hands that feed

I couldn't sleep so I went out under a dark sky in search of a darker bar. I went in. I ordered two fingers straight up. A poet was on a corner stage, silhouetted through smoky shadows reciting, ranting and shouting in the darkness at the darkness. I had read her before, maybe heard her. She had a way of wrapping my empty feelings with exquisite words. I sat deep and listened deeper. When the glass was done I slipped out and shuffled home, where on the couch I fell into a deep sleep.

I dreamt of tall ships on a black, twisting ocean, untouched shores under a white moon, a small house hidden in fog with golden light in the windows. I was walking towards it. I could hear laughter and music. I could hear songs sung by people whom I once loved and whom once loved me.

I awoke in the morning to radiant light. I gathered my thoughts and prepared myself to confront the setbacks and usual apocalypses of the day.

But in my mind was laughter and music. Songs sung by people I love and that love me still.

flags

boatloads of pretentious, self-proclaimed poets with dog-eared notebooks from lint-filled pockets sink down smugly into comfy bookstore chairs slurping expensive tea, awkwardly wording their way past the thesis then the anti-thesis seeking a synthesis only to find another thesis waiting like a religious relic silhouetted in the window light of a new year's day sun,

but the best poets line the beds of over-capacity homeless shelters and push stamps over the glass counters of food banks, holding out for another day, another month, another year of inspiration borne of rotted teeth and tear drenched cheeks enduring the new days which sting like busted hearts of lonely misfit kids in an over-capacity world, while quietly humble and grace-full thoughts and deeds are drowned out by the bloated chanting of pop-culture, reckless investors, war makers and chest-beating Christians raising their proud flags in the public square,

but the there is no flag for truth,

it works tirelessly, often alone, in the darkness, feeding on a hopeful honesty, slowly breaking down ramparts and embracing paradox and, like us, it never "ends" because it never "began," it was always regenerating and regenerating again, like the universe does, so when we are gone we are replaced by others,

apocalypses only happen in the soul because we raise flags that block the new year's day sun,

God has no country.

Love has no church.

Truth has no religion.


Let the new year be happy.

Happy Holidays

to the universe of races, religions, traditions and faiths,
to the atheists,
to those who believe in God but not that Jesus of Nazareth was the only true God,
to those that do,
to those who are not really interested either way and are cool with that,
to those who believe God exists but who have no faith in God,
to those who have been hurt by those who say they believe in God,
to those who are not sure what to believe but are cool with that,
to those who are still seeking something but not sure what,
to those who have had their land stolen and cultures pissed on by those who say they come in the name of God,
to those who did the raping, stealing and forced assimilation in the name of God,
to those who are completely private about their beliefs and go about their good work quietly without seeking applause,
to those who won't shut up about the good work they do and are always seeking applause,
to those who see the glass as half-empty,
to those who see the glass as half-full,
to those who point out that both views are correct,
to those who are forces of unity and understanding,
to those people who would divide,
to those who understand sometimes both behaviours are correct,
to those who follow the "law of non-contradiction,"
to those that understand "paradox,"
to those who understand that both views are correct,
to those that believe in the separation of church and state,
to those that don't,
to those just walking around looking for beauty,
for faith and hope,
who are sick of everybody's bullshit,
and the constant and insipid verbal vomit of political and religious "language,"
toughing it out in this world of hurt,
and, maybe some days, still believe in love...

...happy holidays (if you are taking any),

and if you find joy, spread some around.

black leather gloves

thick and tight,
tense and tough,
jeans over work boots,
any night is enough,
dim bulbs in rusty sockets,
black leather gloves in back pockets,
beers go down,
hockey on the screen,
it gets rough,
then it gets mean,
spinning minds and cold stares,
girlfriends start to fuss and pout,
takes only a second to get the gloves out,
nowhere to go,
amidst the trucks and cars,
red blood on white snow,
under a black sky and white stars.



