rock me

lamentation,
stacked upon,
lamentation,
papers fly from a broken bag,
as the heavenly storm,
bears down on a broken world,
quickly cramping our dreams of escape,
the wicked torrents will skin us to our skeleton,
and give us only dirty water to breathe,
until there's nothing left but hunger and thirst,

but there is life where there is music - 

there is life still,
there is rejuvenation,
there is transformation,

until the morning,
angel of the darkness,
hold me in your arms,
and rock me.

















 

3 fingers, 3 chords

you are such a vast element,

look at you,

how can I ever know you?

I pound on your gates,

I call out to you in the black night,

I try to fight against your winds,

but I become weary in your sun,

and tremble in your cold, 

all the endless talk,

this examining,

this organizing,

this classifying,

this deducing,

but never knowing,

all this endless talk,

separating one from the other,

my fear strikes like lighting,

my nausea festers like boiling acid,

my despair crashes like waves,

I'm a slave to the grind,
before I begin, I'm behind,

all I need is 3 fingers of whiskey,
to loosen the Western-logico-linguistic bind,

all I crave is 3 chords of Blues,
to loosen your hand from mine.

no hiding

there's no hiding,
from this drain,
from this receptacle,
all things wind and spiral down towards it,
like a vortex,
pulling deeper,
past the soil and clay turning to rock,
rock to sediment, 
sediment to water,
deeper than the depths of ocean,
deeper than the longest night,
deeper than the hardest ache,
deeper than what might have been,
deeper than the hurt and the loss,
I don't fight it,
I let it pull me down,
as far as it will go,
past all touch and taste,
past all colour and sound,
beyond matter and anti-matter,
and in a moment I seem to explode,
into nowhere,
and everywhere,
beyond thought,
beyond time,
eternally now,
and I am fully present again,
like one captured,
by the face of an old friend,
by music,
or even just birds in the sky.

the leaves

fog hugs the highrises,
red lights bounce off the misty rain,
high ball up,
8 ball down,
have a drink next to an old man,
piss away the pain,

I wish the leaves wouldn't change so fast,
I wish the laughter would always last,
I wish I would wake up fresh everyday,
and solve my problems in the most effective way,

it takes a awhile before the tune falls out,
but you can pull the lyrics out with the jam,

I wish I didn't hate the fact,
that when I'm with you,
I don't know who I am.

Dale Smith, may you rest in peace.

I was a pallbearer today at a funeral for my friend Dale Smith. He was 43. I had known Dale for several years as a fellow consultant but more so as a kindred spirit and trustworthy companion.  He was a man borne of honest, hard-working small town roots, and a loving family. Dale, a doctor of history and an accomplished academic, left that trade and dove into the consultancy racket whereupon we became good friends. Importantly, Dale also took the time to tap out some classic blog entries on his own blog entitled “Fisheye Lens” starting back in 2010. Having first battled with brain cancer in 2007, he had fought and won back his life and was living vibrantly until he was diagnosed with Leukemia last December. This battle was not won but was fought valiantly with the courage and maturity of an experienced veteran. Dale and I shared a deep interest in sports, movies and music and he was unrivalled in his ability to find the most interesting, eclectic and fascinating films and bands.  He was also unmatched in his knowledge of sports history and statistics, especially in arguably the greatest sport ever invented, hockey.  I enjoyed many dart games, movies, drinks at the pubs, heated but always jovial philosophical discussions, Neil Young shows and average days hammering out reports to make our hard earned wage with Dale.  It was a seasoned gambler’s luck to have someone with such depth of character and knowledge to bounce ideas off and share daily frustrations with. It is hard to sum up a person’s life in words or try to communicate through language the experiences you shared. However, as Henri Matisse once said, “Much of the beauty that arises in art comes from the struggle an artist wages within his limited medium.” It is because our lives are mortal and because we are locked into our own separate physical and psychological universes that our experience of existence can attain beauty, and more importantly, meaning. It is because of this very limitation that our characters are stretched and tested and we gain our right to shout to the stars and the planets, “I matter!” It’s both insane and incredible how we can come into and leave this world in such a fury and how the very experience of knowing others can be ended so quickly by a disease of the blood. We plan out our lives with vain ambition but nothing ever seems to go exactly that way.  It doesn’t mean we should try to escape the future by escaping ourselves but it does mean that we must live with a healthy detachment from all things so that when the time comes we can properly let go. Perhaps the final lesson of the universe is that when we let it go, it is then that we will receive it completely. One of the many human paradoxes.

