makyo bustin'

fire
wind
water
earth
birth
want
chase
stop
sit
listen
pulse
hands
breathe
see
zazen

b-side

tickle that side of me,
the one that failed miserably,
it hasn't laughed in awhile,
buy that side a drink,
rinse it's face in an icy sink,
it hasn't laughed in a while,
forgive that side of me,
a needy reaching out to nothing,
elevate that side of me,
sinking low into the sofa stuffing,
it hasn't laughed in awhile,
overlook that side of me,
got too drunk at your special dinner,
support that side of me,
that never really feels like a winner,
it hasn't laughed in awhile.

thrift shop hop

glass top patio table - 5 dollars,
2 barely used padded folding chairs - 8 dollars,
5 never-used highball glasses - 1 dollar,
sitting on my balcony,
drinking cold beer,
watching 20-something hard bodies roller blade by....

priceless.

captain of the night

sailor's sunset,
torrents of blue,
ship of the night,
tear on through,
sunset on my hopes,
storms in my dreams,
fight the undertow,
driving rain teams,
ocean of lost souls,
lucky catch ahead,
into the light,
part alive, part dead,


captain of the night,
hold course into the sunrise,
wave to other captains,
as they pass by,
heaven in their soul,
hell in their eyes.

drunk chair

wicked world,
deaf god,
wonder what to do on a summer night,
expensive girls,
country nod,
wonder what to do with the rest of my life,
climb a mountain,
run a race,
disappear without a trace,
take a course,
change my hair,
change the world,
turn cold to care,
maybe just sit here and get drunk in this chair.

the chicken man

cold may wind,
blows shadows across a big may moon,
cigarette embers glow orange,
war scars, glass eyes,
crumpled cash, white lines,
diamond rings, gold watches,
purple heart tattoos that bleed busted love red,
sweat drips,
tongues lick wrinkled lips,
butts clench, hearts jump,
flesh tightens, guts wrench,
dusty dim light, cock fight,
step aside in respectful fright,
his name is the chicken man,
you bet your baby's college,
your wife's retirement,
your last GIC,
...and if your not nervous,
you fucking should be.

saturday

hot and oily saturday sun
college beauties play badminton in bikinis
my penis goes rollerblading

zen bluesmen

"Without accepting the fact that everything changes, we cannot find perfect composure. But unfortunately, although it is true, it is difficult for us to accept it. Because we cannot accept the truth of transience, we suffer."

-Roshi Shunryu Suzuki

"Serves you right to suffer...serves you right to be alone...can't go on livin' in the past...them days...is gone."

- Roshi John Lee Hooker

do the right thing

hot nights make me think about Radio Raheem,
makes me want to fight the power with a cold beer and a tin fan,
makes me want to melt ice cubes on Rosie Perez's breasts,
makes me want to help Mooky deliver pies in the burning noon sun,
makes me want to argue with Sal over the price of one slice...one f'king slice?
makes me want to keep trying to run a business like a Korean convenience store owner,
makes me hate the other,
but makes me want to understand...
in the night,
sometimes,
words are given to me,
hope is given to me,
nerve is given to me,
I hear a voice,
it says quietly,
stand up... look at me... and tell me that you got nothing...

this is just a game,

just as quick is gone...

it don't matter then.

ice cream koan

lie, game, maze

please do not lose yourself

only one you

the neighbourhood

hydrant spray,
wet rainbows in the hot sun,
salvation of a little fun
pizza shops and chubby cops,
sewer grates and ungrateful dates,
drunks, punks,
working stiffs
and skateboard chumps,
garbage skunks, economy slumps,
johns pay money for humps,
father's father was born here,
mother's mother nowhere near,
anger and illusion,
love and fear,
healed in your hospitals,
grew in your schools,
drank your water,
smoked in your parks,
cried in your streets,
wide awake after dark,
Square Corner types a cool jazz glow,
Fish Eye deconstructs hermeneutics below,
where do all the prairie bloggers go?
Old Ollie picks the highest hand,
Graven performs the Graven band,
Unpublished Notebooks suffers traffic fools,
Noodle breaks the photographic rules,
muttering lady, pigeon's turd,
I just try to paint pictures with words,
desperate hopes,
and mediocre memories,
sunset on the tapping keys,
the "am" "did" "is" fights the "should" "would" "could,"
what you see is what you get,
if you hate yourself,
your gonna hate the neighbourhood.

