soft and warm

the grey sky is shattered,
birthing the virgin rains of spring's first light,
as the rounded, full western bellies,
who think they have worked hard enough,
converting, 
subverting,
sit slovenly,
sucking up against the table,
eating hard and fast,
yapping about the tooth and nail wars,
the tooth and nail fight,
they eat quickly,
they can hear the wolves scratching at the door,
they can feel the waves lashing the shore,
but what do they know?

my mind slips back,
white sunshine blasts through the green fields of my younger days,
when I had resigned myself to a simple path,
that quickly gave way to imminent confusion and struggle,

holy knowledge is not the product of scripture,
but rather experience,
like the calloused fists of old fighters,
the worn frets of a Stratocaster,
the dog-eared pages of a poet's notebook,

the crooked path of the Dharma,
moves to the fatigued, wise and worn,
from the soft and warm.









 

by their fruit

a mother and child at the bus stop,
a man looks at his watch and adjusts his coat,
a man pushes a cart full of bags of collected cans,
a raven is perched on top of a street light,
a boy paints a landscape,
a girl is hounded by bullies,
snow melts to water,
costumed actors count votes for the person to be deified,
votes come in for the human to be deified,
a man lies with the sickness,
a woman undergoes the treatment,
chemicals course through a child's veins,
a trial by fire,
a ritual of purification,
heads bow outside the sepulcher,
the censer swings,
the prayer wheel spins,
objective gods,
subjective gods,
I reflect on the idea,
that brought me to the action,
that brought me to the fruit of my labour,
form and emptiness,
emptiness and form,
the good,
the beautiful,
the true,
but the lies lie at the bottom of the mountain,
where we must begin,
where we must try to help one another,
where we must try to help Sisyphus too.

your blind strength

burning faces of the weak and weary,
the drugged up and drunk,
the chronically alone and wandering,
the homeless, the poor, the luckless,
the vagrants and reprobates,
the twisted and insane,
are laced with frozen shit, ice and dirt,
chucked by the miserable wind,
but your blind strength gets you through,
your genetic gift to the human race,
your mind is a machine,
your body a vessel of beautiful form,
lean muscle and boundless energy,
your motivating speeches,
an underhanded and undermining criticism of the weak, the failed, the frightened,
who flock to you for guidance and protection,
and take shelter at your feet,
you lucky duck,
an eternal birthday party just for you,
every day is your day,
as you watch ignorantly from the tower of your confidence,

but woe unto the shifting wind,
the rumbling storm,
nature's movements about to change your destiny,
and twist your proud song out of tune,
feel your slipping hope,
the fast bleeding of your success,
and sycophantic grandeur,
the unraveling of your contingent legacy,
the universe will knock your smiling ass in the dirt,
and you will feel the limiting chains of the weak who have lived mostly under your feet,
but who have adapted to the steady pain,
and who now will be the guide of your crumpled, pathetic soul.

black timber

forever night,
it seems, 
the icy wind turns the city into a timber,
blowing mercilessly,
through concrete trees,
out here,
peace is an illusion,
a commodity,
sold to the highest bidder,
a costumed prank,
a politician's promise,
a pastor's assurance,
behind the busy faces,
a despair,
lies deep,
frozen in the ground,
a darkness unearthed,
a cave unexplored,
shit encrusted piles of street snow,
stacked in garbage dumps,
parking lots,
alley ways,
an ache,
in waiting,
feels like the universe wants to let go,
but it won't,
stress builds,
like tension on a chain,
I step out into the chaos,
as we know it will be,

someone down the street,
someone in the shadows,
the gentle voice of night,
I look to the sky for morning,

someone sits and waits,
someone bleeds through the fight,
no gentle voice of morning,
so I open the door to the night.

