Monday, March 28, 2011

in five years

you're right.
it is a shame.
it's a shame that I need these drinks,
that we sit face to face,
in this restaurant and I need these drinks,
to keep myself amused,
to dull your voice,
to take the edge off your opinions,
about "sex" and "men" and "love,"
because you really are talking about nothing,
and I am bored,
it's a shame that I need these drinks,
because you just don't get it,
all you care about is bullshit,
bullshit that really isn't there but you have dramatized,
and created in your own mind,
because deep inside you are unfulfilled like me,
it's a shame that I need to keep pounding these drinks,
because I can't listen to any more of your proselytizing,
about what you think you understand,
how smart you think you are,
and where you see yourself in five years,
it's shame that I need these drinks,
because I'm looking right at you,
but I couldn't be any farther away,
you don't listen,
you have it all planned out,
but you'll learn,
like I did,
life will awaken you,
and then,
like me,
you will need these drinks.

Thursday, March 17, 2011


on grey rainy days,
I'm washed back,
swept down into,
my younger years,
standing in my Grandmother's house,
in her living room,
in the quiet shadows,
of an evening,
looking at a painting on her wall,
a clipper ship,
cutting dark blue waves of the sea,
gulls above the masts,
and perched on the deck,
navigating the black skies,
pushed and pulled,
there was a loneliness,
but a strength of aloneness,
plunging through the churning waters,
to the shore,
a courage to be,
amidst the fear,
amidst the risk,
and merciless storms,

her house is gone now,
the painting too,
I kept it in my mind,
so when my storms come,
I close my eyes to see it.

Monday, March 14, 2011


there's not much time,
there's not much time,
the rivers are aflame,
we've blown out our mind,
we can't seem to fix it,
it's all gone to hell,
the ass has fallen out,
the devil's ringing bells,
there's no more cheques to cash,
no more oil to steal,
the new world nightmare,
has turned peace on it's heel,

so don't close the door,
when I wash up onto the shore,
like some broken driftwood from the sea,

salvage me.

Thursday, March 03, 2011

the problem with artists

art is built from the inside out,
it's creativity-in-itself,
not a hat,
or cool pair of shoes,
that's expression, not art
not glorious reflections,
on memories ad nauseum,
or pages of effervescent ramblings,
back road nostalgia,
old cars or black and white photos,
city scapes in moonglow,
or folksy tunes about the rustling fields of youth strummed through G, A-minor to C,
it's not a jailhouse tattoo or dyed hair,
it's not comedy or tragedy,
or a uniformed dance or poetic pause,

these are forms...

it's creativity-in-itself,
a "trans-valuation,"
art exists beyond opposites,
and you have to be empty to get to it,
art transcends itself,
but the artist is lost in form,
trying to show the world...
trying to show the world just how special they are goddamn it,
I'm above this! I can't possibly lower myself to do that!
but art is built from the inside out,
it's creativity-in-itself,
it happens everywhere,
all the time,
but the artist forgets everyone's an artist,
and the artist's freedom is earned just like every one else,
and we transcend ourselves,
and we're all special goddamn it,
and we should be empty,
because you have to be empty to get to it,
and it's creativity-in-itself,
not just something by "artists."