It was privilege to know Dale and I am truly glad that he has still living friends, who are friends of mine, so that together we may keep him alive in our minds and hearts.

Take a moment, take a breath, for good and bad, this experience happens once in a lifetime.

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

Once in a lifetime, bloggers waiting in an eatery, late at night (from left to right): The Human Paradox, The Fisheye Lens and The Square Corner.

it's ok to cry

burn it out,
busted down and bloody, 
sore and beat,
breathe deep the musty air,
into your insomniac-tired lungs,
grab hold of some metal,
and set fire to your body,
dance with the pain,
dig down deep into the darkness,
feel the sadness twist and kick,
stickin' and movin'
pushin' and throwin'
don't listen to the screaming voices of the early morning, 
the middle of the day,
the late night,
it's just Makyo,
work it out,
exorcise it,
minute to minute,
this daily meditation,
of beating back the bad Self.

it wants to keep you hurt,
and apathetic,
so you remain nothing,
drowning in drama,
unrealized,
concealed,
inauthentic,
it's the source of your problems,

monks call this the "ox,"
so you need to tame it,
it's going to be hard, 
everyday,
it's a mean ox,
so it's ok to cry,
but don't let the ox win.

where does an old blog go?

where does an old blog go?
an old blog hangs like an old sign,
outside an empty hotel,
full of empty rooms,
squeaking in the rusty, dusty wind,
an empty house,
like an empty heart,
it used to be a busy place,
full of ideas,
creative hands,
dancing footsteps and music,
lines and verses,
rhymes and curses,
traversed like a busy highway,
coming and going, 
connecting and separating,
closing and opening,
to an unpredictable world,
of panic and peace,
health and disease,
promises of salvation,
then the hidden fees,

a old blog is a punch,
a kiss,
a push, 
a pull,
a build up and a tear down,

a place to take a thought,
write it down,
throw some words around it,
because you like the sound,

an old blog is a journey that need not go far,
an old blog is a drink in a late night bar, 
it's what's left when I subtract,
the way I want things to be,
from the way they are,
an old blog is the light from a dying star.

18th hole

a swipe from death,
a fly on the wall,
we never know what's coming,
or what we're waiting for at all,

the mercury goes up,
the rain comes down,
sometimes I sleep so deeply,
I sleep right through the sound,
of the aching world within,
and the void that surrounds,

I can see the pain in a friend's eyes,
and I know that everything, good or bad, eventually dies,
as sure as rivers dry up,
and rivers rise,

as sure as the Self is the universe,
the universe is a thought,
a product of,
a muscle pumping blood,
to grey matter behind the eyes,

as sure as I'm walking in the dark to the 18th hole,
at the end of the night,
surrounded by fireflies.



-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
inspired by M.J.S. aka. The Cattail Creek Kid








"And I thought you beat the inevitability of death, to death, just a little bit."
- The Tragically Hip (Inevitability of Death)

the dissolution of what we worked so hard for

carry a profound down-ness,

like a burlap bag,

through the sprawling urban townships,

resilient with a leather-like toughness,

makes it hard to shake the weight of struggle,

hanging about in the shadows,

so I'll sit on a bench,

in the summer sun,

try to forget,

try to distract,

get my mind off the constant gravity,

and mess,

it's dangerous when I put my pride away,

fall asleep,

too tired to defend myself,

that's the moment when the lion goes for the neck of the gazelle,

that's the moment when the world goes for the neck,

I'm helped by vanity,

driven by vanity,

to find meaning,

a creature deserving of meaning?

desiring of meaning?

why do you get meaning?

who said you get to have things mean something?

I could have died in the Cu Chi tunnels in 'Nam,

I'm no better,

this profound down-ness,

woven like burlap,

but with the strength of leather,

makes my stomach hurt,

and makes my eyes burn,

hidden behind charm and clean clothes,

to be carried,

with the strength of my vanity,

this God-given desire to be God,

to ultimately fall short,

but that I tried,

using my full fledged vanity,

to survive the profound pull of the all natural down-ness.