dominant 7th

rattled nerves and twisted dreams,
my feet lose rhythm easily on these dirty, dark, streets,
shuffling, scuffling, scuffing and scraping the rubber soles off,
leaving a hole that leaks into my socks,

where can I go to feel at home?

how do I find peace of mind?

dating games and histories of pain,
I want to throw it all out into the rain,
misdirections and pot-holed points of view,
I get tired of arguing,
'bout love and war,
will and submission,
about the amount of the bill with the electrician,
religious or non,
present or gone,
I'll rest my eyes as you present,
a retrospective on September 11th,
and let the whiskey float me away,
on an Oscar Peterson dominant 7th.

beyond the sky

police cars and ambulances,
to inner voices,
the transient dances,
shouting "arrest me, arrest me, I’m guilty, I did it, whatever it is!"
cops question tenants
and nervous pedestrians
rubber neck and clutch their purses,
wheel out the body,
sirens pierce the cool spring air,
old ladies chatter, reporters take notes,
"this is a quiet neighbourhood, nothing like this ever happens here"
they say, as cops drink coffee in idling cruisers,
"did you see what happened?"
I ask the transient,
"no man, somebody snapped I guess...people are crazy today man" he says laughing,
"hey you got some spare change?"
"yah...uh..." I dig distractedly in my pocket,
watching a woman crying behind yellow tape,
"sometimes I wanna leave this place and never come back" I say handing him a dollar,
he takes it and puts it in his cup and pauses for a moment,
"don't worry man,
it's like that song...everything is everything man," the homeless guy states,
"Yah I guess so." I reply.
As I walk away, I hear him yell "have a nice day sir!"

"Spring starts...

...when a heartbeat's pounding..."

TTH

The Hickory McCracken Chronicles: Montreal Moment

It had been a long summer and a cold fall. I had broken up hard with my summer love Melanie Moreau, a gorgeous girl from Montreal, a dancer, a violinist and a free spirit, a true free spirit. But wait, let me preface. I was working in the royal mountain for the summer as a co-op student at my uncle's pickle factory. My uncle Jack was a great guy, a bit of an asshole on the job, but generally a pretty good manager of people. I was placed there on a co-op program that worked in tandem with McGill U and my highschool in Ottawa. It was a tiring 10-12 hour-a-day shift, hauling pallets, skids of dill spice, salt and vinegar, broken boards, boxes of jars, and bigger jars, and sweeping up mountains of broken glass and rotten cucumbers. I worked pretty much non-stop and got 30 minutes for lunch. Most the day, while hustling for my lousy pay and even lousier "real world work experience," I spent trying to do three things: reciting Tragically Hip songs in their entirety, trying to get a glimpse of Fanny Miller's cleavage (my Uncle's receptionist) which would bounce all over the place when she would storm through the warehouse, walky-talky in hand, chasing one of the forklift operators who had obviously had a 5-pint liquid lunch, and thirdly, planning fun things to do with Melanie on the weekend. Man, the girl was a beauty. She had an angelic smile and was so sweet and gentle and smart with her quiet French-Canadian accent. We hit it off the very day that I met her at a work BarBQ. See, she was the daughter of the regional manager Gerard Moreau, who was the quintessential blue-collar prick, and resented my ass because I was my Uncle's (his boss's) nephew and because I was a "fackin' anglo" as he would shout about me within ear shot. All summer, Melanie and I would subway downtown, either after work or on Saturday nights, at various secret locations we'd meet up and would spend almost the whole night together. I would often accompany her to her ballet practices and violin classes. We would talk music, art, politics, eat at our favorite restaurants, drink wine and smoke herb in the park and sometimes just sit together under the Montreal lights and stars for hours. I would tell her that I loved her and wanted to be with her forever but she would just giggle sweetly and say in broken English that all of us "Anglo boys were so serious" and would laugh some more. I was 19 and didn't realize that my romantic dreams were about to get a serious wake-up call. One rainy Friday evening, with my Uncle out of town, I was left to clean and close the main warehouse, well, me and Gerard Moreau, the king of the pricks. I could see through the glass window to his office that he was drinking - he had been all day. Drinking and yelling on the phone, yelling at his drivers and workers, and then drinking some more. I tried to keep a low profile, finish what I needed to do and get ready to lock the main warehouse door. As I was locking the tool room I felt a hand on my neck and the smell of booze on stinky breath. It was Gerard. He grabbed me harder and threw me against the wall and said in loud broken english, "listen you piss ov shit, you go near my daughter 'gain and all bust yer fuckin' anglo face ok?" I felt like I was gonna piss myself under his strong grip, but I held it tight, though I could feel my legs starting to shake. Gerard stared at me for a good few minutes then left the warehouse with a slam of the door. I collected myself and grabbed my coat and locked up the main door. I thought about calling my Uncle and crying up a storm, telling him everything but I knew that I might be branded a pussy by the other guys, so I sucked it up and decided to treat myself to a smoked meat across the street at Molly's Inn. It was a quiet place, with just a bunch of old drunks, where I would often come to take a shit in peace. Sometimes, I would sit on the toilet and cry like a pussy. Tonight was one of those nights. I felt alone against these blue-collar tyrants who only knew about drinking, fucking and fighting and longed to be with Melanie who reminded me of the beauty of life and who made me feel strong. As I sat in the stall, with my head in my hands, I heard the squeaky door bathroom open and footsteps from big boots walk slowly towards me. I was too tired, angry and embarrassed to look up. The voice was hoarse but familiar and asked, "hey, you the one that gives free blow jobs?" "Fuck off. Leave me alone." I replied with my head in my hands. "Well, I just thought that I'd come in here and get you to give me one of them dandy free BJ's." At this point, I erupted and started shouting while looking at the floor, "I told you to fuck off, what part of...." but as I looked up, I felt a strong hand on my shoulder, "Easy bud. I'm just kiddin,' I like the ladies, don't need no man smoking my pipe." My sadness and fear disappeared. I was face to face with Hickory McCracken. He had less teeth than when I'd seen him last and seemed to be a bit chubbier but he still had that smug smile and gleam in his eye. "Hick!" I yelled in relief and laughter. "It's good to see you man," I said clapping our hands in a tight shake. "You too brotha," He said smiling. "So, I heard a fat frenchman's been giving you trouble," He said loudly. "Well...no...well not exact..." I began hesitantly but before I could finish, Hickory said, "well, let's say we have a couple of beers and take an order of poutine over to his house." I felt my heart began to pound and we began to laugh, Hickory out of the joy of anticipation and me out of fear...
Summer in Montreal had just begun.

