eternal return (plus recess)

the sky gets grey,
shoes get put by the door,
lunch boxes get lunches,
school bus rounds the corner,
bike locks,
alarm clocks,
coffee cups for yawn-filled talks,
hit the weights,
get the grades,
welcome Sally, James and little Jack Horner,
waxed floors,
squeaky classroom doors,
hey, I've never seen her before,
bully the bully,
salute the principal,
the force of an idea,
makes the inevitable, invincible

fear meets courage,
resistance meets will,
traditional meets eclectic,
potential energy meets kinetic,

what's beginning,
is ending,
and beginning again.

gonna have me some fun

They call me The Snake.
I'm a slithery snake man,
I eat bad food and wash it down with whiskey,
I ride the trains with Curtis Mayfield in my headphones,
I wear leather shoes,
and sleep in a rusty bed,
I got one glass eye,
and one that works,
keeps a lookout for witches, liars and jerks,
my father was a lion,
my mother was a dove,
they taught me stories about a devil above,
I buy cheap suits and keep a harmonica in my pocket,
a pusher tried to push me once,
I pulled his shoulder from the socket,
I step from the platform and into the street,
a bum and his mangey dog,
are the first I meet,
he shouts, "Hey buddy, gimme some change,
I gotta get a train to my baby, she's been acting strange."
I say, "I saw your baby and she's got a new man,
she don't need you no more you understand?"
He screamed, "Go fuck yourself!" as I walked on by,

The rays of a skyscraper sun were cutting through the city sky,

it was good to be home.

Days with Mary

It had been 3 years since the divorce and 7 years since Mary's death.
Hit by a drunk driver while bicycling to elementary school, the loss of
his daughter had made the last seven years a long rain of agonizing
loneliness. His construction business had been suffering in the new
economy but it was his soul that was failing. As he sat on the park
bench and watched the fathers playing and talking and smiling with their
children, their daughters, he was filled with a deep, painful resentment
and envy. He wanted their happiness, he wanted his own daughter back.
His mind was spinning, chattering about justice and fairness, re-hashing
legal discussions he had once with lawyers, lawyers that didn't
understand that there is no justice. He thought about the driver, about
the parole, he pictured him eating in restaurants, sleeping soundly,
making love and laughing with friends and he was enraged. He wanted to
kill, he wanted to find the driver and hurt him, kill him maybe, he
fantasized about drowning him, drowning him with liquor and beating his
limp body until he could hit no more. His heart raced and his hands
shook and he felt tears streaming down his cheeks. He lit a cigarette
and breathed calming breaths, that's what the doctor said to do, when
the feelings came. So he waited and sat. He sat and waited for everyone
to leave, for the chatter and laughing and smiling fathers to leave and
for the sun to sink down, down into the black night. It was late now and
Tom sat alone, save for a transient singing to himself on the other side
of the park. Soon he was fully alone. He sat under the moon and smoked
and felt waves of sadness and rage, rage and sadness. It was dark, the
wind was blowing paper and dirt into the night air when Tom felt it.
Something had come. He looked around and behind him but there was
nothing...nothing but the wind and the night. Yet it was there, it was
with him. Someone was there...someone had come. His hands shook and he
wanted to scream out in agony but he sat and he waited. It stayed with
him, it felt warm and peaceful. In the silence of the night he cried
quietly.
When he got home, he opened the door and sat on the couch. Something
was breaking inside, like a chain, something was changing...opening. The
rage was pouring out...emptying. He felt so tired now but the rage and
sadness was fading like voices from a memory. He knew someone had come
to him and he wondered if she had been with him. His hands had stopped
shaking and he felt peaceful...it had been so long...and he fell deep
into a restful sleep. A sleep so deep that his body began to repair
itself from the years of pain. He dreamt. He dreamt about the days with
Mary...in the sun. They were at the lake...she was there...they were
together. They were in the boat on the water and the wind was warm. He
was looking at her and she was looking at him... and they were laughing.