Graven single: You are then, I am now

In light of the musicality of various blogs recently, I'm posting a streaming version of my brother's new song. An acoustic version of what will be a rocked up live version with a full band when he hits the road.

on a light pole in Toronto

sometimes I feel like Ghost Dog driving to work:

union

I remember,
we were,
children,
days,
were long,
the world,
was vast,
we were so,
viciously vulnerable,
I know,
only now,
every moment,
is fragile,
I could,
have been, 
more kind,
and,
protecting,
though,
we made it,
here,
many have been,
lost,
along the way,
so,
I guess,
I believe,
one day,
all of us,
will be,
together,
we will,
be free,
there will be,
nothing,

that can hurt us.

grandeur

you can touch the grandeur,
the delicate grandeur,
but you have to leave it alone,

religionists;
you have to lose your ideology,
save your cliches,
spare me your pitch,
take your own advice,

to be alone,
to live,
is to measure every moment,
how much to hold?
how much to give?
the work will never go away,
there is no escape,
no one can help you find an answer,

as the weight bears down,
there is a closeness foreign to me,
my mind twists and kicks,
my body bends and strains,

pipe dreams of youth,
lost in a second,
spiraling down into a swamp yard,
of crushed cars stacked in heaps of blood-coloured, rusted metal,

will we turn a corner?
how do we continue on?

there must be nothing,
for something to exist,

a fetus gently suspended in amniotic fluid, 

lamp light reflected in black puddles,

heart pumping on the outdoor rink,

there is grandeur,
you can touch it,
but only if you let it go.

you can stand up there

did you ever think you would come this far?
from the chemicals and gases,
thrown out to make decisions,
hesitant,
with shaky hands,
and a pounding heart,
cars roll on,
not sure why,
people walk fast,
not sure where,



for now,
I'll try to forget the bad things,

it takes some time,
you have to climb,
you have to labour,
you have to wrestle,
with the mystery,
before you can stand up there,
but after some time,
you will stand up there,
with the gods,
and know that you matter.

hiccup

what you build up,
nature tears down,
metal city,
wooden town,

a good woman dies,
a heart gets torn,
churning black storm,

standing nowhere,
leaning backward,
looking forward,

it's bad when we heal up,
happiness is just a hiccup,

is there a purpose?
is there a reason?
the spinning wheel,
a changing season,

I've lost my way,
you slam the door,
I stare at the floor,

a good man dies,
blood on a thorn,
a baby is born,

it's good to get broken into parts,
that's where the realness starts. 

a penniless man

drunk and exhausted,
a penniless man wanders alone,
under a white autumn moon,
dark streets grind and hum,
made with metal and rock,
for metal and rubber,
pulling and bending,
twisting and groaning,
looking out at the busy lights,
tracers of red and orange and blue,
no phone,
no TV,
no warm bath,
no kiss from a sweet heart,
she left when the money left,
a game of illusion,
monuments made of lies,
collapsed like sugar castles,
in the frigid rains,

form protects itself,
grace transcends itself,


church-goers hustle to their cars to escape the rain,

drunk and exhausted,
a penniless man dances alone under a white autumn moon.

 

inner loitering

no stance is taken,
as the dreamer hacks away,
carving and hammering,
hammering and carving,
while the city presses down,
presses the stress down,
arrogantly defining the intonation,
but still, 
the dreamer's work,
the struggle-in-itself-for-itself,
a relative of the authentic "free" type of freedom,
a bit more bottled,
but it's good,
it's real,
and scraped,
like the hands of a craftsperson,
it's rugged and rusty,
blistered eloquence,
splintered excellence,
it's glory contained between concrete lines.

about 3:20am

people watch as your argument stalls,
you can't remember what's false or true,
in a closed room,
tightly packed tension,
your laughter unleashes joy all through,
you wanna run,
but your feet are stuck in quicksand,
you slip off the edge,
and fall fast into the blue,
you have a test,
but you're lost in a maze of hallways,
you're fucking,
burning,
climbing,
crying,
dying,
catching your breath and flying,
I have the same dream too.



















 

tables of men

my balls hang low,
like the clouds that scarf the radio tower,
I wander through the streets,
with urine soaked pants,
I remember your black curls,
brown eyes,
it became empty,
like all things are empty,
a fig tree bearing no fruit,
your reckless beauty,
beads like rain,
from black clouds,
I get lost in the whiskey,
then, the waves of my mind,
as I sit amongst tables of men,
who talk and dream about the ocean of love,
but live in the desert of suburbia.

the sheltered point fingers,
and say people drink to cover up,
they drink to run away,
but no,
they drink because they understand,
because they see what is coming,
and they know their limits.