to serve lager or ale

had a dream one rainy night,
probably just leftover mental fodder,
I was drinking beers with Jesus,
only we were underwater.

bully

bullies berate,
bullies lie,
bullies on the school yard,
bullies in the mind,
a bully pushed creation out of the sky,

ahhhhhh, what's this!

you are your own worst bully -

stop beating yourself up!

darling

jagged and reckless,
your comments to me,
it's a bitch of a thing,
the way you poke me,
the way I take it,
like some hungry kitten,
returning to a poisoned saucer of milk,
it's pathetic,
you're pathetic,
but now you're hurt,
now you're quiet,
no one's paying attention to you,
outside the walls of the workplace,
you're just like every other one,
with your list of demands,
spoiled and clueless,
tyrannical and unkind,
but you're shocked when no one calls your number.

maybe it's because I've gone home alone to laugh,
maybe someday you will laugh too,
when you imagine me,
spending my money on you.

hockey on a late night TV

clenched fists, grinding teeth,
celebrations in the street,
big money tickets to bigger money dreams,
fat men in boardrooms,
chalk boarding line-ups,
snake skin boots with leather seams,
fat cheques,
fast flights,
back home to big city nights,
millionaire teams,
and revenue streams,
fine women,
finer steak,
finest rows of Bentleys gleam,

but no gold medal for most -
facing daily adversity,
who struggle quietly,
just a pause in the agony,
cancer patients watching eagerly,
hockey on a late night TV.

alligator souffle

beat rhymed stanzas belted forward,
a vocal punch to tepid air,
read quickly, staggered-like, from a dog eared notebook,
an uneasy shuffle of the feet,
a Bic pen behind the ear,
read to an audience,
a quiet crowd of traffic lights,
sewer grates, oily puddles,
and an old drunk's midnight chuckle,
the poet stops, bends,
edits with a leaky pen,
a whistle wetted by a tear off a flask of 5 dollar whiskey,
stands up, begins again,
this time,
with a brand new line.

