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.
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,
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.
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,
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.
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...
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...
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.
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,
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.
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, 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."
I used to be a night guard, like the night guards that sign me out, a coffee stained journal, and an old radio, a chair worn down from long shifts behind flickering console monitors, a lunchbox and a Maclean's magazine, pencils scattered amongst sports sections and completed crosswords, a ball of keys, a late patrol, a black sky, a cigarette under a full moon, I used to be a night guard, you dream with your eyes open, when you're alone until noon.
windy punch, the ache of morning, tired traffic, and inconsistent coffee, stern faces chew cash crunch sandwiches, and hustle through mazes of parking lines, ticket and receipt, receipt and ticket, "is there joy somewhere throughout this thicket?" attendant looks at me over his glasses while handing me back cash, "I don't know about that but I do know that it's five bucks more if you don't leave your ticket on the dash."
fierce force, open the boards, mark the ice, fierce fear, warm above, cold down here, remember the plays, under enemy gaze, it don't feel nice, the strategy ok'd, but a choice was made, didn't have a choice, but to make a choice, to play the game, and give the anger a voice,
look to me, I'll look to you, to play through the pain, through inclement weather, ready for whatever, we'll put it together, between periods.
your love comes in Morse code, a tarped load, one shoe on the side of the road, tossing and turning, while memories are burning, out of the comfort zone to begin learning, stretching, fretting, sometimes regretting, a meditation on forgetting, how do we live in these times without letting ourselves get pounded, by the beats of an eager heart, draped over a rusty motor, forever pumping blood to the flesh, on the bones of the Toploader.
it gets frightening, face in the darkness, voices in the hallway, it gets tough, alone with the sickness, voices in the head, it gets lonely, wind in the woods, rain on the roof, it gets hurtful, forgotten words, heckler in the crowd, it gets complex, twisting highways, unfamiliar streets, it gets panicked, food, shelter, safety, sirens in the night,
resolve the outside, through the inside, so as not to hide from The Test, but to plunge into it.
