Don't think of pooh, like I do

We listen to the sounds of life

while people are cut with knifes

and we all fight for our lives

but it is not until we dive

Head over shoulder we fall

like heavy stone balls

We discuss issues in our halls

calling each different we all

It is not until were all dead

and buried forgotten heads

matter to society through threads

listen to what is said

I think I need to go pooh

But it seems weird you won’t tie my shoe

and I don’t realize that it’s you, who?

My life is a dull existence, what should I do

I must change the way I am

just like uncle Sam

I like beer and ham

but dislike the restrictions of the dams

Why don’t you help me see myself

Instead of putting me on a shelf

I’ll help you with your health

I’ll give you mouth to mouth

If we forget how humans cope

you’ll be the one looking down the damn scope

And be washing the blood with soap

diminishing the hope.

Found Text "King Snow" magazine

For my “found text” assignment I’m going to use dialogue from a free magazine based on poor really good snowboarders that are sometimes called ‘professionals’ if I’m right but in this instance are not. They are bums that will do nothing but began for money to fund their adventures or plea for a ride up the hill just to sneak onto every lift they can because they can’t afford to pay $70 like other people for a day pass. I want to use this magazine as much as I can, because it is pretty much people like me writing whatever they want, which I think is stellar. Here’s a quote from one of the magazines writers so you (whoever’s reading this can get a feeling of the magazine since u can’t see it) “Shut up and listen. We will bring our voice to your magazine, even though everyone knows snowboarding isn’t quite where skateboarding is yet and obviously we’d prefer to do an issue of king shit” (Ryan Stutt).

Here is a poem using some of the dialogue about opinions, I see how these writers react to readers comments and it seems like how a writer of poetry is compared to a writer of novels or structural writing in whatever form. Rules apply for writers who see that it is right to have commas and periods to make sense. Normally they also try to have rules for poetry, “structure is the successor for perfection” haha blahhh. For I, poetry is a style of writing in which I’m free to write what I want using things I want. For example being in a half pipe contest is like structural writing, and free boarding is like poetry, there are no two walls a rider can ride up and do tricks off, but rather a whole mountain to explore and be free with. The only line I fallow in my poetry writing in communication. Can or will people be able to understand the meanings in which I’m relaying. Period.

Snowboarding equals poetry…

The dark reached out to me,

through a intermediary about wanting to guest art direct an issue.

suffering from chronic flatulence my uncle was a bitter old man too

Great point that you raise and the answer is simple,

contests are extremely gay, just two walls where people can try to be better than each other

doing the exactly the same thing. Goddamn boring.

Any idiot can jump off a cliff for a photo, those people don’t have kooks,

agents, personal trainers and have to pass drug tests on their way to winning medals.

His farting technique would keep him excommunicated indefinitely.

Don’t be a KoC, dude, please Johnny learn from this story.

Let the street snowboarders have their fun they can’t wait to get to a mountain.

Guys who win are clearly better snowboarders, so why are free riders covered more?

Awoke in my hammock to darkness as a handful of sand peppered my face.

We will be offering the following two packages to our customers:

One, they are not better and two, kidnapping could be the solution to a better North America.

This piece of writing was fun; its meaning is not to confuse readers about what I think is cool but rather that people who distinguish what they do as better than other. Meaning in my hope to pursue a career in journalism I hope that people will be able to understand that what I pick to do is not what I think is better. I’m not writing an article on some poor kid from Kelowna who can jump off a 7 foot roof onto a 10 foot sloped rail because I think he is better but more that it is real and happening in people’s daily lives. No not that people do what that friend did but people have friends in their lives that do things that impress you and you or me as a able person have the ability to acknowledge that so why not. Other people might think it is cool. Plus he’s your friend. I write because I love it and it is fun, not to get rich or show the best, which I think the writers within the magazine do.

Any questions please comment and I will respond.

Thanks, Trevor Chalifour

Short Story of a Pancake

I woke up this morning dreaming of life as an individual, she spoke about pancakes as I recollected the tears which soon fell like syrup. As I deemed away my care from the thought of caring for her I stumbled on an idea that left me as myself and her as well, shit. I sat up walked to the kitchen and began loosely placing pre-made pancake powder in a bowl, once in the bowl I folded the flowery substance upon the counter beside the cutting board. Next as I smoothly flattened the pyramid of crap onto the counter. I poured two and a quarter and an extra half of a quarter of water onto the mixture. Although the instructions said "no egg required" I cracked an egg on the opposite side of the cutting board across from the flowery now water based materials. Once done adding the additives to the packaged goods I heated the pan with a combination of out dated malk and olive oil. Once the pan was hot I removed the oval dimension used for cooking and placed it on the plastic cutting board. Before adding anything into the pan I proceeded to the room of cleanliness, where I released my waste. Next I used a serrated knife to scrap off the egg from the counter, which we had hate sex on last night, into the pan. Following this I added two crushed sleeping pills and the perfect amount of water and pancake mix. Now after removing the cutting board from the bottom of the pan I mixed the mixture together with my hands, the same one’s that I wiped my ass with using no toilet paper. I continued to the stove as I set the pan back for temperature change and added a few crushed nuts and some chocolate chips, her favourite. I emptied the pan onto the floor, lifted it back off and then moved it to the corner where the fridge is place, that is where the crumbs collect. After finishing the pancake and making sure it wasn't too hot I spread syrup over the top as well as a nice fresh cut banana. I thought about getting her out of bed so she could eat of the table but what girl wouldn't love breakfast in bed. I delivered the goods after washing my hands and left her alone to indulge. I proceeded back to the kitchen and without thought poured the rest of the pancake mix onto the stove where the pan use to be and the idiot that I have become followed with the milk. That was the last time I saw her, still to this day I wonder what she did after reading the note I left her. The note of my special pancakes. The one she would of noticed after waking from the smell of the cooked pancake on the stove.

Now Life for a God

Days dragged over blank staring sheets. Black upon night with white eyes. She waits for her life as toys wait for joy, peace as in hope and hope as in death. To eat a whole bottle of hope to persuade life from its death and forgive thee self of that has been deemed through irony. Its bold black page as white as paper rain supreme over the land which god once concord. Now no hope is hearing as god once told but a reality is set through human connection. And without that as this and he is him, we live by ourselves with no god for a hope.

                                      T.A.Chalifour        11/02/2010