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Unpublished Notebooks suffers traffic fools,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.

vigilante of words

there's a war in the streets,
it's a fight of words,
punks abusing them,
radicals detonating them,
politicians twisting them,
media confusing them,
there's trouble in the streets,
words have been stolen, looted, abused,
words have been taken hostage by those who would torture the truth,
mis-speak and lie,
the word police are corrupt,
and you can't rely on the neighbours,
they're scared,
shut in, doors locked,
blinds drawn,
there's a war in the streets,
everybody's running scared,
speechless from fear...

not me...

I'm a blogger,
I'm the guy on the subway,
cheap suit and old shoes,
looking at you,
I know you see me,
no, I don't carry a badge,
no, I don't need no medal of bravery,
I'm just a man,
tired of people stealing my words,
you crossed the line when you tried to abuse what I hold dear,
see, I'm a blogger,
I'm from these streets,
and I'm taking the words back,
one letter at a time,
you just crossed paths with a blogger,
a vigilante of words.

dominant 7th

rattled nerves and twisted dreams,
my feet lose rhythm easily on these dirty, dark, streets,
shuffling, scuffling, scuffing and scraping the rubber soles off,
leaving a hole that leaks into my socks,

where can I go to feel at home?

how do I find peace of mind?

dating games and histories of pain,
I want to throw it all out into the rain,
misdirections and pot-holed points of view,
I get tired of arguing,
'bout love and war,
will and submission,
about the amount of the bill with the electrician,
religious or non,
present or gone,
I'll rest my eyes as you present,
a retrospective on September 11th,
and let the whiskey float me away,
on an Oscar Peterson dominant 7th.

beyond the sky

police cars and ambulances,
to inner voices,
the transient dances,
shouting "arrest me, arrest me, I’m guilty, I did it, whatever it is!"
cops question tenants
and nervous pedestrians
rubber neck and clutch their purses,
wheel out the body,
sirens pierce the cool spring air,
old ladies chatter, reporters take notes,
"this is a quiet neighbourhood, nothing like this ever happens here"
they say, as cops drink coffee in idling cruisers,
"did you see what happened?"
I ask the transient,
"no man, somebody snapped I guess...people are crazy today man" he says laughing,
"hey you got some spare change?"
"yah...uh..." I dig distractedly in my pocket,
watching a woman crying behind yellow tape,
"sometimes I wanna leave this place and never come back" I say handing him a dollar,
he takes it and puts it in his cup and pauses for a moment,
"don't worry man,
it's like that song...everything is everything man," the homeless guy states,
"Yah I guess so." I reply.
As I walk away, I hear him yell "have a nice day sir!"

"Spring starts...

...when a heartbeat's pounding..."