(the tip of my hat to my buddies from small towns)

the gods are gone

woman leans against the bus stop,
headphone hiss from a skater's trip hop,

I gasp,
like a child,
thrown to the waves,

I crumple,
like an old man punched,
too tired to defend himself,

I reach,
like an addict,
for the joy of what's killing me,

I pray,
to gods that are long gone,

we've been left to:
produce,
innovate,
humanize,
and re-value our "values,"

like beaten blacksmiths of a rusted and weathered guild,
to tear down and re-build,

so if the gods are gone,
is it wrong...
to feel a rescue coming on?

the horseman

slowly hypnotized by the yellow lines,
and with so long to ride,
I can close my eyes,
to see birds pulling at the skin of road kill,
to see a twisted tree,
aflame in a burnt out field,
I can see an old man coughing,
a haggard, macabre cough,
trying to breathe through his tears,
trying to make sense now,
trying to find meaning,
to their preaching,
that life is beautiful,
a bonus,
when all he feels is alone in this,
in his thrownness,
through his tears he can see,
the credits rolling up,
for him, you and me,
I close my eyes to see,
...the rider.

two in the pink

shocking painful beauty

futile reaching for the untouchable

I cry quietly

back to the lab

in a moment,
the cracks appear,
in a moment,
hearts jump with the markets,
in a moment,
fear spreads,
in a moment,
the appearance of certainty ends,

pride melts down to the sin,

payback begins,

a blind man feels the wall as he walks,

like a writer looking for the words,

in a moment,

come to the darkness,

sit amidst the fractured thoughts,

in a moment,

come to emptiness,

coming-into-being, passing-away,

in a moment,
you could be me,
I could be you,
take a moment,
to be free,
so we can see,
that what we believe,
is see-through.

the shit people move at night

a few quarters for the newspaper on the bus floor no one picks up,
and the lactose and sugared caffeine in the cup,
a few dollars for the suffering,
a few ideas for the road,
a few things I meant to tell you,
a few bombs ready to explode,
a few smiles while you placate the nagging bloodsuckers,
a few nods while I move aside for the wives and their big diamond rings,
while I roll out the red carpet,
drop rose petals,
and shower gratuities,
on Ottawa wives with their big diamond rings,
a few moments for a homeless man's rant,
a few moments before and few moments after,
a few sounds,
that sound like love trying not to cry,
which kind of sounds like laughter,
a few thoughts because I don't have much,
but don't want much more,
a few steps through a darkened door,
a few bottles of beer under a dingy light,
another for the bumping and scraping,
and then a few more,
to celebrate the shit people move at night.

600 litres

600 litres of rain,
falling down,
through a black wind,
crippling a routine city night,
with rusted railings,
and thinned out metal floors,
shadows light shaky cigarettes,
and spit smoke,
into the misty street light haze,
fatigued glances at hurried coffee shop patrons,
running to dodge the wet bullets from the cold sky,
lines of hollow eyes sit on cheap chairs,
sit, in the quiet rain,
wishing the summer back,
but it's gone,
her name was "Summer,"
but she's gone,
so pull something new,
from your dreams on a cold night,
think of something new,
to write on fresh pages,
play a Neil Young song,
get out a snifter,
some B&B,
and put the kettle on.

Gratitude (by the legendary Beasties)

"good times gone, but you missed them
what's gone wrong in your system?
things they bounce just like a Spalding,
what'd you think, you miss your calling?
it's so free this kind of feeling,
it's like life, it's so appealing
when you got so much to say

it's called gratitude,

good times gone, but you feed it
hate's grown strong, you feel you need it,
just one thing do you know,
what you think that the world owes you?
what's gonna set you free,
look inside and you'll see,

when you got so much to say,

it's called gratitude."

no. 3

on the no. 3,
there's a guy with no teeth,
reading "The Executioner" close to his nose,
an older man with a lunch bag,
having a feast,
a rather large beauty,
with a rip in her hose,
some people stare intently into their phones,
some people sit quietly alone,
old Asian ladies with grocery boxes,
IPod wearing college foxes,


the no. 3,
rides like the hard truths,
so hard to see,
like this time of changing kingdoms,
and an Arab Spring,
like the doctor telling me,
to switch from coffee to tea,
like when the girls I like,
don't like me,

rock n' roll is my life boat,
in a pop culture sea,

C'est la vie,

on the no.3.

midnight Kinhin

rivers of the mind,
float me out to Wolfe lake,
on the moon stained waves,
where I can sink to the bottom,
and count the ragged bones of dead men,
bind them up in fishing line,
and throw them on the fire light,
made of crackling flames,
like a heart pounding in a dark city night...

