gusher

I hate when the bass is weak,
I hate when there's only wine and no beer,
Who has only wine and no beer?
Who does that?
I hate pretentious hipsters,
I hate when Christians gush over Jesus,
I hate broken glass on the rug,
I hate "smartphones,"
I hate when the drums are weak,
I hate "dating,"
I hate last second exit signs,
I hate formula TV,
I hate "leaders,"
I hate weddings,
I hate when the moon is hidden by clouds,
I hate that Christians think that Jesus would have liked gushers,

I hate the endless nights...

I really hate those fucking endless nights.

the holy

on a Monday,
I try to remember,
to forget everything,
to accept here and now,
that the breath is the anchor,

to know,
the self beyond the body,
before the heart is clothed,
before I hide my soul,
that there's no inner,
that there's no outer,
to move beyond the darkness,
to stop having this violence,
this tossing and turning,
this fretting and fighting,

this static coming through...
this hectic static coming through...
this panic coming through...

to understand,

that what is concealed,

is truly naked,

that what is meaningless,

is truly sacred.

damp

I'm sort of stock,
like a pick up line,
in a night club,
like a hipster sipping Pabst Blue,
like a cliche with a condom in it's pocket,
but you're like rain,
always falling,
in May,
grinding on my nerves,
keeping everything damp.

tundra

to return,
to pry open,
to pierce stone,
to recover the days of the orange sun,
of hope that would swell,
bursting energy,
excitement slicing through,
the lush green fields,
through rushing rivers,
the lost tundra,
the fresh wind,
to hold that,
again,
to have it,
box it,
bronze it,
keep it,
lock it down,
forever,

I could use it these days,

of cyber hugs,

digital kisses,

plastic skin,

rotten land,

and oceans of sewage.

black turning

black turning inside,

holding when you wanna fly,

knock it out.

we will return

it was repeated in my dream,

"is there beauty in the horror?"

she said:
open up the windows,
open up the doors,
open up the gates,
open the dams,
flood the rivers,
let the rains pour down,

relinquish us from us


rise
up
out
of
the
water

onto the earth

notice the sun shining down,
notice your shadow on the ground,
notice the faces all around,
notice the plane in the sky,
notice the sound.

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.

storms

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.

driftwood

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.

the problem with artists

art is built from the inside out,
it's creativity-in-itself,
not a hat,
scarf,
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."

doze

out there,
I don't always hear lyrics,
I sometimes just hear beats and sounds,
out there,
where it's cold,
and rough,
and feels like a fucking merry-go-round,
streets of fire,
streets of ice,
lines and arrows,
stops and go's
liars and ex-lovers,
snot drips from my nose,
I never really sleep,
just sort of lightly doze,

the heart is a coin,
one side anger,
flip-side care,
and if I could,
I probably should,
there's so much work to do out there.




"I wear ties. The ties that bind me to this crazy world."
-The Square Corner (2011) responding to the question: Do you wear ties?

HP's Rock Feature 2: Black Dub

I have been listening to a few tracks by these guys over and over lately. Man, they sound damn sweet. Before you visit the Black Dub site, can you recognize the older fella on guitar? Hint: He's one of the coolest producers ever! Trixie Whitley (vocals), Brian Blade (drums), Daryl Johnson (Bass) and...

"Black Dub" in the studio - "Nomad Knows" from Daniel Lanois on Vimeo.

flashing blue

another day bled,
another night,
you slept soundly,
in blankets tight,
muttering quietly,
as your dreams took flight,
I watched shadows dance,
in nocturnal delight,
to the rhythm,
of the salt truck's,
flashing blue light.

stabilizer

elevator to the top,
elevator to the bottom,
elevator to the side,
a complex, absurd ride,
so much buried underneath the snow,
anger,
sadness,
anxiety,
together they grow,

you said we were in this together,
how come it doesn't ever feel like it?

ah, this terrible honesty

the emptiness of your glory,
the sad ending to your story,
the wear in your rosary,
the tear in your hosiery,
the tremble in your security,
the fan to the flame of your misery,
the cramp in your agility,
the limit of your ability,
the intensity of your repentance,
the lack of divine acceptance,
the lost rhythm in your rhyme,
the clouds in your sunshine,
the undone on your to-do list,
the swing,
the miss,
the chapped lips in your kiss.

southpaw

old faces,
low places,
salt stained jeans,
snowy shoe laces,
slushy night,
street light,
a few pitchers in,
feeling alright,

life's an angry bully,
begging you to fight,
going for the choke,
ripping your coat,
so check your stance,
and throw a quick jab to the throat.

grey

from time to time,
we'll die,
die right down there,
in a shirt and tie,
die so dead,
we'll be too dead to cry,

then we'll slip into the Bardo

we will fight devils,
wrestle with angels,
meet the Great Faker,
brother of the son of the Maker,

in a blink of an eye,
we will be here again,
we will have come alive,
back to breathe the air,
and watch birds fly,
into the grey sky.

mind racer

been down,
dirt down,
low to the ground,
holy ground,

earth,

air,

water,

fire,


I see you out there,
on the water,
mind racer,
hanging there on the edge,
getting twisted,
getting thrown,

brother get on out of that bothered mind,
sister get on out of that bothered mind,

come to shore,
stop talking,
and sit awhile,

the soul is an ocean,

hold nothing.

