Vol. 3, No. 6
I was raised a Catholic
by a tender mother,
she’s still a sweetheart
but the grieving, turned to slow
cook anger o’er father’s death
turned me to a ruthless atheist
in this coke furnaced world.
After dad, our old scout master,
the fallow Mr.Gartner rejected me
with an adult logic, I could not grasp
adult logic in those tender, forward years.
Now that his wife’s passed away
he’d decided to become a priest.
We saw him at Chapel the other day;
after mass mother invited him
for tea at the cottage. We gathered
‘round him, Pat and Mike and me
didn’t know whether to call him
Russ or My Father. Come In.
The important thing is the belonging.
When it’s all over, what’ll we be
remembr’d for? Big cars then small cars.
Each morning on my way to work,
I pass in front the Church’s Baptist steps
the choir inside, the caretaker with a limp,
everything conspires to say-
“don’t look at the sign in front-
The important thing is the belonging.
I continue my occupation of resistance.
Lento a capriccio the dramatic event
begins in C minor, sharp;
it precedes the Lassan in its order of sense,
and the pedal shifts flow, melancholy and dark
themes soon fade and playful becomes
the cluster of notes in bar nine,
as the main affair of the harmonies hum,
the fifth finger reaching in time.
Gypsy folk song inspires these notes
and captures the essence of passion,
each forte chord then echoes; Liszt wrote
in such pure technical fashion.
Entrancing, demanding, low half-beats then higher,
Hungarian chords sing their song of desire.
The garden gates are locked at night,
But not to keep folks out.
It’s what’s within that gives a fright,
And must not roam about.
The statues come to life, and free,
They frolic on the lawn.
And souls for dedicated trees,
Dance with them unto dawn.
The ducks emboldened by the dark,
Devour passing souls.
It’s not a very pleasant park,
When hungry are bridge trolls.
Lost children of most any age,
Are wise to keep without,
Lest they do suffer flowers’ rage
Inflicted on stray louts.
The wise late stroller comes not close,
When walking near the fence.
The gardens are for day’s repose:
When night falls get thee hence!
so i was friggin around with this poem
and gettin some jesuschrist pissed off
with the god damn punctuation not doin
what i god
so i fired the lazy sonsabitches
……..paid the buggers off
hired me a goddam crew of spacesnlinebreaks
workin for minimum wage …n glad to get it
n i thought maybe it would look better
..edgier n all that
….but now im not sure ….like y know
maybe ………its just the same dumb kid
dressed up as a monsterasumfin
for hallow e e n
A moment of silence,
Inspiration at lips:
The unbuttered side of a morning’s toast
Scratches your lips with unshaven stubble;
Rashers of meat glisten with fat, and
Yolk runs as rain down a windowpane.
The black gold, steaming hot liquid nectar,
Bites your tongue in hasty hunger.
Spattered plate’s drippings sop into dry edges.
Then clatter: clinking mug and spoon.
Popcorn is something
you can eat without looking
away from the film.
Nora double dutching on the cobblestones of Galway.
her doppelganger Molly not yet a fiction.
Nora just a Barnacle.
Six kids and a single mom
shoehorned into a doll house on Bowling Green,
her father, the drunk, had been given the boot.
Skip ahead a hundred years.
The doll house a museum.
James Joyce and Nora’s attraction a tourist attraction.
Molly Bloom’s soliloquy public domain.
The bearded curator seems amused,
Says Joyce was in the house just once.
A hasty visit, home on business in the old sow,
after he and Nora fled to Trieste.
The curator’s comments interrupted.
A busload of giggling Japanese school girls
jam the room,
their tour guide, a Dutchman in Sam Spade trench coat
asks: “Do you have anything by Joyce in Japanese?”
“Of course,” says the curator
whipping a Ulysses translation off a shelf.
“He’s been reprinted in 28 languages.”
The girls show polite interest but are eager to move on.
In Dublin Jimmy’s father learned
Nora’s name was Barnacle and said:
“She will stick to you”.
He was right about that
And I look at you
Your eyes swirl with light
Deep pools that pine
Your pinky fingers curve
Just like mine
Different versions of me
But same souls truly be.
where she had
when she had
of her being
past and future.
but she felt
Monica Jane is the beautiful name
For the little girl I first saw today;
She’s tiny and sweet,
Her mom and dad’s treat;
And to all who ventured her way
She amazed, with her charms;
And when held in my arms, went to sleep,
So precious and pure,
That it’s all I could do to not think of you
As a babe in my arms no more.
Monica Jane, I think it’s a shame
I’m so old that I may ne’er live to see
The day when you’ve grown
To have a babe of your own
(But I’m just feeling sorry for me);
Here’s to life, it’s so special,
Fragile and good, always different,
But always the same;
And here’s to the girl who entered our world
And is known as dear Monica Jane.
