Saturday, December 15, 2012


you can touch the grandeur,
the delicate grandeur,
but you have to leave it alone,

you have to lose your ideology,
save your cliches,
spare me your pitch,
take your own advice,

to be alone,
to live,
is to measure every moment,
how much to hold?
how much to give?
the work will never go away,
there is no escape,
no one can help you find an answer,

as the weight bears down,
there is a closeness foreign to me,
my mind twists and kicks,
my body bends and strains,

pipe dreams of youth,
lost in a second,
spiraling down into a swamp yard,
of crushed cars stacked in heaps of blood-coloured, rusted metal,

will we turn a corner?
how do we continue on?

there must be nothing,
for something to exist,

a fetus gently suspended in amniotic fluid, 

lamp light reflected in black puddles,

heart pumping on the outdoor rink,

there is grandeur,
you can touch it,
but only if you let it go.

Friday, November 30, 2012

you can stand up there

did you ever think you would come this far?
from the chemicals and gases,
thrown out to make decisions,
with shaky hands,
and a pounding heart,
cars roll on,
not sure why,
people walk fast,
not sure where,

for now,
I'll try to forget the bad things,

it takes some time,
you have to climb,
you have to labour,
you have to wrestle,
with the mystery,
before you can stand up there,
but after some time,
you will stand up there,
with the gods,
and know that you matter.

Thursday, November 01, 2012


what you build up,
nature tears down,
metal city,
wooden town,

a good woman dies,
a heart gets torn,
churning black storm,

standing nowhere,
leaning backward,
looking forward,

it's bad when we heal up,
happiness is just a hiccup,

is there a purpose?
is there a reason?
the spinning wheel,
a changing season,

I've lost my way,
you slam the door,
I stare at the floor,

a good man dies,
blood on a thorn,
a baby is born,

it's good to get broken into parts,
that's where the realness starts. 

Wednesday, October 17, 2012

a penniless man

drunk and exhausted,
a penniless man wanders alone,
under a white autumn moon,
dark streets grind and hum,
made with metal and rock,
for metal and rubber,
pulling and bending,
twisting and groaning,
looking out at the busy lights,
tracers of red and orange and blue,
no phone,
no TV,
no warm bath,
no kiss from a sweet heart,
she left when the money left,
a game of illusion,
monuments made of lies,
collapsed like sugar castles,
in the frigid rains,

form protects itself,
grace transcends itself,

church-goers hustle to their cars to escape the rain,

drunk and exhausted,
a penniless man dances alone under a white autumn moon.


Wednesday, October 10, 2012

inner loitering

no stance is taken,
as the dreamer hacks away,
carving and hammering,
hammering and carving,
while the city presses down,
presses the stress down,
arrogantly defining the intonation,
but still, 
the dreamer's work,
the struggle-in-itself-for-itself,
a relative of the authentic "free" type of freedom,
a bit more bottled,
but it's good,
it's real,
and scraped,
like the hands of a craftsperson,
it's rugged and rusty,
blistered eloquence,
splintered excellence,
it's glory contained between concrete lines.

about 3:20am

people watch as your argument stalls,
you can't remember what's false or true,
in a closed room,
tightly packed tension,
your laughter unleashes joy all through,
you wanna run,
but your feet are stuck in quicksand,
you slip off the edge,
and fall fast into the blue,
you have a test,
but you're lost in a maze of hallways,
you're fucking,
catching your breath and flying,
I have the same dream too.


Saturday, September 22, 2012

tables of men

my balls hang low,
like the clouds that scarf the radio tower,
I wander through the streets,
with urine soaked pants,
I remember your black curls,
brown eyes,
it became empty,
like all things are empty,
a fig tree bearing no fruit,
your reckless beauty,
beads like rain,
from black clouds,
I get lost in the whiskey,
then, the waves of my mind,
as I sit amongst tables of men,
who talk and dream about the ocean of love,
but live in the desert of suburbia.

the sheltered point fingers,
and say people drink to cover up,
they drink to run away,
but no,
they drink because they understand,
because they see what is coming,
and they know their limits.

