dark corners

in the dark corners,

of peeling paint,

flickering bulbs,

some live there,

some because they have to,

some because it's who they feel they are,

they can't pretend white picket fences,

lane ways leading to big homes,

on the water,

but rather the dark corners of the city,

where the refuse unloads,

rats scrounge and the homeless shuffle with a staggered hope,

places near to me,

I wonder about those kids,

riding rusty bikes,

with dirty pants and dirty hands,

lonely faces,

retreating behind broken doors,

windows that let the cold wind whistle through,

can they sleep?

do they feel safe?
can they at least dream?

single mothers,

single fathers,

single people,

exhausted behind paper thin walls,

peeling paint and flickering bulbs,

praying for energy, time and money,

eyes peer out at me from the darkness,

maybe waiting, lost or scared,

home nevertheless,

places near to me,

I'm no better,

I hope good things happen for you someday,

you'll make some money,

you'll have clean sheets on the bed,
and heat to keep you warm at night,

I'll walk by again,

your eyes will be brighter,
you'll have a new bike,
clean pants,

and there will be some flowers in a jar behind your new window.

symbiosis (I can't stand you)

I first read it in Joseph Campbell,
the symbol of the mountain,
metaphor of the gamble,
I first learned it on my own,
in the middle of the night,
on a cold dark road,
I had to keep climbing,
had to keep breathing,
had to keep trying,
felt like I was drowning,
rusting and corroding,
I became nothing,
the future unfolding,
it became the road that I was driving,
I questioned the point of an empty surviving,
but then the empty gave me something,
I became myself somewhere,
at the moment you looked right at me,
you were twice as there.

exhaust

exhaust belches from midnight rigs,
as I sail through the greens,
I feel the past turn to plastic,
as I catch up to the traffic,

I try to pull more moments,
from our small moments,
but our small moments don't hold much more,
than a long, empty hallway,
or cold, deserted highway,

I try to stall time,
with a joke,
or a line,
but nothing comes to mind,

so I watch you from the window,
after you slip out the door.

in the parking lot

in my mind I'm reaching,
one last beer way back in my fridge,
and I'm not even home,
and then it occurs to me,

on this restless, twisting ball,

under exquisite light,

from fractured stars,

in airless black space,

hurled into oneself,
the-thrown-back-into-oneself,

this majestic but wounded mystery,

lost in the snowy mists are,

my vain efforts,

my empty hopes,

the physically impossible,

which limits my dreams,
rendering a desperate soul,

lonely, broken, helpless,

sleeplessly turning,

through the night's steady pain,

but in the still dark air,

there is growing,

there is life still,

can I get a drop of,

can I get a taste of,

can I get a swallow of,

freedom,

measured against,

the weight of destiny,

I kick the ice,
and watch it shatter,
I feel my thoughts,
recoil and scatter,
a singer on the radio says "courage didn't come,"

and that it doesn't matter.

the line and the circle

the mind is a straight line,
the heart is a circle,
to pursue the true,
we must go through,
the Samsāra up and down,
as we do.

olympian at the gym

you came alone,
a beautiful face,
your upper body toned,
strong with lean muscle,
like an Olympian,
your legs looked like they had been broken,
malformed or maybe paralyzed at one time,
you walked with two canes,
your self-respect commanded my respect,
I was impressed by you,
and I wanted to kiss your lips,
I thought about what making love to you might be like,

you moved with efficiency and purpose,
by the tyranny of your will,
against the natural god-given resistance,
and entropy,
in this cold dungeon gym,
your bravery made mine seem invisible,
your adversity made mine seem irrelevant,

one side determines the other,

like highway lights,
our life flies by,

I try to switch the mind,
and crack on.

parlour games (les jeux de salon)

whether park or parlour,
I'll sit,
amongst the carved and serious faces,
who have seen seasons change,
lovers come and go,
traditions become strange,
friends become strangers,
I'll have a couple for my shot nerves,
a few more to placate that fickle collective conscience,
a couple more in praise of self-amusement,
for in this Night,
no, life, of the Long Knives,
I intend to get loose,
get gone,
don't mind if I do,
and if I may,
I'll play,
along the way,
a few jeux de salon.

we used to be old

king of hearts,
on a thrift shop highball glass,
we were,
shelled,
bound,
unreachable,
but we cut ourselves free,
now we live out in the Difference,
opening,
changing,
being,
summoning imperfect courage,
you said not to worry 'bout nothin,'
and now I barely remember,
when I used to be old.

hands that feed

I couldn't sleep so I went out under a dark sky in search of a darker bar. I went in. I ordered two fingers straight up. A poet was on a corner stage, silhouetted through smoky shadows reciting, ranting and shouting in the darkness at the darkness. I had read her before, maybe heard her. She had a way of wrapping my empty feelings with exquisite words. I sat deep and listened deeper. When the glass was done I slipped out and shuffled home, where on the couch I fell into a deep sleep.