HP's Rock Feature 1

Cherished readers, I haven't written anything half-decent lately so I'm introducing a new element here at the Human Paradox. From time to time, I will feature a band of my choice, a song by them perhaps, maybe a video clip, maybe just the audio. Tonight's feature is Motörhead. Lemmy is the lead singer and is an icon. Lyrics below the vid.

Get Back In Line

"We live on borrowed time, hope turned to dust,
Nothing is forgiven we fight for every crust.
The way we are is not the way we used to be my friend,
All things come to he who waits, the waiting never ends.

We are the chosen few; we are the frozen crew,
We don’t know what to do, just wasting time.
We don’t know when to quit, we don’t have room to spit,
But we’ll get over it, get back in line.

Stuck here ten thousand years, don’t know how to act,
Everything forgotten, specially the facts.
The way we live is running scared; I don’t like it much,
All things come to he who waits but these days most things suck.

We are the chosen ones, we don’t know right from wrong,
We don’t know what’s going on, don’t know enough to care.
We are the dogs of war; don’t even know what for,
But we obey the law, get back in line.

We are trapped in luxury, starving on parole,
No one told us who to love, we have sold our souls.
Why do we vote for faceless dogs? We always take the bait.
All things come to he who waits, but all things come too late.

We are the sacrifice, and we don’t like advice,
We always pay the price, pearls before swine.
Now we are only slaves, already in our graves,
And if you think that Jesus saves, get back in line.
If you think that Jesus saves, get back in line."

24 minus 8

everything seemed fine,
car was serviced,
eye doctor gave me the thumbs up,
picked up a few things at the grocery,
including the right ingredients for chicken pizza,
traffic wasn't bad,
Oscar Peterson on the car stereo,
one more stop,
the finest of retailers,
the retailer of brewers,

"24 Sleeman Original Draught please."

The trunk was loaded and shut,
I headed home.

When things go smoothly,
I find myself waiting for things to go wrong,

pulling out the groceries,
I tugged a little too hard on the box of beer,
it tore and fell over the edge onto the pavement,
an explosion of froth and glass,
a puddle of gold,
I felt the pity filled eyes of the passers-bys,

"Oh look at that poor drunken man...he broke all his booze,"
they would mutter,

"Hey I'm sober! I dropped the case!
Why don't you mind your own business!" I would yell.

With bloodied hands I gathered up the glass,
bagged the unshattered remaining,
and went in,

I put the remaining in the fridge,
soon they were chilled,
I popped the cap,
with bandaged fingers I threw it back.

It was good.

It was cold.

It was what I thought it would be.

24 minus 8 leaves 16,

no hole is as big as it seems.

the truth is not out there

if I could collect all the things I love,
put them on a shelf high above,
they would be touched by no one else,
I would have them there all to myself,

if I could push all these rocks from my way,
I would slip on easier through the day,
but I'd have nothing left to write,
nothing much to say come the night,

there is something hard to realize,
love is letting go of what we'd keep at our side,
trying to hold what wants to fly,
is as pointless as tears of regret from an old man's eyes,









truth is not a childhood dream,

truth is not an eschatological surprise,

truth is what's left when you subtract the lies,

this could be the moment when you rise.

up in the Falls

day off from duty,
sleeping bags,
change of clothes,
shit kickers,
box of Slee,'
pack a' smokes,
slam some strings,
whistle dogs cook,
phone call,
some directions,
Olie's old man's concerned look,
house party,
country style,

case of 50 for dinner,
case of 50 for breakfast,
Leppard, Ozzy, Merle Haggard,
rooms and faces cloaked in smoke,
spin slow then fast,
rifle rack unlocked,
buckshot everywhere,
shot gun blasts,
into the night,
cowboy boots and underwear,
out cold in the basement,
Woodstock on the TV,
somewhere in the darkness,
a girl from Port Elmsley took a run at me,
morning burns,
empty bottles on the grass,
wave to the cuz through the backseat glass,
rough ride back,
pull over for a vomit splash,
tell the boss to hold your calls,
next time you're up in the Falls.





photo D. Neutel

repentance

If I have spent all my hard earned money,
on my friends,
on late nights,
on strong drink,
on passing fads,
and frivolous toys,
on rich foods,
on nature's herb,
for a feeling of peace,
or the perfumed hand of a stripper,
on her soft dark curves,
in a darkened room,
on these temporary moments,
held together by laughter and argument,
the energy,
the healing,
the religion of music,
chatter and silence,
business,
then play,
contemplation,
then rest,
if, but,
to loosen the grip,
of the constant sorrow,

then what shall I repent of?

when I'm god-damned glad I did it.

the grass below

on the cusp of the year,
whiskey, beer, wine,
cars humping cars,
in a long traffic line,

salt stains boots,
the economy slows,
work thins out,
free time grows,


free time, me time,
re-evaluate and put it in perspective,
why does every choice have to be so selective?

is there a perfect route to take?
a perfect plan to make?
image of success,
appearance of achievement,
do I want another piece of this plastic cake?