TTH

The Hickory McCracken Chronicles: Montreal Moment

It had been a long summer and a cold fall. I had broken up hard with my summer love Melanie Moreau, a gorgeous girl from Montreal, a dancer, a violinist and a free spirit, a true free spirit. But wait, let me preface. I was working in the royal mountain for the summer as a co-op student at my uncle's pickle factory. My uncle Jack was a great guy, a bit of an asshole on the job, but generally a pretty good manager of people. I was placed there on a co-op program that worked in tandem with McGill U and my highschool in Ottawa. It was a tiring 10-12 hour-a-day shift, hauling pallets, skids of dill spice, salt and vinegar, broken boards, boxes of jars, and bigger jars, and sweeping up mountains of broken glass and rotten cucumbers. I worked pretty much non-stop and got 30 minutes for lunch. Most the day, while hustling for my lousy pay and even lousier "real world work experience," I spent trying to do three things: reciting Tragically Hip songs in their entirety, trying to get a glimpse of Fanny Miller's cleavage (my Uncle's receptionist) which would bounce all over the place when she would storm through the warehouse, walky-talky in hand, chasing one of the forklift operators who had obviously had a 5-pint liquid lunch, and thirdly, planning fun things to do with Melanie on the weekend. Man, the girl was a beauty. She had an angelic smile and was so sweet and gentle and smart with her quiet French-Canadian accent. We hit it off the very day that I met her at a work BarBQ. See, she was the daughter of the regional manager Gerard Moreau, who was the quintessential blue-collar prick, and resented my ass because I was my Uncle's (his boss's) nephew and because I was a "fackin' anglo" as he would shout about me within ear shot. All summer, Melanie and I would subway downtown, either after work or on Saturday nights, at various secret locations we'd meet up and would spend almost the whole night together. I would often accompany her to her ballet practices and violin classes. We would talk music, art, politics, eat at our favorite restaurants, drink wine and smoke herb in the park and sometimes just sit together under the Montreal lights and stars for hours. I would tell her that I loved her and wanted to be with her forever but she would just giggle sweetly and say in broken English that all of us "Anglo boys were so serious" and would laugh some more. I was 19 and didn't realize that my romantic dreams were about to get a serious wake-up call. One rainy Friday evening, with my Uncle out of town, I was left to clean and close the main warehouse, well, me and Gerard Moreau, the king of the pricks. I could see through the glass window to his office that he was drinking - he had been all day. Drinking and yelling on the phone, yelling at his drivers and workers, and then drinking some more. I tried to keep a low profile, finish what I needed to do and get ready to lock the main warehouse door. As I was locking the tool room I felt a hand on my neck and the smell of booze on stinky breath. It was Gerard. He grabbed me harder and threw me against the wall and said in loud broken english, "listen you piss ov shit, you go near my daughter 'gain and all bust yer fuckin' anglo face ok?" I felt like I was gonna piss myself under his strong grip, but I held it tight, though I could feel my legs starting to shake. Gerard stared at me for a good few minutes then left the warehouse with a slam of the door. I collected myself and grabbed my coat and locked up the main door. I thought about calling my Uncle and crying up a storm, telling him everything but I knew that I might be branded a pussy by the other guys, so I sucked it up and decided to treat myself to a smoked meat across the street at Molly's Inn. It was a quiet place, with just a bunch of old drunks, where I would often come to take a shit in peace. Sometimes, I would sit on the toilet and cry like a pussy. Tonight was one of those nights. I felt alone against these blue-collar tyrants who only knew about drinking, fucking and fighting and longed to be with Melanie who reminded me of the beauty of life and who made me feel strong. As I sat in the stall, with my head in my hands, I heard the squeaky door bathroom open and footsteps from big boots walk slowly towards me. I was too tired, angry and embarrassed to look up. The voice was hoarse but familiar and asked, "hey, you the one that gives free blow jobs?" "Fuck off. Leave me alone." I replied with my head in my hands. "Well, I just thought that I'd come in here and get you to give me one of them dandy free BJ's." At this point, I erupted and started shouting while looking at the floor, "I told you to fuck off, what part of...." but as I looked up, I felt a strong hand on my shoulder, "Easy bud. I'm just kiddin,' I like the ladies, don't need no man smoking my pipe." My sadness and fear disappeared. I was face to face with Hickory McCracken. He had less teeth than when I'd seen him last and seemed to be a bit chubbier but he still had that smug smile and gleam in his eye. "Hick!" I yelled in relief and laughter. "It's good to see you man," I said clapping our hands in a tight shake. "You too brotha," He said smiling. "So, I heard a fat frenchman's been giving you trouble," He said loudly. "Well...no...well not exact..." I began hesitantly but before I could finish, Hickory said, "well, let's say we have a couple of beers and take an order of poutine over to his house." I felt my heart began to pound and we began to laugh, Hickory out of the joy of anticipation and me out of fear...
Summer in Montreal had just begun.

to serve lager or ale

had a dream one rainy night,
probably just leftover mental fodder,
I was drinking beers with Jesus,
only we were underwater.

bully

bullies berate,
bullies lie,
bullies on the school yard,
bullies in the mind,
a bully pushed creation out of the sky,

ahhhhhh, what's this!

you are your own worst bully -

stop beating yourself up!