I remember like it was yesterday
A dream looked at in a whole new way
A community full of possibilities
Gave support to one person
To help the children with future opportunities
They say it takes a village to raise a child
Who knew it could happen
In such a short little while
Many know we have hopes and dreams
But often at times things rip at the seams
But with support and a lot of smiles
The garden is here
Because the community went the extra mile
It is because of you that we stand here today
To celebrate success, and life in a new way
Let us not forget that there is more work to be done
But that in the end, it is because of the each of us
That each child can smile just as bright as the sun
Because today in this community
We as a people have won
The financial crisis has spread like wild fire
all over the world, affecting rich and poor.
More poor and less the rich. Why they ask why?
Greed and gambling by money manipulators,
trying to make more money without a tangible product,
no good regulations by authorities or all of the above.
Yours Guess is as good as mine.
Money no more a means to an end
but an end to a means.
If someone were to offer me, free of all charge,
The original of a priceless and a favourite painting,
I would have to turn it down for fear of failing
To provide it a safe and proper home.
How could I live with myself if my new
Manet, Monet, Michaelangelo,
Seurat, Van Gogh, Degas or Caravaggio
Were to end its days in shredded tatters,
Discourtesy of my young cat who,
Innocent of all art,
Tried desperately to sharpen her claws
On the pretty toy in the frame?
I could not!
So is it with the blinding beauty of your smile:
It costs you nothing to dispense it–
No peerless face is scratched,
No lips are shredded
If a smile goes unremarked,
Ignored or unacknowledged.
But, for me, there is the danger that,
Should I return your smile,
You might detect the sexual thirst behind
That reflection, and thereby disdain ever again
To have your beauty
Drunk by me.
I was born shy,
so painfully shy.
that sometimes my parents forgot me
and drove away,
leaving my peeping presence behind.
But you are a bully.
You silence people.
When the farmers spoke out
your words curled with disrespect.
If you were my brother our mother
would have washed your mouth out with soap.
You don’t talk to people like that!
My bridled voice is a pressure
rising in me to shatter
We are talking to you.
Like the coyote
I am a stranger
The keeper of my own secrets
But no living, breathing
Allegory of wants
Or some fading ghost
Does the world owe me a living?
Asked he to the empty space
And got no answer from the universe.
Entropy died tonight
I am free now
Let the construction
of my soul
Afternoon and “Intact” apexes this
Modern Mayan pyramid of commerce
At the foot of these heaven-bound stairs,
transgendered beggar sing-songs salutations
unheard by Black American tourists
unfolding a multi-coloured map.
A Hispanic guitarist plays twelve-bar blues
protected by perpetual scaffolding
while homeless Jesus comforts sullen suited men.
Japanese girls cross streets short-skirted, bypassing
Arabic students with dark coronas of hair
Ties swinging like disturbed pendula.
supplicants bear coffee trays eastward past
bottle-laden shopping carts and dirty outstretched hands
(And the legless man wears a jester’s hat,
his jingling coins this street’s constant percussion.)
I walk the streets all night because I’m filled with pain
I pull on my boots and then I go out again
Because nobody sees me when nobody needs me
You asked a question and I know the answer
But I won’t say
But if you could listen; don’t you tell me
You don’t love your life
Don’t you tell me; you don’t love your life
I watch the sun she rises everyday
I watch the clouds as they scurry on their way
But nobody needs them even if you can see them
The clouds ask the questions the sun knows the answer
But she won’t say now please listen
Don’t you tell me you don’t love your life
If only one time; tell me for sure
You love your life
I passed a ghost last night and she…
Winked and nodded and stared
She knew for sure that no one really cared
Because nobody sees you unless…
Somebody needs you anyway…
You ask the question
The ghost knows the answer and she won’t say
Don’t you tell me you don’t love your life
Everything on earth is above
It’s all about the nearness
The heart is fearless
The only thing is love
So love never grows old
Oh sweet Mary Jane
Our love is a secret we keep
It saddens me to ignore your calls in public
We should be walking down the street together
But our budding romance is scorned
And we’re shamed and forced into seclusion
Oh sweet Mary Jane
Why can’t it be me and you
but our relationship is too taboo
Your aura although hazy suits me well
it brings me closer
closer to me
Why can’t we just be?
Our love holds a seed of love, natural, organic
We mesh and become one
But we can’t tell anyone of our affair
Meet me, Mary, in our hiding place, 4:20
Our spot, you know the one
I’ll be there
Dragon couldn’t be a dumb beast
a linguist at the very least
to live so long she must be gifted
knowledge thru ages sifted
English and Chinese
an autodidact who carefully listened
mind like her jeweled scales glistened
philosophy honed as her claws
fire kindled in her jaws
a sentient object d’art
Welsh Arthur called himself Pendragon
Arthur raising a fulsome flagon
usurped her legend and her magic
linked himself to romance tragic
an outsized role in history
sang a song, his legend bardic
his love and war are counted mythic
villages burned and knights way laid
immortal adversary she played
enemy magnifying his glory
Conceiving dragons is beautiful play
colluding with ancestors way
in bringing the dragon, beastly or wise
to imagined life, increased OUR SIZE