heavy petting

in the mind,
hold the tension between positive and negative,
then step outside of both,
a trick of the Stoics,
whether unloving,
or unloved,
disappointed and lonely,
fulfilled and together,
disappointed and together,
fulfilled and lonely,
I wish I could see as clearly as you,
with impossible clarity,
or understand as easy as you,
with impossible simplicity,
instead I awkwardly wade through the grass,
and stumble through the woods,
looking for some product,
to fill up my time,
like the shoppers in line,
at Costco,
but really looking for meaning,
some kind of deep-hearted-meaning,
struggling to meet it,
in every little touch,
in every little sound,
in every little taste.

before we are just skeletons

cottage sun blasts overhead,
a cool wind behind,
I am standing on the riverbed,
casting out my line,

maybe get a bite from another cold summer,
maybe get a bite from a lost love,
sink down deep to the bottom,
it's trial by fire,
no salvation from above,
gotta remember when I'm back in the city,
when I'm lost between buildings without art,
when the roads of my life are falling apart,

the future is blasting overhead,
there's billions of years behind,
we are are standing on a riverbed,
casting out our lines.

pour your heart out

economists call it "risky wife-seeking behaviour,"
it affects the "real exchange rate,"
it's unproductive,
the alcohol,
the drugs,
the gambling,
living on the outskirts,
with the unloved,
the un-matched,
they say the government will open up some dating sites,
so the violence will decrease,
savings will increase,
and shit will stabilize,

but how do you pour your heart out,
when you can't trust love?

when some just have the labour of the day,
the light of the sun,
bringing the joyless traffic of the mind,
cluttered and hoarded,
the acidic wash of sycophants,
the bitterness of ambition,
the after burn of fading youthful illusions,
and the howling hounds of time?

but how do you pour your heart out,
when it's always coming apart?

should I try to hurt the world back by holding back my art?
after all, psychologists say "women nurture, men self-destruct,"
still, why wait around for a sloppy kiss from lady luck?
why try to hurt the world back when the world doesn't give a fuck?

tube TV

for what it's worth,
and it ain't worth much,
trying to survive,
a body determined by uncertainty,
and bound by time,
I've only known one side of the thin red line,

some are starting out,
some are halfway done,
some are getting towards the end,
some never got started,
some got stuck part way through,
and some would like to start again,

take a moment of pause,

loosen the chains of the mind,

and feel the warm summer rain,

this is where I sit to die,
where I close my eyes,
and let loose the body/mind,
watch the flow,
and let it go,
without the eyes,
and be present,
outside time,

but then I'll come back,
to where I choose to live,
sitting out here behind the garbage,
watching a tube TV,

where they play for a cup,
a cup for the world,
a cup for you,
share a cup with me,
on this side of the line,

for what it's worth,
and it ain't worth much,
but what I have is yours,
and what I give is mine.



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pull it open

in the middle of winter
bite down on the harness,
in the middle of winter,
a wicked test of the will,
in the middle of winter,
a beast pulling on the chains,
in the middle of winter,
loneliness is visceral,

a fortuitous frost line and dirty ice,
a weak sun and salt rusted water,
melting dog shit and mud matted garbage,
buckets of diesel and coffee,

the last days of the winter,
pull a grey sky open,
unveiling the human insult,
the meager cry of the vain animal,

the last days of winter,
same thing all along,
coming into being,
then it's gone,

now pull a grey sky open,
there's black behind the blue,
I shouldn't worry about tomorrow,
but I always do,

now pull a grey sky open,
get a sense of the vastness,
which gives way to a chill,
giving way to a shiver,

nothing is forever,
not even the winter.

a Buddha on the nightstand

I've become skeptical,
yet I put my hands out,
into the dark night,
to be slapped,
and bit,
and burned,
and stung,
for the worst storms,
are in the mind,
wait them out,
play some cards,
tap a tune on the knees,
or shadow box the breeze,

open the shutters,
step out alone,
meet the Devil at the gate,
pay no heed,
go right through,
the wicked world is waiting for you,
the Devil throws a jab,
a southpaw angel,
with a right foot glide,
I stick and move,
then step to the side,
play through the pain,
blood in the eyes,
cramps in the thighs,
feel the spirit rise,

no other journey but to find the Self,
no matter a distance so far,
or an ocean so deep,
or a desert so wide.

getting back

put the paint on the paper,
watch the colours run down,
I feel like I'm waiting,
for my luck to turn around,

thoughts start exploding,
like salmon from a stream,
like an ancient Zen symbol,
I know just what it means,

a force pushing from the outside,
against an opposite force within,
I try to transcend the fools,
preaching salvation and sin,

look what it gives you,
one contingency to the next,
too busy texting and tweeting,
no time left to reflect,

a quest for the plastic and hollow,
when there's more to behold,
rivers of colour,
flow through the folds,
into the cold, dirty street,
where the flesh of reality,
and the bones of our principles meet.