darling

jagged and reckless,
your comments to me,
it's a bitch of a thing,
the way you poke me,
the way I take it,
like some hungry kitten,
returning to a poisoned saucer of milk,
it's pathetic,
you're pathetic,
but now you're hurt,
now you're quiet,
no one's paying attention to you,
outside the walls of the workplace,
you're just like every other one,
with your list of demands,
spoiled and clueless,
tyrannical and unkind,
but you're shocked when no one calls your number.

maybe it's because I've gone home alone to laugh,
maybe someday you will laugh too,
when you imagine me,
spending my money on you.

hockey on a late night TV

clenched fists, grinding teeth,
celebrations in the street,
big money tickets to bigger money dreams,
fat men in boardrooms,
chalk boarding line-ups,
snake skin boots with leather seams,
fat cheques,
fast flights,
back home to big city nights,
millionaire teams,
and revenue streams,
fine women,
finer steak,
finest rows of Bentleys gleam,

but no gold medal for most -
facing daily adversity,
who struggle quietly,
just a pause in the agony,
cancer patients watching eagerly,
hockey on a late night TV.

alligator souffle

beat rhymed stanzas belted forward,
a vocal punch to tepid air,
read quickly, staggered-like, from a dog eared notebook,
an uneasy shuffle of the feet,
a Bic pen behind the ear,
read to an audience,
a quiet crowd of traffic lights,
sewer grates, oily puddles,
and an old drunk's midnight chuckle,
the poet stops, bends,
edits with a leaky pen,
a whistle wetted by a tear off a flask of 5 dollar whiskey,
stands up, begins again,
this time,
with a brand new line.

Problematics

uncertain and hostile,
indomitable loneliness,
a hollow vessel,
reflecting on nothing,
numbers and grids,
graphs and projections,
how could this ever reach me?
how could it reach you?
what's left when you strip it down...
down to your custom floors and palatial living rooms,
gorgeous friends and beautiful enemies,
sterile conversation and air of dismissiveness,
packaged persona and pseudo-intellectualism,
Valium induced dreams and muddy reflections,
how long do you think you can fool people?
at best,
your just a overtipped hostess,
and he's an errand boy,
and your spouses are your hairless pets.

bone bag

purple turns blue,
locked in this bone bag,
it's all happening

sins and satori

why are you running?
what are you running from?
your still looking over your shoulder?
you've been alone for a long time now,
chased by nothing,
but the shadows thrown by the sun on the concrete,
fooled by the echoes of your own footsteps,
there's nobody there,
they gave up a long time ago,
they're all gone,

...you outran them.

4 walls

contained by
fours walls
in a building
in a city
in a country
on a continent
on a planet
in a universe
in a galaxy
within millions of galaxies
imploding into nothingness
exploding into galaxies
creating universes
of planets
of continents
of countries
of cities
of buildings
of walls
containing
us,

contained in our mind,

...limitlessly.

just a grinder

A blogger;
a busted soul,
a simple tune, a window to the spring air,
a blogger sits with his head in his hands and a tries to remember...remember when days were long and the sky was blue,
a blogger; gets his
ideas from a vision or a dream or the sound of the buses' brakes popping
and squealing,
a blogger lies in bed awake, falls asleep at his desk,
a blogger; a type of poet, essayist, lyricist, a sad song, a hearty laugh,
A blogger, a mangy dog in an alley, a king with pomp and power, a tidal wave, an earthquake,
a punch to the face, a bloody car accident,

a blogger sits with his head in his hands and tries to remember...
remember when the water was clean and the streets were safe,
a blogger waits for days for the prison cell to open,
a blogger; smooth jazz, a cold beer, a sleeping baby,
a blogger wakes, types, writes and molds words into meaning,
a blogger...

a hack?

no...

a grinder,
a "Larry Robinson" grinder,
a defenceman,
a back-up guitarist,
a midnight busker,
singing a song for busted souls.

