Vol. 1, No. 7
i wonder what it is passing between us now —
cell to cell, i know, but we are nowhere near
a sound. yes,
show off to everyone around that you are not,
Listen to my words
Pass them off as yours
I control your mind
Give me your mind
You are all puppets
Slaves to the pen
You must get tired of pretending
and of all the bad actors
Square dancing fools
Aligned to the left
And blind to the rest
Spiked belt tourniquets
You’re hemorrhaging personality
Sheets of water
………………….down my window.
Blankets of water
………………….the city below.
Streets slick and shiny,
Buildings grey and dingy,
Water dripping from roofs and windows
………..like leaky faucets.
……….Umbrellas held close to heads
……….like many-coloured mushrooms
…………………scurrying for cover.
Drunk, stumble, sing, fun
They love you!
Oh you are so sad
Fun, sing, stumble,
You forget who loves you.
It’s lonely when the haze clears
I see someone on the street.
At first I think it’s someone I know.
Then I realize it’s just someone
who looks something like someone I know.
They’re almost the person I know.
No, they’re not! Looking like the person
I know doesn’t make them anything to do
with the person I know!
I’ve never seen them before.
Okay, maybe I’ve seen them a dozen
times before, but never noticed them
before, or noticed and forgot.
I only see them for a moment.
They play a very small role in the movie
of my life. I know nothing of them,
but they know all about themselves.
After all, they’ve been them for all
their lives, just as I have been me for all
my life. I saw them for only a moment.
They may not have seen me at all.
Poetry is a way
To have your say
There is no right or wrong way
It is fun and sometimes sad
Feelings of even being glad
Think about how it makes you feel
Cause it is real
This fish has no gender
How dare you ascribe him one?
He has no genitals
He has no voice
He has no sex
He doesn’t have sex
He swims through an ocean
Polluted by contraception
His odds weren’t very good anyway
Another transitory existence;
Merciless and unwavering reality.
I cling to the edge,
Convinced this time,
I won’t fall-
The plot unfolds, inevitable;
Woven into each new mantle,
A single thread of candor,
Be content with forever-
Destined to relive,
Another ageless tragedy.
One that transcends time eternal;
What was lost,
Only to forfeit once more.
What may have been,
Throw a kiss and say adieu,
In the cool splendor of fall,
wind blown ochre leaves
scatter in the yard.
A northern wind blows hard
on this Mabon morning,
signal of change to come.
The crow sounds a rousing cry,
its’ black form hunched
on a thin branch.
A kettle sputters, she
sips her tea slowly,
burning her throat.
She gathers herbs
to store in
Her heart beats shrewdly from
she scorns the cold.
Wind whispers of spirits near,
the crow takes flight,
Under the Blood moon of October,
she casts her spell,
beholds the crow on her oak tree.
I am using words
to speak of words.
Its not unlike using words
to speak of snow
to a man who has not seen snow.
At the end of the day
he still has not seen snow,
but he can tell you words about it.
Its wet, cold and white.
If he repeats these words,
he will come to believe
that he has seen snow.
I have seen snow
that is dry like the sand
driven by the wind.
It grinds away at every surface.
Language is like dry snow
driven by the wind.
Grinding away at our ability
to recognize what is present.
Language is a tool
used to create the illusion
of division where none exists.
You may imagine mind as a vast canvas
with words providing all the color
one can imagine.
Thoughts wander without a light
Sickness grows against a fight
Busted, bruised and been accused
A nothing man in ragged shoes
Detoxed mental realities
Cancerous caused fatalities
Broken, flawed and feeling pain
Flowing through a blackened vein
Feared pain in poverty
Viral filled society
Hatred, rage and killing fields
Zero done or put to yield
Finding pain in happiness
Raised a Bush to make a mess Anger, hate and wasted youth
Life was killed to tell the truth
Who would think the little chickadee
is as promiscuous as she can be.
That tiny chick, she has no shame,
they’re all alike, they’re all the same.
Tut, tut, tut… need I say more,
that charming chickadee’s a whore.
…2. Capitalized Interest
…3. Boards of Canada, Air, RjD2, Cold War Kids,
……Postal Service, Broken Social Scene
…4. this city
SOMEBODY HELP ME!!!
The Invisible Hand is trying to kill me!
It has already wreaked havoc on Wall Street
like anarchists in 1919
It ravages the ‘free world’ like Godzilla in Japan
Now I fear it will come knocking at my door
strangle me and take the money out of my wallet
But the joke will be on it because I have no money
in my wallet
or my bank account
or even under my bed
Still, in this case the invisible hand
will probably take the food out of my cupboards
and give me the finger on the way out
Does anyone have a silver bullet
to stop this beast that devours its own children?
This is not the first time the Free Market
has regulated itself into recession
And it won’t be the last
I just hope we wake up before it regulates us all…
The solace of my fingers.
This sharp and cracked distraction.
A full-lipped poet six tables away.
Come to me.
I want to speak haikus.
I’ve been impoverished of words
and I’m ready to speak.
I’m idling at Robie and Bell,
damn long light.
My foot twitching on the brake as I’m
making up my grocery list in my stomach.
God, that man is walking towards me
with his no name cup
and clenching a cardboard billboard:
Need money for food and meds
and trip to Timbuktu.
I’m watching the light, checking my make-up,
slipping a look.
Hair slicked down oily
Body caved in and that sickly color of skin.
I bet he can smell selfishness. Used to it.
It’s hard to know what these guys want.
People say drugs or cheap booze.
Don’t encourage them.
I’m full of nettles, my clamped steering wheel
begging the light to change this situation.
Ok, ok, my window slides down and I grab
a toonie that was destined to buy me a coffee.
God bless you, ma’am.
That always gets me.
He would have blessed me if I did nothing.
You steal me the sea when I sleep,
nude in the neoprene night.
You creep to the beach in the duotone dark,
barefoot, sandals lost in an unlit room.
You take an insomniac swim to
the suicide songs of a beached sperm whale,
scamper back briny and subdued,
press a miniature sea urchin to my lips.
(Perhaps only your stubbled
chin, your salted kiss.)
That April night I trudged in from the street
black with dirt, my heart all weak and worn,
my feet world-weary and afraid, and torn
between two paths.
Even then I knew what end
my way would lead. I’m sure you knew it too,
yet ministered with no thought of yourself.
Your heart was opened, knowing as you did
what vulgar death was yammering at my heels.
There at my feet you knelt, your hair all down,
and opened up your hoard of bottled tears.
Weeping (as I once wept), you added more,
and held at bay the jailers at my door.
Then with your radiant hair you wiped them dry,
(my poor and dirty feet!) my haggard mind.
And later, when I hung between two thieves,
I thought of you, and your sweet act of love.