When Tom awoke there were calls on his phone. He had slept so soundly,
the most in years.
He went to the window, it was raining and the wind was howling. He
opened it and let the water come in, it flowed down the wall and onto
the floor. He felt the mercy of release.
He felt she was happy.

lady picture show

stepped into a lady picture show,
a pocket of coins,
and a healthy libido,
in the darkness,
ladies danced and wiggled,
pranced and giggled,
the screen went black and the lights went on,
out the door and into the street,
an old lady passing muttered "pervert,"
and continued on with her cart of groceries,
my pride was unswayed,
years ago,
she too,
was a dancing beauty in a school boy's dream.

999

black sun, white moon,
wind whistles through the window,
and into my room,
dancing skeletons,
cut-throat drivers,
dead body hiding from the police divers,
greasy hot dogs,
in the middle of the night,
why does being wrong,
feel so damn right?
park bench saints and bar stool sages,
slurred wisdom,
bottled up through the ages,
heat stroke quitter,
to snow storm relentless,
I'm the carnal carnival,
I'm holy river repentance,
first you argue nurture,
then you say hard wired,
I'm not mean,
I'm just sofa king tired,
dessert plate of pleasure,
buffet of pain,
when the world tears you down,
let a blogger build you up again.

St. Liquor

I'm a congregant,
at the Church of St. Liquor,
we have many members,
some wear suits,
some go casual,
others look like they've been wearing their clothes for weeks,
some people don't like St. Liquor,
they say he's a deceptive Saint,
but I find he helps us tell the truth,
some say he lets us "run away,"
but I find he helps us connect,
they say, he's a poor excuse for dealing with our sorrows and no substitute for God,
but I find that I feel happier, even closer to God when I'm deep in prayer to St. Liquor,
some carry mini statuettes of Mother Mary or St. Francis in their pockets,
I always carry a mickey of St. Liquor,
there's plenty of stories about soldiers on the front lines,
they grab for Bibles, prayer beads and different pictures of Saints and Sisters,
but in tough times, I commune with an easily underrated Saint,
St. Liquor.

jam

gossip, greed, fear, hate, ignorance

illusion doesn't stop

so the freedom train can't

skandha shuffle

somewhere you lost the magic

but what's this!?

today has never happened before

men of dog

sycophantic swagger,
snake oil smile,
can smell your bullshit,
for at least a mile,
straighten your tie,
lick your teeth,
preach your agenda,
a placebo for grief,
pot lighting,
and a camera's glare,
better dab your forehead,
there's some sweat there,
too late to come clean,
money runs the show,
no climbing back now,
from this deep in the hole,
the desperate, weak and hurting,
campaign your "light in the dark,"
not hard to see,
something's rotting in Denmark,
hell-fire and brimstone,
a contract of fear,
take your dictator "god,"
and get outta here.

dinger

old fool,
get on up,
twisted soul,
get on up,
mangy dog,
get on up,
weary slave,
get on up,
midnight brawlers,
deadbeat stallers,
drinkers,
thinkers,
broken hearted stinkers,
liars and faith sinkers,

get on up to the plate,
breathe it in,
line it up,
reach down,
pull your best self from yourself,
throw into it,
knock it out,
hear the ump say "well, that's gone."

ladder

All I have is what I got,
and the power of the heart and mind,
who knows about the road ahead,
or just what I'll find.








"So Jacob was left alone, and a man wrestled with him till daybreak. When the man saw that he could not overpower him, he touched the socket of Jacob's hip so that his hip was wrenched as he wrestled with the man. Then the man said, "Let me go, for it is daybreak."
But Jacob replied, "I will not let you go unless you bless me."
The man asked him, "What is your name?"
"Jacob," he answered.
Then the man said,
"Your name will no longer be Jacob, but Israel,
because you have struggled with God and with men and have overcome."
-Genesis 32:24-28