boiling blood

boiling blood sprays from the lips of the twisted,
the fractured,
the disenfranchised,
like an old man reaching out,
into the night,
trying to hold the wind,
he once knew the same goals,
had the same dreams,
as I,
but lost the mystery,
by getting lost in the mystery,
the hard mystery,
with a quivering voice,
a trembling cane,
no longer blinded by vanity,
he knows now like before he ever "knew,"
this hard mystery,
with it's rain on the windows,
with it's blood in the veins,
with it's fire in the sky,
with it's wind in the lungs,
when they tell you,
you don't know anything,
you tell 'em,
"I know enough."
but you say that last line like Deniro.

here we go

stuffed garbage bags and empty boxes,
memories tossed curbside,
ribbons and receipts,
socks and books,
gifts from loved ones,
an old year dying quietly,
but yet,
what is this vapid emptiness that lurks behind every happy moment?
what is this sinister shadow that creeps behind every new hope?
things have not changed,
the same fear,
the same dread,
stirring my anxious bowels,
the chemicals shift quickly in my brain,
like strange voices echoing in a dream,
tossing and turning,
medicating, escaping, running...
but yet,
where's my true will?
an empty resolution?
a pep talk?
a happy thought?

...more a resolve,
an anger,
an energy,
beyond ego,
a meta-physical strength this,
to know things,
then to let them go,
awareness remains steady,
with the body shaking,
I jump into the unknown.

Santa was a grillman

Before the house at the pole, and the marriage to Mrs. Clause, Santa was grillman at this diner; "The Nickel 524" off Linden and Church street, Brooklyn, New York. He would serve an all day breakfast to local riff raff and down n' outers. The odd business folk would come in and they would ask if "King" was working the grill. Eddie King, that was Santa's real name before he left the trade and got a job as a more diplomatic figure, some might even say, the Christ-archetype. Bringing good fortune and blessings to those who "were good" and withholding blessings from those who had "been bad." A Messianic figure no doubt, with his portly stature, beard and omnipotent knowledge. For many, he was and is the only "God" they will ever know. Santa became the official symbol of the eye-in-the-sky sailing through the wintery night pulled by the will of his creatures, bestowing good fortune on the innocent sheep, and their children, below. His symbol is everywhere, people hang his picture and wear his official clothes. They write songs about him and teach young ones about his moral observance. We make penance to him with every Christmas card, donation to a food bank and cheerful Christmas handshake. But "Santa" as we know him, was a Christ-figure long before he became Santa. Long before the FBI told him that he was going to be taking a new position and would be working in tandem with roving units of Santa teams. Yah, back when he was Eddie King at the 524, that's when he did good. True good. When he fried up some eggs for a shivering crack head, when he would help Mrs. Miller push her grocery cart through the door for a hot cup of coffee, when he would sit and listen to Tuck Harbour, a local lonely old drunk, tell him about the daughter he never had. King would sit and listen, puffing away on a Newport light, an upper arm tattoo of two naked women kissing, lightly visible beneath a sweaty t-shirt and greasy apron. Eventually, old Tuck would fall asleep in the diner chair, with a half-bottle of Bud and partially eaten burger and fries in front of him. King would would sweep up, cover old snoring Tuck with a blanket, and sit down at the bar and read the paper. Outside it was cold and the streets were peppered with punks and winos. The moon sat high above the clouds. He could feel something calling to him. It was his mission to help the broken and the vermin. Before he took a job rewarding "the good."

dans un instant

The old man shakes his cane at the dirty mouth of youth,
while the rag-tag love of modernity
fades even
deeper into the fumes of panic,
paycheque to paycheque,
commuters "confront the daily setbacks,"
I breathe in deep,
with graveled breath,
and my winding thoughts,
to placate the ache of the past night,
school boys clown and ladies scold,
drive throughs buzz and click,
this corroding body,
this bruised city,
like the empty kiss of some effervescent serpentine,
like the pull of some cold dark water rushing,
spare your pontification,

your eager suggestion,
to accept your position,
so that I may be miserable like you,

...for I am but a layman,
I see things for what they are,
and I will carry my own bags.

