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1:41 PM - In spring 2002 I went to Toronto..
Category: Writing and Poetry
Streetcar from Ronsey.
Left the chicken half eaten, listened to a lady cluck at the bar.
Walked out, the pavement was littered with children pecking for a dollar.
I gave a girl 50cents, and turned to face the wind of shouting memories.
Its eight thirty five, Queen St west longer than most a perfected symmetrical line of burger bars whiskey shows and speak easy joints that smoke like the largest cigar.
Speak in your tongue, I was told to-do by a man in a yellow shale, laughter could be heard.
Queen St west, heading west across lines of crack whore women, dinky polish bars with Russian boating songs, and I hear a voice calling my name.
The tram steel wheels whistle brushing the dust into a small cloud taxis and passengers wait, giant TV screens bellow out commercial iconic slogans I'd seen in Britain, buy bud light, they all drink Canadian Molson here.
"Who cares?" I say sipping my Amsterdam larger with lime.
I am on to Younge St. now, wide open large full, I stand under skyscrapers; I once thought where Gods, commanding mountains, yet now seem so slight and that little bit afraid.
This street a city in a mile with all of Europe and most of china giving me the hard sell. "Is there any Canada"
I ask a tattooed man with rivets in his arms, "Your standing right in it" he proclaims and explains population growth and the price of a burger.
I walk on; street kids tuck at my coat, shallow not sinister yet barely afloat
A Jamaican man at my table in a Younge st bar interested to hear what life has so far, what will he will say before he asks for some money, the storey is long whining disconnected unfunny. I move across the bar.
Condemned to that seat his storey is uplifting worrying complete, as barfly tucks into a dish of seasoned meat. "May I call you Mr fly", addressing his tie, he moves forward digs spoon in pie, breath of yesterdays muse exploding in views tells me the news. "Son your in mega city one, Much music, speakers corner, funny comedy, Spadina China Kensington leather, Tea party Sloan and a girl called Joan, whisky Saigon and hemp party bongs. Runnymede to bloor with Young St tour on the rocket (ride the rocket) onto Scotia bank building along wide streets messed near CN tower taller than all on to lake Ontario looks to Hamilton and the city sprawl the hassle, the ball, this raw city call, bursting, blooming bantering shanking making creating, that's t/o".
The tram toll bells shunts halting just out side the bar, I watch people get on and off, I watch the people watch me. With a nod I leave.
I am somewhat amused but hardly moved as I walk onto Spadina avenue with dragon gates and an endless population that appears from nowhere, a mass of people hit me like a wall of sound that knock me back and.... the.... crack... I scramble into a doorway and brush myself down then head onto Kensington market, and the relative quiet that awaits me.
I drag a smoke from my oversize cigarette packet from the pocket of my brown leather jacket consumed at Kensington market and stop to light, looking up I see the CN tower flower, ever so slightly, just enough so you can see that this building in bloom.
There is a grassy bank near the lake I walk towards it, the first bit of green I have seen apart from the endless teenage hair dye that greets you on Queen.
Restless images contract my view like a slow died t/shirt with the words "look at you".
Windows are open with Polish dish, and segments of Europe and fragrant fish, pickles and sweets and unordinary fare lays Hershey to toot's tootsie roll, my day on Rocancevalles.
(Rock-an-say-val)
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disappointed