"In the morning, as Jesus was returning to the city, he became hungry. Seeing a fig tree by the roadside, he went up to it but found nothing on it except leaves. He said to it, "May fruit never come from you again!" And immediately the fig tree dried up."

(Matthew 21:18-19)

white lines

moment to moment,
minute to minute,
moving white lines on the road,
raven on the roof top,
an old man pulls a newspaper from a box,
emptiness twists and kicks,
inside the womb of ambition,
a smoke in one hand,
the other holds a stripper's hand,
moving hands on armageddon's clock,
sinking deeper into the hole,
save your money in a sock,
ambition is dripping pussies and engorged cocks,
the batter readjusts, 
the commentator talks,
raven on the roof top,
an old man lurches forward and pulls a newspaper from a box.

the root Chakra

collapsed into scattered thought,

I stare hollowly,

down into the belly,

the belly of the city,

the root Chakra of the city,

where the souls of dead cats,

find peace amongst the concrete shadows,

where music takes movement,

takes form,

in the hum of street sweepers,

and the rumbling click of grease grill exhaust fans,

churning the night into dirty sparks,

where paper pedestrians,

slice the sunlight, 

rising like lost spirits,

from the subway catacombs,

gasping for the stale air of the street,

an ice cream bucket busker drums,

a pounding beat,

as the heart parades,

stubbornly,

past cryptic memories,

frozen in innocent pain,

and decrepit thoughts,

rationalize escapist narratives,

placing value on the valueless, 

and hopes for saviours,

dazzled by the puppetry of the "friendly" and "clean,"

sobered only by the violence,

the gentle violence of knowledge,

of the illusion of the simple man's gods and floating mystics,

and the reality of love and work.

 

garbage radio

not sure the limitless pain is worth the limited pleasure,

but there is a oneness to be found in the brittle loneliness,

an at-one-ment,

but I'm getting old,

standing next to a urinal,

an old man's stream is more powerful than mine,

a sad envy washes over me,

as my head spins gently,

with garbage songs,

from your garbage radio,

so much that is wrong,

a rhythm, 

a whistle, 

a song through the night,

but perhaps somewhere deep down it's alright,

and someday,

we'll all be somewhere,

deep down.

Dogen sitting at the bar

like a panicked emergency vehicle,

cuts through the traffic,

swimming through confused cars,

my anxiety cannot be traded,

for curiosity or anticipation, 

as it is borne of a visceral perception,

the immediacy of contingency,

and an empirical heart,

this anxiety is like a friend,

whom I've never known,

a stranger with whom I've shared my life,

watching,

robotic flashing reds, 

yellows,

greens, 

reflected in the grease,

of fatigued concrete,

I fall into a dream,

in which I am in a dark room,

reaching for a light switch,

when I find it,

I flick it,

but the room remains dark,

I can hear rain hitting the window,

it's a house I know,

I can hear distant voices,

like commentators at a baseball game,

I wake up.

mezzanine

that sky beyond the clouds,

where a frail bird can fly,

over unturned, tortured soil,

over older hearts,

in a park,

pickling in the youthful sun,

but we can't stay here for long,

you'll be moving on,

and I'll be gone,

fallen into the fractures,

that shake the fault lines of time,

but what if it could be different?

something original and new,

you could stand at a distance,

I might connect and hit it to you,

or even past the difference between what I say,

and what I mean,

over a sea of wild and wide open eyes,

into the mezzanine. 

loosener

haggard old needs nag,

stifle and shove,

pulling at the pant legs,

dragging,

with that stubborn desire,

a hanger-on,

a leech,

a parasite,

making lonely days,

drip slow like molasses,

but to stand,

or sit, 

or run,

or work,

through the ache,

and all the chains,

can turn the fear,

into nothing but a shadow,

that you saw in the corner of your eye,

in a dream,

cutting you loose,

to energize,

to play, 

to dive deep,

into the flow.