The real Ghost Dog?

I was in Toronto a few weeks ago, in the heart of the Kensington hood: Rooftop view from cousin's funhouse:



















After drinking copiously into the wee hours with a variety of townies, folksies, roughnecks and playas, there was but a few of us blazing herb on the rooftop. I heard some footsteps on the ledge behind and above me.
I look up and snapped this quick pic of some dude who apparently lives on the roof top. Police don't bother this guy according to the locals. He wears a hoody year round and carries a briefcase. They say he lives in a small attic-type shack and keeps pigeons as pets. He came about this far but said nothing. We asked him if he wanted to hit the spliff but he just kept silent and then walked away.

Is this the real Ghost Dog?

Lake Michigan

was down for a wedding,
Evanston, Illinois,
hanging from the north collar of Chicago,
a college town,
for serious grey matter,
and serious coin,
young students,
studying, bonding, growing,
nice cars, coffee shops and lap tops...
I was in a hotel with fancy soaps, white porcelain and soft towels,
witnessed loving words being exchanged over expensive dishes of food,
bottles of expensive wine,
fancy suits and talk of prestigious goals and notable
achievements,
I've been to many ceremonies,
receptions, after parties
and collections of eager people on the cusp of their new life
together,
my old dance moves, beer buzz and sweat soaked
suit,
lovers hold each other drunkenly,
swaying unsteadily to The Beatles,
outside the cold wind grabs my blazer,
as I walk past the rosy cheeked sophomores,
discussing the media of politics,
the politics of the media,
I remember that freshness...
the jog between classes,
hot coffee and quiet libraries,
soon to grow into frustrated suburbanites,
angry about the weather, taxes and bad backs,

standing on the pier,
I take large swallows from the Michelob
in my coat pocket,
it occurs to me,
my desire for marriage dies more
with every wedding I attend,
but my drunken thoughts end as quickly as they begin,
like the path of a paper cup,
thrown by the wind,
floating on the froth,
of Lake Michigan.

The devil was once an angel

Gonna move to a mountain top,
gonna build a cabin in the woods,
gonna turn the soil and grow a garden,
lost among the trees,
open to the stars,
away from the masses,
get my water from the streams,
fall asleep in silence,
in a homemade bed,
next to a pot stove,
embers glowing red,
yet I'll awaken to disappointment,
and the nausea of the day,
amidst the hustle of the city,
and the bustle of the players,
fluid identities,
and the sharp dressed religious saying prayers,
on the bench across the street,
bad luck and a quivering hand,
bad decisions and clothes full of sand,
bloodshot eyes,
coins in a can,
in but a moment,
one can see,
I could be you,
you could be me.



"It is a good viewpoint to see the world as a dream. When you have something like a nightmare, you will wake up and tell yourself that it was only a dream. It is said that the world we live in is not a bit different from this."

---The Hagakure: Book of the Samurai

A Poem is a City

This one goes out to all my fellow bloggers.

Photo: Dan Neutel, Poem: Charles Bukowski

a poem is a city filled with streets and sewers
filled with saints, heroes, beggars, madmen,
filled with banality and booze,
filled with rain and thunder and periods of
drought, a poem is a city at war,
a poem is a city asking a clock why,
a poem is a city burning,
a poem is a city under guns
its barbershops filled with cynical drunks,
a poem is a city where God rides naked
through the streets like Lady Godiva,
where dogs bark at night, and chase away
the flag; a poem is a city of poets,
most of them quite similar
and envious and bitter...
a poem is this city now,
50 miles from nowhere,
9:09 in the morning,
the taste of liquor and cigarettes,
no police, no lovers, walking the streets,
this poem, this city, closing its doors,
barricaded, almost empty,
mournful without tears, aging without pity,
the hardrock mountains,
the ocean like a lavender flame,
a moon destitute of greatness,
a small music from broken windows...

a poem is a city, a poem is a nation,
a poem is the world...

and now I stick this under glass
for the mad editor's scrutiny,
the night is elsewhere
and faint gray ladies stand in line,
dog follows dog to estuary,
the trumpets bring on gallows
as small men rant at things
they cannot do.