Problematics

uncertain and hostile,
indomitable loneliness,
a hollow vessel,
reflecting on nothing,
numbers and grids,
graphs and projections,
how could this ever reach me?
how could it reach you?
what's left when you strip it down...
down to your custom floors and palatial living rooms,
gorgeous friends and beautiful enemies,
sterile conversation and air of dismissiveness,
packaged persona and pseudo-intellectualism,
Valium induced dreams and muddy reflections,
how long do you think you can fool people?
at best,
your just a overtipped hostess,
and he's an errand boy,
and your spouses are your hairless pets.

bone bag

purple turns blue,
locked in this bone bag,
it's all happening

sins and satori

why are you running?
what are you running from?
your still looking over your shoulder?
you've been alone for a long time now,
chased by nothing,
but the shadows thrown by the sun on the concrete,
fooled by the echoes of your own footsteps,
there's nobody there,
they gave up a long time ago,
they're all gone,

...you outran them.

4 walls

contained by
fours walls
in a building
in a city
in a country
on a continent
on a planet
in a universe
in a galaxy
within millions of galaxies
imploding into nothingness
exploding into galaxies
creating universes
of planets
of continents
of countries
of cities
of buildings
of walls
containing
us,

contained in our mind,

...limitlessly.

just a grinder

A blogger;
a busted soul,
a simple tune, a window to the spring air,
a blogger sits with his head in his hands and a tries to remember...remember when days were long and the sky was blue,
a blogger; gets his
ideas from a vision or a dream or the sound of the buses' brakes popping
and squealing,
a blogger lies in bed awake, falls asleep at his desk,
a blogger; a type of poet, essayist, lyricist, a sad song, a hearty laugh,
A blogger, a mangy dog in an alley, a king with pomp and power, a tidal wave, an earthquake,
a punch to the face, a bloody car accident,

a blogger sits with his head in his hands and tries to remember...
remember when the water was clean and the streets were safe,
a blogger waits for days for the prison cell to open,
a blogger; smooth jazz, a cold beer, a sleeping baby,
a blogger wakes, types, writes and molds words into meaning,
a blogger...

a hack?

no...

a grinder,
a "Larry Robinson" grinder,
a defenceman,
a back-up guitarist,
a midnight busker,
singing a song for busted souls.

boiling blood

boiling blood sprays from the lips of the twisted,
the fractured,
the disenfranchised,
like an old man reaching out,
into the night,
trying to hold the wind,
he once knew the same goals,
had the same dreams,
as I,
but lost the mystery,
by getting lost in the mystery,
the hard mystery,
with a quivering voice,
a trembling cane,
no longer blinded by vanity,
he knows now like before he ever "knew,"
this hard mystery,
with it's rain on the windows,
with it's blood in the veins,
with it's fire in the sky,
with it's wind in the lungs,
when they tell you,
you don't know anything,
you tell 'em,
"I know enough."
but you say that last line like Deniro.

here we go

stuffed garbage bags and empty boxes,
memories tossed curbside,
ribbons and receipts,
socks and books,
gifts from loved ones,
an old year dying quietly,
but yet,
what is this vapid emptiness that lurks behind every happy moment?
what is this sinister shadow that creeps behind every new hope?
things have not changed,
the same fear,
the same dread,
stirring my anxious bowels,
the chemicals shift quickly in my brain,
like strange voices echoing in a dream,
tossing and turning,
medicating, escaping, running...
but yet,
where's my true will?
an empty resolution?
a pep talk?
a happy thought?

...more a resolve,
an anger,
an energy,
beyond ego,
a meta-physical strength this,
to know things,
then to let them go,
awareness remains steady,
with the body shaking,
I jump into the unknown.