...down the hall now,
of Derbyshire Lodge,
following the abbot,
he looks like Old Olie,
but walks too fast to tell,
but I know where we are going,
hard through the thicket,
of the hammering hospital headaches,
I know where we are going,
past an open grave,
past an old empty stage,
up the mountain,
to see the sage,
who will ask you,
to ask yourself,
the unanswerable question...

pulling for a rapture

a dubious eschatology,
taught by mum's and dad's,
tales of a king's watchful eye,
to keep the children,
from eating cookies before supper,
from having dirty thoughts,
from playing hooky,

injections of fear and self-loathing,
cultist fables of a sudden disappearance,
loved ones gone forever in a moment,
others left to die,
should you choose to not believe,

in a tyrant in the sky,

created by weak men,
angry at their fathers,
who yet longed for their love,
no favour from the one on earth,
so they'll make a new one above,

complexes stacked on top of complexes,
landfills of guilt and resentment,
chicken wire of hateful judgement,
bounded and rusty,
years of seclusion and fractured friendships,
have built an impenetrable immunity to truth,
intelligence, education, creativity and authenticity,

a longing,
a hope,
a way out,
from a cruel world,
the same one created...
for you?
by Him?

I'm sorry I'm confused by your fervent proselytizing,

while you bemoan my casual dress and duress

you shout words of sin and redemption,

but I only hear form and emptiness.

scatter

wind torn,
and unkempt,

slip your cast,
of hardened resignation,

dive into the form,

this rigidity,
this anomaly,
this flow,



hold tight,
for the approaching storm,
tides of unknown pain,
squalls of poisonous rain,

scatter the binding dread,
and drink silver rivers,
pulled by the exploding sun,

you should know by now,
there is no tomorrow.

brokenheartist

it's good to keep it tight with brokenheartists,
fifty bucks a month,
open early to late,
jump ropes,
heavy bags,
worn canvas,
kettle bells,

it's good to break a sweat with brokenheartists,
in a rusty gym,
where ghosts wait between shafts of sunlight,
dust flies and flickers off broken mirrors,

I used to love a brokenheartist,
but she hated her daddy,

sparring hard to the foot-work rhythm,
when the bell rang,
she would catch her breath,
we'd sit together in the dark,
sometimes she'd be crying,
there was no consolation,
packing up,
I would leave and shut the lights,
and she would fly away,
to sleep quietly,
with the pigeons,
in the rafters,

see you in the morning brokenheartist.

please

please furious sun

burn out our lying hearts

set us free

new blood through old veins

to sit in the dark,
to swallow the humid wind,
to face the unknown,
or recall where you have been,
to build a set of beliefs,
or to see through them,
beautiful souls tangled in a twist of sin,

to go deeper,
is to go beyond
to be without,
is to go within,
to loosen,
to listen,
to open,
to overcome yourself,
is to begin.

wherever

"I'm so sad," she said,
"Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked,
"I just need to escape...leave myself, y,'know?" she replied,
"Why are we so alone?" he asked himself under his breath,
"There's others here but I feel like I'm behind glass...and I want to break through..." she stated,
"Maybe you need to move out of yourself, touch the pain...your strong enough to do that," he replied,
"I don't know..." she said quietly,
"Look," he said pointing at the night sky,"the stars...contingent, apparitions of what was...like the spirit they eventually leave no trace."
"Where should I start?" she asked,
"You can start where we are...between the grit and the grace," he replied,
"so wherever?" she asked,
"Wherever," he replied.