Dissolver

I don't have answers. I try to not preach. So don't come to my door selling eschatologies. I'll make you think before you talk. I keep my head down. I read books. I limit TV. I drink too much. I've had my ass kicked. There's never more than $40 dollars in my wallet unless I'm at the peelers. I put way too much horseradish on my roast beef. I like loose fitting jeans. I have bad sleeping patterns. I should get out more. I often think about getting a pet. Then I slip on pet urine in the elevator and cancel the idea. Around 2pm everyday I feel like I'm gonna go nuts. A friend of mine says Japan is the answer to everything. I could work at being a better person. I have to work at not getting erections. Sometimes I dream about a lighthouse with a burnt out bulb. I find political jargon fatiguing. I play right field on my softball team. The bat cracks and the ball seems to hang up there for days. I tap my hat back and try to get under it. Sometimes I just can't get under it.

"I've got all my life to live
I've got all my love to give
and I'll survive
I will survive"
---Gloria Gaynor

The Heart of a Man (Part 1)

mosquito bites,
porch lights,
bending taps for late night fights,
hungry for something,
like a friend once said,
lay awake all night in my broken bed,
empty office buildings,
cracks in the wall,
I wonder how far down I might fall,
can't grasp the essence,
only feel the resistance,
can't feel the love,
only feel the distance,
a house in the country,
a house in the city,
fat wallets, trophy titty,
getting old, feelin' shitty,
don't know what it means,
a diamond ring or just a block of cheese,
old newspapers and a set of keys,
midnight rainstorm,
and a pain in my knees,
dark clouds and a full moon,
homeless drunk below,
shadow boxing the breeze.

sirens of the morning

golden evening sun behind cigarette smoke veils,
dry cleaner blows rings beneath his flickering neon sign,
humid box house, hustle pants, shirts, table cloths, dresses,
shouting orders, loud, stop-start languages,
the push-out, the pull-in,
elastics and pins,
fluids and steam,
cash machine drawer hammers
open-shut-open-shut,
take a penny, leave a penny,
bad teeth behind a forced smile,
starched collars, cuffs and dreams,
tough go at $1.50 a shirt,
microwave noodles and a smoke for lunch,
cousin deep in steam, uncle covers the counter,
hauling, pressing, folding, bending,
flattening, de-greasing, un-staining,
lifting, piles and piles of hangers,
throw it up on the rack under paper and plastic,
slap on a ticket,
quick call to the wife at home with the baby,
sweat beads in shop heat,
swinging door bell dings,
next customer in from the street,
10 years from home,
everyday struggle,
but the baby has a doctor and some medicine,
clean clothes and possibilities...
twist the sign, lock the door
beer and late-night TV,
sink into a hard sleep,
until the sirens of the morning.

war beauties

chopper growl and pigeon shit,
a lover's quarrel in the springtime,
purple skies pour rain and winter vampires rise,
and reach for a drink from the sun,
scotch bottle clinks spiritually,
to a background melody of ravines,
rocketing dirty water through our valley,
and into our homes,
our minds,
our dreams.
In the night I wake crying,
"oh lord, don't make me shoot the
war beauties!"


"Sit there. Let it bleed."
---Deniro's character Neil McCauley (Heat)

