music in the park

another weeknight,

another batch of clouds,

a bucket of balls,

before the pails of rain,

worried souls,

cash crunches and tapped out hearts,

another restless night,

with panicked dreams,

of corporate cannibals,

burning out the landfills,

trying to kill the music,

a failed experiment,

of rich men in leather chairs,

hidden behind curtains of conformity,

the "opium of the masses,"

making us skeletons of fear,

screaming in lonely rooms,

but then I heard music,

and I awoke to remember,

the world is my own,

another crisis was part of the lies,

another passing storm,

another sunrise.

vultures over the landfill

an old woman irons shirts,

in the window of a highrise,

under a midnight moon,

a man below screams at the TV,

with a six pack and a foul mouth,

rust and the smell of paint remover,

wisps of hair flutter in a dirty breeze,

looking for answers,

in ideas, sounds, words,

finding only interpretations,

opinions nothing more,

than the bastard children of thoughtless bitterness,

the tap of leather shoes,

move outside a squeaky door,

an ant on the ceiling,

a spider on the floor,

their lives are small,

but mine isn't much more,

just a speck on infinity,

fueled on alchemical lore,

born to be responsible,

to choose the endless chore,

of seeking the Self,

hidden at the core. 

beyond the beyond

sloppily pushed out doors,

drunken saviours stagger on,

wandering through empty streets,

spinning memories repeat like a song,

pouring their guts out,

spilling their guts into trash cans, 

dumpsters and rusty sewer grates,

trying to connect to someone,

failing to connect,

trying to connect to themselves,

trying to connect the broken-in-two-Self,

but all they got is those preachers,

those thoughtless, 

miserable preachers,

 

dividing, 

 

and dividing, 

 

and dividing,

when the world steps out on you,

a poet may step in,

because as the world begins to end,

a poet gets ready to begin.

office man

where you going to go office man?

what's up that ladder?

turn the covers back,

lay down to catch brand new dreams,

let them surface,

grow fresh and strong from unkempt gardens,

a thousand miles wide,

borne of colours and music,

hold on with white knuckles,

for everything hangs by a thread,

try to be alive before you are dead,

then let it go,

forever to slip this faltering vessel,

meanwhile I can see it,

but I need to see that it is special,

when, as I boy,

I sat in church,

listening to sermons,

I didn't understand,

my Grandma,

would quietly lean over,

and slip a candy into my hand.  

Bodhisattva moving on

"people how you doing,

there's a new day dawning,

for the Earth Mother,

it's a brand new morning,
for such a long while,

there's been such a longing

but 

now 

the 

sun 

is 

shining,

let's roll back the awning."

--Beastie Boys (Jimmy James)

immolation

hardened regulars,

with leathered skin,

beaten down,

broken by steady adversity,

team jackets,

dirty brimmed ball caps,

shuffle in and out of the liquor store,

well ashed smokes dangle from lower lips,

they seek comfort,

a safety in an alcoholic daze,

like the arms of a cosmic mother,

protected,

a baby in a womb,

but they know,

and they teach me,

there is an acceptance,

a surrender to contingency,

an embracing of the unknown,

like the fighter pilots,

or front line soldiers,

who fought drunk,

went blind into the fire,

gnarled, shaking fingers turn keys,

unlock squeaky doors,

into quiet, dusty apartments,

to sit in front of TVs,

where they work the liquor down,

drowning down,

into the black,

where we can't control,

I don't fear you anymore,

I know you are waiting,

you've been there all my life,

a ghost in the flames,

a face in the darkness,

we have to live here,

us drunks and soldiers,

courage so fragile,

we don't know why we are fighting,

and we are friends,

they protect me even in the most raging, twisted dreams,

and when it's time,

we will walk together,

through the black,

into the light,

purified.

old tree

I look for meaning,

past decrepit buildings,

and dirty streets,

past faded friendships,

and twisted sheets,

but now I stand looking,

upon the old tree,

slowly dying,

years piled high,

still tall and free,

stop acting weird,

nothing's changed,

nothing's new,

between the "feeling good,"

and the "feeling blue,"

there's a build-up,

then a release,

then a straight line through.

 

Chuck Close

feels like a prison,

some overcast days,

cell to cell to cell,

lunch break and a short workout in the yard,

keep my defenses up,

no eye contact,

home is where I lock the bars closed again,

 

I cut the dreary, drizzling silence,

with beats from the Shaolin slums,

shatter the illusion of ego,

scatter the pieces across a grid,

each a small painting,

in-itself,

for-itself,

only left disoriented,

and unhinged,

 

if you don't step back,

to see the reality,

of the coherency,

of the picture.

