this is what happens when you were born in the early ‘80s.

“Good. Now what do you think was the author’s intention with this piece?”

“What does it matter, the author is dead to the work already.” I say.

“No, you are quite wrong in thinking that you see--”

“No, you are wrong, Michel Foucault lays it out quite clearly in his essay.” I say.

“True, Foucault did claim that, but--”

Someone probably much smarter than I am speaks up, “He has a good point, how would I know the author’s intention if they don’t layout in a clear and concise way to make it accessible for the reader? And more importantly, why wouldn’t we be looking at what the poem means, rather than how it makes us feel? After all wouldn’t the way that a piece of art makes someone feel be a matter of opinion and not a matter of truth?”

The professor looks worried, if only momentarily. I have a sudden realization that he owns an expensive piece of paper which implies he knows things about stuff. The truth is he probably knows just as much as anyone else in the class, the only difference is that he gets paid to be here. He then dismisses us, there is eleven minutes left. If he would have asked me how this makes me feel, I would have replied “Satisfied.”

A girl named Leslie comes up to me in the hallway and says “Thanks.”

* * *

Cunt's Not to Like?

For the extremist left in my home town,

I moved on to the death of my ego,

it looked like a medium
to
low budget affair,
possibly Canadian.

And then these memories moved,
briefly to Grande Prairie,
before returning to Prince George.

A deconstructed sum of parts,
laying out in a front yard of
a trailer park,
close to that old sleigh.

Relocated
and fully expecting to be damaged,
drowning in dead beat debt,
but knowing that I could do better,
but then again, knowing I won't.

The smell of success just as unknown
as is the stark failure I've lived up to thus far.

Them's The Brakes!!! (part 4)

Them's The Brake's! (part 3)

Them`s the Brakes! (part 2)