Hats off to old Hickory McCracken

My old pal Hickory McCracken (pictured here) was a one of kind fella. He was only 5' 4" but he was taller than most men in ego and emotional stature. The guy lost some teeth in bar fight at only 11 years old when some drunken brawler grabbed his pops (a gentle old baker) and ol' Hick stepped in and turned the drunk's nutsack into a play-dough accordion. At the ripe age of 14, while spending the summer at military camp, he wrote a bunch of poems that covered the gammit of his heartbreak over his lost cat, quantum physics, the politics of international security and the music of Wagner. The poems were published in the New Yorker less than a year later. By the age of 16 (while studying for his LSATS, specially prepared for the pre-university gifted) Hick swung a summer job as a doorman at The Blacksmith Inn, his Uncle's tavern, and when drunken college types made fun of his shortness, golf hat or fisherman's pipe, I got all the more thrill watching him coax them into the back alley so he could beat them until they lay toothless, bloodied and crying in a steaming heap of their own defecate. By 18 he won the North American finals in one of the first televised Krav Maga (Isreali Military Survival Fighting) and Brazilian Jujitsu competitions. Amazingly, he still found the time to develop a solar-powered lawnmower and a musical instrument, a hybrid between a Gibson Les Paul guitar and a mouth-harp. By 20, Hick had scholarship offers from everywhere from Harvard to Le Sorbonne but instead decided against the brain-washing of formal education and went to live with one of his girlfriends somewhere in the Polynesian Islands where he could finish his watercolour paintings and get some peace and quiet. Hick was a poet, Hick was fighter, he used to light his pipe with a rusty old butane lighter; his mother was a seamstress and his father was baker, before exams he'd snort gunpowder he stored in salt shaker. A truck ran over his cat named Razor and his brother was later killed by a cop's tazer; sometimes he'd talk and joke, sometimes he'd sit deep and toke, but always with a vacant look in his eyes; like he was staring into a world that he loved but at the same time despised; I'd lend him books and he'd show me some punches; we'd sit down by the tracks and smoke during our school lunches; he'd tell about his Dad's drinkin' and I'd tell him about my Dad's mistress; once we hopped a train to Detroit at Christmas; the last day I ever saw Hick we'd have our last chat; he said "Life's a bitch, sometimes you gotta slap it like that." I'd thank him for the advice and he'd just tip his hat.

jazz and being

More than most types and flavours of art, I find music, in the form of Jazz, to be the form that holds me tight to the present moment... accompanying me on my everyday journey to and from and from back to to. It would seem that rock n' roll, my very bloodsource, tends to fill me with raw energy and an undefinable ambition to just go out and DO! Do what? I dunno, go crazy I guess, drive fast, overturn newspaper boxes, drink hard, punch people in the face, etc. It's a great energy if you can harness it. Though, it doesn't throw me a newspaper and pour me a cup of hot coffee like Jazz does. Though I have used classical music to relax to...study to... and even allowed Opera to tease and pull my heart strings, it still remains the musical form of Jazz that really seems to me to be the soundtrack of daily motion in, especially city, life. Country, folk and grass roots blues are the songs of the working man, the dusty boots, greasy jeans and the songs of the family, homemade jam and cotton sheets blowing in a summer wind. But it's different than Jazz. Jazz, everything ranging from Count Basie big band to the beat poet messiness of bass/drum/guitar trios right across to a lonely trumpeter squeezing out a muted trill on the top of a high rise rooftop in the hot August eve, is for me a more direct connection to the immediacy of being. The flow of being. The gentle wildness of Lionel Hampton's xylophone, the rainy afternoon piano of Bill Evans or the angry genius of Buddy Rich's drumming thump, Jazz is the poetry of sound. My current muses are the Dave Holland Sextet's new opus "Pass it On" and of course, the rable rousing Chet Baker's Verve collection. I switch often between a classic LP "Everybody Loves Bill Evans" and his Excellency Oscar Peterson's "Night Train." Oscar Peterson's trio once moved me to tears with a rendition of "requiem" during an NAC performance on his Night in Vienna tour. Fucking beautiful.

Jazz is the traffic, the rain, the sirens of panic and a little baby laughing. Jazz is the old men playing chess in the park on a Saturday afternoon. Jazz is a howling busker, Jazz is a cold beer. Jazz is a bicycle ride and a picnic in the valley. Jazz is a nap. Jazz is a bus ride. Jazz is a painting, Jazz is math. Jazz is a bubble bath. Jazz is building, Jazz is tearing down. Jazz is simultaneously loose and tight. Jazz is the long, lonely, weed smoked, beer drunk night.