"In the morning, as Jesus was returning to the city, he became hungry. Seeing a fig tree by the roadside, he went up to it but found nothing on it except leaves. He said to it, "May fruit never come from you again!" And immediately the fig tree dried up."

(Matthew 21:18-19)

Tuesday, September 04, 2012

white lines

moment to moment,
minute to minute,
moving white lines on the road,
raven on the roof top,
an old man pulls a newspaper from a box,
emptiness twists and kicks,
inside the womb of ambition,
a smoke in one hand,
the other holds a stripper's hand,
moving hands on armageddon's clock,
sinking deeper into the hole,
save your money in a sock,
ambition is dripping pussies and engorged cocks,
the batter readjusts, 
the commentator talks,
raven on the roof top,
an old man lurches forward and pulls a newspaper from a box.

Monday, August 20, 2012

the root Chakra

collapsed into scattered thought,
I stare hollowly,
down into the belly,
the belly of the city,
the root Chakra of the city,
where the souls of dead cats,
find peace amongst the concrete shadows,
where music takes movement,
takes form,
in the hum of street sweepers,
and the rumbling click of grease grill exhaust fans,
churning the night into dirty sparks,
where paper pedestrians,
slice the sunlight, 
rising like lost spirits,
from the subway catacombs,
gasping for the stale air of the street,
an ice cream bucket busker drums,
a pounding beat,
as the heart parades,
past cryptic memories,
frozen in innocent pain,
and decrepit thoughts,
rationalize escapist narratives,
placing value on the valueless, 
and hopes for saviours,
dazzled by the puppetry of the "friendly" and "clean,"
sobered only by the violence,
the gentle violence of knowledge,
of the illusion of the simple man's gods and floating mystics,
and the reality of love and work.


Thursday, August 09, 2012

garbage radio

not sure the limitless pain is worth the limited pleasure,
but there is a oneness to be found in the brittle loneliness,
an at-one-ment,
but I'm getting old,
standing next to a urinal,
an old man's stream is more powerful than mine,
a sad envy washes over me,
as my head spins gently,
with garbage songs,
from your garbage radio,

so much that is wrong,
a rhythm, 
a whistle, 
a song through the night,
but perhaps somewhere deep down it's alright,
and someday,
we'll all be somewhere,
deep down.

Thursday, July 19, 2012

Dogen sitting at the bar

like a panicked emergency vehicle,
cuts through the traffic,
swimming through confused cars,
my anxiety cannot be traded,
for curiosity or anticipation, 
as it is borne of a visceral perception,
the immediacy of contingency,
and an empirical heart,
this anxiety is like a friend,
whom I've never known,
a stranger with whom I've shared my life,

robotic flashing reds, 
reflected in the grease,
of fatigued concrete,
I fall into a dream,
in which I am in a dark room,
reaching for a light switch,
when I find it,
I flick it,
but the room remains dark,
I can hear rain hitting the window,
it's a house I know,
I can hear distant voices,
like commentators at a baseball game,

I wake up.

Monday, July 09, 2012


that sky beyond the clouds,
where a frail bird can fly,
over unturned, tortured soil,
over older hearts,
in a park,
pickling in the youthful sun,
but we can't stay here for long,
you'll be moving on,
and I'll be gone,
fallen into the fractures,
that shake the fault lines of time,
but what if it could be different?
something original and new,
you could stand at a distance,
I might connect and hit it to you,
or even past the difference between what I say,
and what I mean,
over a sea of wild and wide open eyes,
into the mezzanine. 

Wednesday, July 04, 2012


haggard old needs nag,
stifle and shove,
pulling at the pant legs,
with that stubborn desire,
a hanger-on,
a leech,
a parasite,
making lonely days,
drip slow like molasses,
but to stand,
or sit, 
or run,
or work,
through the ache,
and all the chains,
can turn the fear,
into nothing but a shadow,
that you saw in the corner of your eye,
in a dream,
cutting you loose,
to energize,
to play, 
to dive deep,
into the flow.