I dreamt of tall ships on a black, twisting ocean, untouched shores under a white moon, a small house hidden in fog with golden light in the windows. I was walking towards it. I could hear laughter and music. I could hear songs sung by people whom I once loved and whom once loved me.

I awoke in the morning to radiant light. I gathered my thoughts and prepared myself to confront the setbacks and usual apocalypses of the day.

But in my mind was laughter and music. Songs sung by people I love and that love me still.

flags

boatloads of pretentious, self-proclaimed poets with dog-eared notebooks from lint-filled pockets sink down smugly into comfy bookstore chairs slurping expensive tea, awkwardly wording their way past the thesis then the anti-thesis seeking a synthesis only to find another thesis waiting like a religious relic silhouetted in the window light of a new year's day sun,

but the best poets line the beds of over-capacity homeless shelters and push stamps over the glass counters of food banks, holding out for another day, another month, another year of inspiration borne of rotted teeth and tear drenched cheeks enduring the new days which sting like busted hearts of lonely misfit kids in an over-capacity world, while quietly humble and grace-full thoughts and deeds are drowned out by the bloated chanting of pop-culture, reckless investors, war makers and chest-beating Christians raising their proud flags in the public square,

but the there is no flag for truth,

it works tirelessly, often alone, in the darkness, feeding on a hopeful honesty, slowly breaking down ramparts and embracing paradox and, like us, it never "ends" because it never "began," it was always regenerating and regenerating again, like the universe does, so when we are gone we are replaced by others,

apocalypses only happen in the soul because we raise flags that block the new year's day sun,

God has no country.

Love has no church.

Truth has no religion.


Let the new year be happy.

Happy Holidays

to the universe of races, religions, traditions and faiths,
to the atheists,
to those who believe in God but not that Jesus of Nazareth was the only true God,
to those that do,
to those who are not really interested either way and are cool with that,
to those who believe God exists but who have no faith in God,
to those who have been hurt by those who say they believe in God,
to those who are not sure what to believe but are cool with that,
to those who are still seeking something but not sure what,
to those who have had their land stolen and cultures pissed on by those who say they come in the name of God,
to those who did the raping, stealing and forced assimilation in the name of God,
to those who are completely private about their beliefs and go about their good work quietly without seeking applause,
to those who won't shut up about the good work they do and are always seeking applause,
to those who see the glass as half-empty,
to those who see the glass as half-full,
to those who point out that both views are correct,
to those who are forces of unity and understanding,
to those people who would divide,
to those who understand sometimes both behaviours are correct,
to those who follow the "law of non-contradiction,"
to those that understand "paradox,"
to those who understand that both views are correct,
to those that believe in the separation of church and state,
to those that don't,
to those just walking around looking for beauty,
for faith and hope,
who are sick of everybody's bullshit,
and the constant and insipid verbal vomit of political and religious "language,"
toughing it out in this world of hurt,
and, maybe some days, still believe in love...

...happy holidays (if you are taking any),

and if you find joy, spread some around.

black leather gloves

thick and tight,
tense and tough,
jeans over work boots,
any night is enough,
dim bulbs in rusty sockets,
black leather gloves in back pockets,
beers go down,
hockey on the screen,
it gets rough,
then it gets mean,
spinning minds and cold stares,
girlfriends start to fuss and pout,
takes only a second to get the gloves out,
nowhere to go,
amidst the trucks and cars,
red blood on white snow,
under a black sky and white stars.



(the tip of my hat to my buddies from small towns)

the gods are gone

woman leans against the bus stop,
headphone hiss from a skater's trip hop,

I gasp,
like a child,
thrown to the waves,

I crumple,
like an old man punched,
too tired to defend himself,

I reach,
like an addict,
for the joy of what's killing me,

I pray,
to gods that are long gone,

we've been left to:
produce,
innovate,
humanize,
and re-value our "values,"

like beaten blacksmiths of a rusted and weathered guild,
to tear down and re-build,

so if the gods are gone,
is it wrong...
to feel a rescue coming on?