hang back

didn't stay long for Ben Harper,
The Roots were enough for me tonight,
they gave me what I was missing,
what I needed,
rawest of funk, soul and blues,
amongst the weed clouds,
white stars,
city scape,
sandals,
dreadlocks,
and titty bouncing tank tops,

together but different we are,

the illusion of unity,

the reality of interdependence,

changing chords,
changing thoughts,
Questlove breaks the chain,
with heavenly hits on the piccolo snare,
I hang back and let the bass vibrate my supper,
and watch drunken boys try for drunken kisses,
from their distracted texting girls.

low souls

the void always itches,
a nagging lack,
the trembling voice of cold streets and colder people,

a failed economy,

a failed environment,

a failed church,

a failed community of empty minds,
wasting breath on useless conversation,
and silly superstitions,
trying to ward off their narcissistic fear of unrealized entitlement,
drilled into their modern western minds since childhood,
by "parental units,"

seems like everyone gets married,
and moves into a bubble,
everyone gets divorced from their friends,
to be with their spouses,
but,
there is still a community...

of low souls,

they live where the nights are lonely,
and the days are worse,
wading through leftover lives,
broken hearts and insane lovers,
they continue to breathe,
create and build with what's been discarded,
and continue to fellowship and grow,
with those whom the Almighty, Vengeful and Jealous God has withheld his blessing.

transcender

wind worn and rain chipped,

a body covered in a million cuts,

aching and burning with unrelenting swelling,

buckling hard against the midnight sun,

the mind becomes twisted, torn and begins to bleed,

the soul is an empty room,

at the end of an endless hallway,

echoing with lonely screams,

stop.

listen.

watch.

- break it open -

feel the body start to move,

the mind start to clear,

the soul begin to laugh,

now drive harder to where you can give without receiving,
you don't notice the heavier burden,

and the heart explodes in the four directions.

between the documents

clustered paper mountains,
swallowed boredom counts the hours,
hundred miles up,
suspended earth turns in galactic magic,
infinite miles out,
time was an idea

lines on the brow

oh youth,
I've grown older,
lines on my brow,
a prisoner of time,
I've lost the Now,
structured by externals,
a figure in the window,
a shadow on the wall,
an empty face at the shopping mall,

oh youth,
don't destroy,
but, rather, create
don't break down,
but, rather, rebuild
don't resign,
but, rather, engage

inject me...
infuse me...
energize me...
animate me...

help me remember...

the way that transcends all ways,
where what dies does not end,
for someday you too will be old,
but we will meet then,
and we will all be young again.

through

hollow grey births a whipping wind,
cigarette butts and grocery bags,

I'm just trying to make it through the day,

overzealous case wants to fall in love again,
with empowered sluts and bearded hags,

I'm just trying to make it through the day,

Apple phone ring tone app finds implants for a clone's ass,
dropped coins in rusty ruts make the hands on the clock sag,

when you ask, I'll say 'I'm doing OK,"

but I barely made it through the day.

by-product

by-product

tend your investments,

straighten your tie,

make loud guffaws of fake laughter,

get to know that guy,

by-product

get yourself on the board,

win the award,

win the resentful approval,

reach, grab, hold, hoard

by-product

you never did anything,

the puzzle pieces were already laid out for you,

you just put them in the right hole,

you never chose you,

by-product

you'll never fit in

there's nowhere to fit,

you've been everywhere,

but you've never really been

by-product

you don't appreciate

the food that touches your lips,

the emptiness, the wandering, the darkest moment,

the damp valleys and icy tips,

life's quiet, unrecognized, underestimated finds,

like the sun shooting through the blinds.

some pain

some pain never goes away,

intrinsic,

contingent,

immediate,

felt with the nerves,

and heart,

it aches through the night,

and walks miles in the cold,

to ease the pain of another,

the roller coaster climbs,

then lets loose,

some feel joy,

while others watch,

some pain is wisdom,

is self-knowledge,

is noble,

some pain,

helps us swallow vanity,

to help us live,

it is righteousness,

it is our own,

it lets us know the other,

and it will be our salvation,

and someday, will give us peace.

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.