Saturday, June 30, 2012


some days are angry wasps,
or lonely birds,
and I'm a colicky one,
never quite fit the puzzle piece,
caged in a damp shirt,
a box fan works the sticky heat through dusty spaces,
perched floors above,
the swarms of traffic,
rushing trucks bullet,
from deadline to deadline to deadline,
clenched jaws,
swallow the fatigue,
and long for the sanctuary,
of a good night sleep,

I'm not expecting tenderness,
or a comforting touch,
emotions remain an untamed ox,
when the mind is mush,

if everyday is a mountain climb,
than I'm a man with a crutch. 

Monday, June 25, 2012

a puzzle unsolved

let it be unresolved,
a puzzle unsolved,
I won't shake your hand because there is a barrier between us,
I'm not appeased by your glib smile and pat on the back,
you were brought up thinking there could be a resolution,
taught a story in which things ultimately work out for the better,
you have become used to that emotion you get,
the appearance of success,
when you convince people that you like them,
and that there is no problem between you,
but then you tear them apart behind their back,
or at the very least, forget about them,
and all they have done for you,

you lazy motherfucker,
you are a loathsome sight,

and I am sickened,
that so many of these beautiful, naive sheep fall for your bullshit,
so now, 
as you stand before me,
I won't shake your hand,
you looked shocked and surprised,
yours is extended and waiting,
but I want you to accept the barrier between you and me,
I want you to understand there is a problem,
and it is unresolved,
and I want you to embrace this unresolved state,
to let it be,

be strong,
I know you can do it,

I want you to feel the distance I feel,
to go to bed at night knowing there is a problem between us,
that things are unresolved,
for your disingenuous movements have made me weary,
so please accept the uncertainty,
put your hand down,
and go,
keep going,
for there is a barrier between us,

it is ok,
it is just unresolved,
let it shake you awake,
let it make you hungry again,
for something more than the mediocre bullshit that you have gorged upon,
the false modesty you are so full of,
which has made you so complacent,
and fat,
why, we are a puzzle unsolved,
so please live with it now,
this distance, 
let it be unresolved,
let the puzzle be unsolved,

it is the natural state.

Wednesday, June 13, 2012


your whining girlfriend

just fucking shoot me now

orange red sunset


"Ever feel like a pseudonym?" she asked,
"What?" he questioned,
"I mean, do you ever feel like someone other than you?" she asked,
"Well, that's not really a write under a pseudonym specifically because you want to protect the real you're scared that your real name will be negatively affected or something...." he replied,
She laughed quietly as if she didn't care or already knew what he was explaining,
"That's not being very honest...or open or whatever," she remarked,
"Well, it's a dangerous world...privacy especially is all fucked up now," he stated,
They lay quietly on the couch watching the flickering television, 
hypnotized by the images moving through the darkness of the room,
"Hey, are you going to come to the cottage next week?" she asked curiously,
"Um, is your Dad going to be there?" he asked,
"Uh, probably...why? doesn't matter...just come..." she replied,
"Then no," he said sharply,
He continued, "he's just going to put me through the ringer."
"What?" she asked smiling,
He replied, mimicking her father's voice, "You got a real job yet son? still working part time at that coffee shop? do you expect to provide for my daughter on shit money like that?..."
"Oh bullshit...." she said laughing loudly, "you're crazy."
As they lay there, the summer night breeze blew gently through the open curtains. She seemed to fall asleep as she lay against him. He puffed quietly on a joint as he flipped between fishing shows and an old Steve McQueen movie with the sound off. This apartment seemed to have become kind of like an oasis of sorts. Like some kind of peaceful space where he could be with her unimpeded by the usual demands of ever impending adulthood. 
"In a way, lately, I do feel like a pseudonym...I feel like someone else..but I don't know who," he said quietly in the dark of the room thinking she was asleep. After a awhile he began to drift away into flowing lacquered memories and old songs.
In the quiet she asked gently, "are you still awake?"
"mmm hmm," he hummed lazily,
"I'm still awake too," she whispered.  

Tuesday, June 05, 2012

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.

Friday, June 01, 2012

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. 

Wednesday, May 23, 2012

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,
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.

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

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.  

Monday, May 07, 2012

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


let's roll back the awning."

--Beastie Boys (Jimmy James)

Friday, May 04, 2012


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,
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,