I'll try to get by,
I'll try to push through,
after all I'm getting pretty good at getting by without you,

hard road behind,
rough road to go,
what turns the snow yellow,
waters the grass below.

flatulizer

the old man sits relaxed,
deep into a wooden bench,
the bus is nowhere,
he lazily rocks to one side,
and postures a serious grimace,
unselfconsciously unleashing,
a hard, violent fart,
the sharp growl cuts through the morning quiet,
shattering the peace,
as it echoes into infinity off surfaces of nearby buildings,
women gasp,
children explode into frightened tears,
birds take flight,
men scramble,
choking,
greedily hunting and gulping new air.

the usual

sounds like you're turning over a new leaf,
well, it sounds like you're making a new plan anyway,
sounds like you're looking to the future with ambition and resolve,
sounds like you've grown a pair,
sounds like you've got some big expectations,
sounds like you're realizing that,
sounds like you're concerned with feasibility,
sounds like it may be a bigger challenge than first thought,
sounds like you may not actually go ahead with it,
sounds like you're dreaming up excuses,
sounds like nothing's gonna change here...

sounds like the usual.

behind us

padlock on a rusty gate,
table with candles,
candy and cake,
disappear behind abstract talk,
concealed,
laughter loud and fake,

where do we go?
into the crowds or behind the curtain?
into the sound or behind the mind?
wanderer,
no-mad,
drifter,
deserts,
tundras,
streets,
highways,
hallways,
doorways,
to rooms,
to beds,
to dreams,
portholes,
tunnels,
ever seeking...

I am,
so many other places,
so many other parts.

death by shopping cart

shoppers salivate,
grab their angst,
and grind their teeth,
open the cattle gate,
tear in,
like a snowplow over a sewer grate,
meet the demand,
get the deal,
grab the boxes,
an old lady squeals,
"It's not like it was in the old days,
people were courteous and had respect for their elders!"

The place went silent,
you could hear an angel fart,
the old lady was dead,
run over by a shopping cart.

this place

can I go away with you?
this place is cold and lonely,
my friends have gone,
they have been replaced by things,

can I come away with you?
this place is dark and I always feel sick here,
it's empty and there's no one to talk to,

can I tag along with you?
I hate coming home to this place,
to the deafening silence,
to these thoughts,
to these memories,

is there something I can do for you?
that might give me a reason,
a way,
to help me carry myself,
away from here?

...because I don't like this place.

enemy

people on TV shout it,
politicians proclaim it,
teachers teach it,
preachers preach it,
coffee shop folk conspire it,
families pray it,
people at work avoid it,
people on the bus pontificate on it,
students argue about it,
some soldiers are convinced of it,
others aren't,


...but how can you be my enemy?


I don't even know you.

butter chicken

false teeth,
greasy comb,
leather pants,
dollar store cologne,
cheap motel,
cheaper bed,
bad whiskey leads to,
bad dreams,
about a bullet to the head,
cold days,
colder nights,
ever walk the streets alone?


ever check the coin slot on a parking lot pay phone?

pick up the flu,
from dirty dishes,
dirty hands,
ever feel like no one understands?

feeling sick,
but the clock keeps tickin'
stuck somewhere between,
a bleeding tattoo,
and a plate of butter chicken.

tossing and turning

oldman,
tosses and turns,
watches the clock,
tries to take stock,
but loses the memories in the clouds of thought,
one day blurs into the next,
moments strung together,
like a frayed rope,
hard to cope,
burning, craving, yearning,
known in youth,
but lost with age,
disappointment and despair,
disappearing into thin air,
calcified bones and a steady pain,
he dreams of being young again,
but he wakes into the early dawn,
a reluctant yawn,
outside the window,
a gentle snow falling,
a gentle voice calling,
from somewhere inside,
through so many years,
through so many miles,
"Time is now,"
...he smiles.

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

now a word from The Boss, dedicated to all you wanderers out there.
I was 11 when this song came out. Can you identify the actor that gets pulled onto the stage at the end of the video?

black city

black city,
breathes steam,
over greasy streets,
a dishwasher smokes a cigarette,
and watches cops drink coffee,
in an idling cruiser,
whores, junkies, bums,
united in their collective despair,
high rise lights,
throw yellow beams into the foggy air,
bus brakes hiss and pop,
street corner preacher starts from the top,
baby dreams to a Thelonious Monk tune,
a brokenhearted drunk,
mutters softly,
to a brokenhearted moon.

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

Get lots of pics for this blog from www.daylife.com. The caption with this photo read: "Father River Sims, a Catholic priest, right, speaks with a homeless man in San Francisco on Sunday, Nov. 21, 2010. Sims, a former sex worker who spends most nights handing out food, condoms, socks and needles, says, "I don't pay attention to what the pope says. Never Have. I've done needle exchange and condoms for years. I go by what people need."