ice maker

On these warm summer days,
I make alot of ice,
no AC...so I make alot of ice,
I put ice in my whiskey,
and whiskey in my coffee,
I put ice in a bag and put it on my knee,
a little ice for the nag of an old injury,
in the hot afternoon sun,
I shuffle down to the One Lucky,
step in only to have old Beer Mugs tell me that the ice maker's broken,
"Broken? Your jokin'!" I yell,
"He's anything but," a drunken Tortelli replies from his barstool,
his busted up fists still red and scabbed from a fight the night before,
"You want me to drink whiskey neat on a day like this? How the hell am I supposed to cool off?" I protest,
"Why don't you ask her" Beer Mugs says pointing to a nasty but hot lookin' broad in the corner of the room, champagne eyes and tattooed legs that went on for days,
"Ain't that French's girl?" I ask quietly,
"Nah, not anymore she ain't...take a run at 'er." Beer Mugs replies,
13 highballs and a plate of 50 suicide wings later, I'm back at her place filling her bathtub with bags of ice while she slips into something more comfortable,
I jump out of my jeans and slide into the ice bath,
I hear her coming, "Close your eyes honey..I made this bath real special for us." I say,
"Ok...I dunno..." she replies,
She enters the bathroom slowly, eyes closed in just a kimono,
"Yah just drop that robe down honey and slide in." I suggest,
She says giggling, "ohhhh kayyy...."
As soon as her soft white skin hits the ice water she jumps out with a shriek,
"You bastard!" she shouts.
"You're a freak...a real freak you know that!?" she yells picking up her robe and slamming the door on her way out.
"I guess I sort of 'am honey! Hey listen, if I hurt ya, just put a little ice on it!" I shout.
Chuckling to myself I slide farther down into the ice bath...
"Ooooo baby... that's cold." I say quietly... taking greedy puffs on my cigar.

buying time

a small company is hired by a sleepy bureaucracy to handle work the bureaucracy can't do, without the golden benefits of government, the sick days, the personal days, the vacation days, the compressed work weeks, the pension, the cash-for-life, the small company hustles and sweats to complete deliverables as deadlines shift and jerk to arbitrary and ever illusive departmental management policy,
the highly-insulated, slow-moving government machine sits high above the safety net of the public purse and remains impervious to accountability no matter the level of error or depth of incompetence...

oversights,
misplacement,
mis-communication,
misunderstanding,
their strange and habitual occurrence of "lost invoices" puts a small company in rough waters and without money owed for over 4 months,
oblivious and distracted bureaucrats soil the credibility and effort of smart, hard-working ones, as they shift blame from person to person, department to department, process to process, yet as they flounder and rationalize very simple failure to live up to a contract, the small company struggles to pay the electrical, the rent and the salaries, so as the tired company delays the pay, the workers go home to their families empty-handed.

It's unethical.

The bureaucrat doesn't hear, as he lies comfortably in the pool deck sun in his beach shorts, listening to his Ipod, eyes closed, his round oily belly jiggles and his arms dance quickly as he pretends he is the conductor of a large orchestra.

reacher

You're not invisible,
I can hear you,
I can hear you during the day,
I can hear you in the night,
your crying echoes through my dreams,
I'll see you in a glance,
and then you're gone,
I can hear your voice,
then there is silence,
I know you are out there,
and I know what they did to you,
I don't know where you are,
and I don't know when you are,
but I know what they did to you,
when they made you believe you weren't divine,

so please hold on,
I am doing my best,
and I will reach you.

burn me

city sweats in July heat,
buildings sink and wallpaper peels,
a muted trumpet plays Miles Davis,
insomniacs do laundry,
a Chinese restaurant cook has a cigarette in the alley,
steam pours from rusty pipes,
coffee is on for
street sweepers,
newspaper trucks,
drowsy cop cars,
Mr. O'Rourke from 207 is humpin' some whore,
you can hear 'em hollering and groaning two floors up
where I lie awake on an old mattress,
room lit by a neon strip club sign,
out the window,
a drunken bum sings,
a slurred Dean Martin's "Somewhere there's a someone,"
as I read an old urine stained Gideons bible,
pouring over the last few verses of Lamentations,
sweat drips as I dream of tender lovers of the past,
thick steaks and icy martinis,
it's so hot, even the angels stink of B.O.