Santa was a grillman

Before the house at the pole, and the marriage to Mrs. Clause, Santa was grillman at this diner; "The Nickel 524" off Linden and Church street, Brooklyn, New York. He would serve an all day breakfast to local riff raff and down n' outers. The odd business folk would come in and they would ask if "King" was working the grill. Eddie King, that was Santa's real name before he left the trade and got a job as a more diplomatic figure, some might even say, the Christ-archetype. Bringing good fortune and blessings to those who "were good" and withholding blessings from those who had "been bad." A Messianic figure no doubt, with his portly stature, beard and omnipotent knowledge. For many, he was and is the only "God" they will ever know. Santa became the official symbol of the eye-in-the-sky sailing through the wintery night pulled by the will of his creatures, bestowing good fortune on the innocent sheep, and their children, below. His symbol is everywhere, people hang his picture and wear his official clothes. They write songs about him and teach young ones about his moral observance. We make penance to him with every Christmas card, donation to a food bank and cheerful Christmas handshake. But "Santa" as we know him, was a Christ-figure long before he became Santa. Long before the FBI told him that he was going to be taking a new position and would be working in tandem with roving units of Santa teams. Yah, back when he was Eddie King at the 524, that's when he did good. True good. When he fried up some eggs for a shivering crack head, when he would help Mrs. Miller push her grocery cart through the door for a hot cup of coffee, when he would sit and listen to Tuck Harbour, a local lonely old drunk, tell him about the daughter he never had. King would sit and listen, puffing away on a Newport light, an upper arm tattoo of two naked women kissing, lightly visible beneath a sweaty t-shirt and greasy apron. Eventually, old Tuck would fall asleep in the diner chair, with a half-bottle of Bud and partially eaten burger and fries in front of him. King would would sweep up, cover old snoring Tuck with a blanket, and sit down at the bar and read the paper. Outside it was cold and the streets were peppered with punks and winos. The moon sat high above the clouds. He could feel something calling to him. It was his mission to help the broken and the vermin. Before he took a job rewarding "the good."

dans un instant

The old man shakes his cane at the dirty mouth of youth,
while the rag-tag love of modernity
fades even
deeper into the fumes of panic,
paycheque to paycheque,
commuters "confront the daily setbacks,"
I breathe in deep,
with graveled breath,
and my winding thoughts,
to placate the ache of the past night,
school boys clown and ladies scold,
drive throughs buzz and click,
this corroding body,
this bruised city,
like the empty kiss of some effervescent serpentine,
like the pull of some cold dark water rushing,
spare your pontification,

your eager suggestion,
to accept your position,
so that I may be miserable like you,

...for I am but a layman,
I see things for what they are,
and I will carry my own bags.

The real Ghost Dog?

I was in Toronto a few weeks ago, in the heart of the Kensington hood: Rooftop view from cousin's funhouse:



















After drinking copiously into the wee hours with a variety of townies, folksies, roughnecks and playas, there was but a few of us blazing herb on the rooftop. I heard some footsteps on the ledge behind and above me.
I look up and snapped this quick pic of some dude who apparently lives on the roof top. Police don't bother this guy according to the locals. He wears a hoody year round and carries a briefcase. They say he lives in a small attic-type shack and keeps pigeons as pets. He came about this far but said nothing. We asked him if he wanted to hit the spliff but he just kept silent and then walked away.

Is this the real Ghost Dog?

Lake Michigan

was down for a wedding,
Evanston, Illinois,
hanging from the north collar of Chicago,
a college town,
for serious grey matter,
and serious coin,
young students,
studying, bonding, growing,
nice cars, coffee shops and lap tops...
I was in a hotel with fancy soaps, white porcelain and soft towels,
witnessed loving words being exchanged over expensive dishes of food,
bottles of expensive wine,
fancy suits and talk of prestigious goals and notable
achievements,
I've been to many ceremonies,
receptions, after parties
and collections of eager people on the cusp of their new life
together,
my old dance moves, beer buzz and sweat soaked
suit,
lovers hold each other drunkenly,
swaying unsteadily to The Beatles,
outside the cold wind grabs my blazer,
as I walk past the rosy cheeked sophomores,
discussing the media of politics,
the politics of the media,
I remember that freshness...
the jog between classes,
hot coffee and quiet libraries,
soon to grow into frustrated suburbanites,
angry about the weather, taxes and bad backs,

standing on the pier,
I take large swallows from the Michelob
in my coat pocket,
it occurs to me,
my desire for marriage dies more
with every wedding I attend,
but my drunken thoughts end as quickly as they begin,
like the path of a paper cup,
thrown by the wind,
floating on the froth,
of Lake Michigan.