barbequed chicken, barbequed heart

i stood outside in the pouring rain,
barbequing chicken,
i used a brush and lathered them with sauce,
you showed up and tore my heart out,
with tears in your eyes you threw it on the barbeque,
i picked up the brush and put some sauce on it too.

got a call

got a call from a blogger,
may sunshine, Sunday jogger,
old man, mangy dog,
pop song, captain's log,
got a call from a blogger,
down where the taps flow,
sometimes from the homestead,
sometimes making bread,
may just watch the day turn to night instead,
got a call from a blogger,
while I cataloged my sins from a broken bed,
he told me sins live on after we're dead,
I replied, "sounds like something from a birthday card,"
he said, "I'm drunk, just disregard."
got a call from a blogger,
may sunshine, Sunday jogger,
she said I didn't listen to her no more,
but I was busy getting the high score on Frogger,
she screamed, "you're ignoring me!"
I said, "stop talking, I gotta take this call from a blogger."

maybe

maybe we are all a dream...that God is having,
maybe there's no God at all,
maybe there is,
but he's a just an old man,
having a cup of coffee at the mall.










(photo by D.Neutel)

Pizza Girl

I stepped onto the elevator.
The next floor up, a gorgeous 20-something hard-body stepped on holding a large pizza.
Tight shorts, tight t-shirt and tan legs that went on for days.
The combination of her youthful beauty and the smell off that steaming pizza pie made me weak.
I said, "That pizza smells good."
"Uh...yah thanks" she replied not even acknowledging my existence.
A second later, I heard myself say, "you wanna hold my pepperoni?"
She looked at me with a look of utter disgust and fear and abruptly stepped off at the next available floor.

I'm not a perfect man.

rejuvenator

you piss me off,
I throw back a beer,
you're soaked from the rain,
I've gone insane,
you save coins in a coffee cup,
I'm a drunk with his dukes up,
your a mental jackal,
I'm an emotional alligator,
my hate will give me a heart attack,
now, not later,
scrape your knee and the skin comes back,
soul pollution,
earth pollution,
don't disrespect the rejuvenator.

cottage

constance bay on a weekend
let's all hit pop flies
sleep with sandy feet

(an original by Gravenrecords)

before dawn

woke up and stared out the window,

passing cars, street lights in the rain,

woke up and stared into the mirror,

passing years, more lines for the forehead again,

woke up and stared down the long hall,

distant footsteps and rattling door chains,

woke up and stared into the past,

instant solutions can't escape the pain,

woke up and stared into the future,

a soldier's fear, no mission to keep him sane,

woke up and stared into my soul,

pure light, so I put on my shades,

woke up and stared into the darkness,

angel at my bedside, she held the ace of spades.

Who am I? Bert Sugar?

writing anything, writing nothing,
stories, blogs, essays, poems, lyrics,
articles, summaries, even bureaucratic reports,
why, that counts as "writing."
It doesn't have to be grand or beautiful,
doesn't have to be "properly" constructed,
hell, it might be borne from what's been torn down and rebuilt,
or shaved right off the top... shot right from the hip
free-association musings on traumatic memories
or pointless commentary,
maybe just well wishes on a birthday card,
or,
something like the hard geniuses,
Joyce or Fitzgerald,
written to put food on the table,
written out of personal pain,
because you hate the world,
and the fools that fill it's streets...

but a blogger,
is like a boxer,
punching hard into the next round,
desperate for the bell,
just trying to deliver the post,
I write the best I can,
I mean, who am I?
Bert Sugar?

a cramp in the wind

I get a foreboding sense,
in underground parking lots,
at late night cash machines,
over 2am phone calls,
I get a foreboding sense,
when the clouds go black,
in empty buildings,
or walking quiet streets,
a deep rooted sense,
borne of previous trauma,
a honed instinct,
or,
simple superstition.
I find the will,
in the admiration of those,
who have survived dark storms,
walked those lost corridors,
yet stood alone,
still checked by a healthy conscience,
they have been sent to hell,
but have returned,
their fear gave birth to self-awareness,
the paradox of strength,
those,
the seasoned riders of hell's dark night,
who, now,
sleep soundly through howling winds.