 

 

outlaster

angry winds

withhold mercy

dripping sweat

labours on

frigid nights

endless days

long hauls 

stone gaze

sleepless dreams

twist restlessly

tested will

sees demons

break downs

break chains

break open

hold fast

no escape

no questions

no answers 

glory comes

only to

the outlaster

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Pop star Orianthi doing Jimi

layers

you were deep before you knew it,

many exits away from some kind of Satori,

but growing younger by the day,

I met you at the end of a Chet Baker trill,

soon you shot me with Miles Davis staccato,

I patched myself up with Bill Evans' hurt,

and woke up to know,

the soul is made perfect through failing,

like a pristine moment of letting go,

with the heart leading and fear trailing,

like lying awake by the window,

listening to rain ringing off a rusty railing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

for those still in line

master mythic cycles

love is effort is authenticity

life fucks hard!

the fattest lamb

adrift in a world of ideological innuendoes,

pompous undergraduates and graduates,

father-hating feminist loudmouths,

indecisive co-dependent men-children,

beg the pathetic alternative of,

rednecks in pressed shirts, slacks and bluetooths,

greedily sopping up the lard-enriched gravy of mass cognitive failure and mis-education,

each camp guilty of rationalizing the abuse,

they inflict on themselves,

people giving credence to flagrant bullshit,

passing off textbook views like some kind of personal truth,

rather some kind of fervent assholery,

crusade-like in their primitive literalism of an ancient patchwork of writings,

stamped "holy relic" by the Corporation of Christianity,

exercising it's Constantine-like lust for power,

the demon vigor of epistemological evangelism,

herding more imbeciles day by day,

village bible-college idiots stammer and giggle behind sweat covered pulpits,

built with stacks of money from the lonely, hurting and poor,

reiterating falsity like some kind of meaningful experience,

proselytizing obvious misinterpretation like some kind of existential awakening,

like the mouth-breathing empty gaze of modernity,

like pretentious sycophants piping weak, sloppy music through their pretentious headphones,

blind to the morbid sickness of chronic delusion,

each word from their mouths, 

a greater untruth than the one before,

misspeak, blissful ignorance, 

fucking fools,

lifting their shaky hand to their heart,

tears streaming down,

mouths quivering,

hypnotized like fat lambs,

by the carnal throbbing of mutual belonging found in collective delusion and apathy,

now take heed,

and watch the steady atrophy,

the slow fading,

and irregular breathing

of this sick circus,

as it winds down like a nation of failed and exhausted rusty robots,

abandoned to sewage covered metal fields, 

left only to corrode in the resolute downpour of civilization's fecal rain.

the sibilance of dawn

life,

slips through my fingers,

like the sun,

slips through the blinds,

memories,
are ghosts,

that slip from my mind,

pain,
is my wise council,

helps me hold the line,

love,
runs too fast,

I slip behind,

loneliness,
is an angel,

her lips slip from mine.

getting faster

just outside my window,

a man was shot last night,

a witness called the cops,

her voice trembled with fright,

couple cruisers showed up,

sirens and flashing lights,

TV men dressed nice,

reported from the yellow line,

it's never going to be alright,

it's only getting faster,

time is slipping farther,

tensions are just too tight,

read the story in the paper,

on the bus the next day,

people always say,

"it never used to be that way,"

some pray to Jesus,

some buy guns,

some just move away,

where you going to go,

where it's going to be ok,

where you'll meet someone,

who doesn't struggle through the day,

baby, this is home,

you can go or stay,

you can dream up easy answers but believe me when I say,

it's never going to be alright,

it's only getting faster,

time is slipping farther,

tensions are just too tight,

it's only getting faster. 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This is a song I was writing but fuck it, I just blogged the motherlacker.

settle

a thaw,

metal machines roll out,

another detour,

another broken line,

a chance to walk down the hallways of my mind,

total up the sum of the days and nights,

the skeleton of a city,

displayed crudely,

crews jackhammer down,

digging into a grave of concrete, metal, clay and gravel,

a boiling tension of traffic,

through torn arteries,

and spouting fluids of this God-forsaken earth,

sitting here,

it is always my chance,

to prolong it,

to shorten it,

to get the logic of it,

to take it too far,

traffic unlocks,

metal machines twist free,

things just are,

I will try to be. 

was.... is.

galaxies swallow galaxies,

broken saviours sit in traffic,

Van Halen lightning love bolt

eternal damnation

shoo away those birds that nest on your balcony,
watch them fly into the foggy morning,
for someone wrote a story of eternal damnation,
to keep us miserable and scared,
but implosions of hate and jealousy,
beget explosions,
creating breath, hope and change,
so swat away those fears,
and fly into the foggy morning.

Re-post Feature: Al Purdy's "At the Quinte Hotel"

other than

slap together some roads and high-rises,

for a civilization of broken hearts,

a malcontent malaise pasted over with smears of fatty diner mayonnaise,

and midnights full of whiskey shots, chased with the hard inhale of weed,

tape the side mirrors to your car,

as cyclists will kick them off again,

as they should,

as we all should,

as I stand with curmudgeons, art therapists,

and unemployed cooks,

having trouble listing our experience,

using language,

let alone,

in the boxes provided,

I go out there,

but I don't know who they want me to be,

a cup of coffee and a positive attitude,

a brow sweat hustle and a "three bags full ma'am,"

but I'm really just the pause in the discussion,

I'm the kid sent to the office,

I go out there but I don't know who I'm supposed to be,

other than the words that drip through the lines on the page,

like the water from the ceiling,

into a sauce pan,

on a chair,

in the corner of your room.

melt

winter rides out,
fluid and strong,
like a Boards of Canada song,
from a dream to a cold room,
to the street,
where old men poke poles at plugged sewer grates,
and crows gather in the trees above,
March melt fills the streets with puddles,
water drains away slowly like suburbanite love,
marriage seems to me,
to be,
the ultimate anomaly,
like living in a crowded city,
but going for days without talking to anybody.