have I gone insane?

reduced to mumblings,
head-scratching and neurotic concern,
I'm a shell of a man,
eating beans from a can,
cloaked in the driving rain,
half bottle of whiskey,
and a gypsy's curse,
I watch the fan spin,
and an ant on the window ledge,
crawling closer to my perception's edge,
think about the same problem,
from a different angle,
like celebrities flashing a hand made triangle,
a room with four walls,
a twisted fate,
a programmed construction of a god of love and hate,
did this same god create this same ant to drag a wasp ten times it's weight?

makyo bustin'

fire
wind
water
earth
birth
want
chase
stop
sit
listen
pulse
hands
breathe
see
zazen

b-side

tickle that side of me,
the one that failed miserably,
it hasn't laughed in awhile,
buy that side a drink,
rinse it's face in an icy sink,
it hasn't laughed in a while,
forgive that side of me,
a needy reaching out to nothing,
elevate that side of me,
sinking low into the sofa stuffing,
it hasn't laughed in awhile,
overlook that side of me,
got too drunk at your special dinner,
support that side of me,
that never really feels like a winner,
it hasn't laughed in awhile.

thrift shop hop

glass top patio table - 5 dollars,
2 barely used padded folding chairs - 8 dollars,
5 never-used highball glasses - 1 dollar,
sitting on my balcony,
drinking cold beer,
watching 20-something hard bodies roller blade by....

priceless.

captain of the night

sailor's sunset,
torrents of blue,
ship of the night,
tear on through,
sunset on my hopes,
storms in my dreams,
fight the undertow,
driving rain teams,
ocean of lost souls,
lucky catch ahead,
into the light,
part alive, part dead,


captain of the night,
hold course into the sunrise,
wave to other captains,
as they pass by,
heaven in their soul,
hell in their eyes.

drunk chair

wicked world,
deaf god,
wonder what to do on a summer night,
expensive girls,
country nod,
wonder what to do with the rest of my life,
climb a mountain,
run a race,
disappear without a trace,
take a course,
change my hair,
change the world,
turn cold to care,
maybe just sit here and get drunk in this chair.

the chicken man

cold may wind,
blows shadows across a big may moon,
cigarette embers glow orange,
war scars, glass eyes,
crumpled cash, white lines,
diamond rings, gold watches,
purple heart tattoos that bleed busted love red,
sweat drips,
tongues lick wrinkled lips,
butts clench, hearts jump,
flesh tightens, guts wrench,
dusty dim light, cock fight,
step aside in respectful fright,
his name is the chicken man,
you bet your baby's college,
your wife's retirement,
your last GIC,
...and if your not nervous,
you fucking should be.

saturday

hot and oily saturday sun
college beauties play badminton in bikinis
my penis goes rollerblading

zen bluesmen

"Without accepting the fact that everything changes, we cannot find perfect composure. But unfortunately, although it is true, it is difficult for us to accept it. Because we cannot accept the truth of transience, we suffer."

-Roshi Shunryu Suzuki

"Serves you right to suffer...serves you right to be alone...can't go on livin' in the past...them days...is gone."

- Roshi John Lee Hooker

do the right thing

hot nights make me think about Radio Raheem,
makes me want to fight the power with a cold beer and a tin fan,
makes me want to melt ice cubes on Rosie Perez's breasts,
makes me want to help Mooky deliver pies in the burning noon sun,
makes me want to argue with Sal over the price of one slice...one f'king slice?
makes me want to keep trying to run a business like a Korean convenience store owner,
makes me hate the other,
but makes me want to understand...
in the night,
sometimes,
words are given to me,
hope is given to me,
nerve is given to me,
I hear a voice,
it says quietly,
stand up... look at me... and tell me that you got nothing...

this is just a game,

just as quick is gone...

it don't matter then.

ice cream koan

lie, game, maze

please do not lose yourself

only one you

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