dust in the heater

steam cloaks the vicious river,
purposely raging as though the flow was in it's nature,
frigid black water,
beats and splits the ice,
ripping through the open dam,
to swallow the dirty city snow,
temperature drops,
and the pulse slows,
under the lights of the bridge,
lovers and dreamers,
holding hands,
beautiful faces kiss beautiful faces,
lovers and dreamers,
offering us a bond,
through our common ideologies,
of love, war and terror,
a community for the rest,
alleviating the anxiety of death,
my ideology is the blues,
and "the blues is just catastrophe lyrically expressed,"

a poet sits at the bar,
unfurling rhymes,
about the frozen land and sea,
half past a waitress's ass,
a thought occurs to me,

life is but a thin sheet of ice,
resting on the ocean of infinity.












 

heavy petting

in the mind,
hold the tension between positive and negative,
then step outside of both,
a trick of the Stoics,
whether unloving,
or unloved,
disappointed and lonely,
fulfilled and together,
disappointed and together,
fulfilled and lonely,
I wish I could see as clearly as you,
with impossible clarity,
or understand as easy as you,
with impossible simplicity,
instead I awkwardly wade through the grass,
and stumble through the woods,
looking for some product,
to fill up my time,
like the shoppers in line,
at Costco,
but really looking for meaning,
some kind of deep-hearted-meaning,
struggling to meet it,
in every little touch,
in every little sound,
in every little taste.

before we are just skeletons

cottage sun blasts overhead,
a cool wind behind,
I am standing on the riverbed,
casting out my line,

maybe get a bite from another cold summer,
maybe get a bite from a lost love,
sink down deep to the bottom,
it's trial by fire,
no salvation from above,
gotta remember when I'm back in the city,
when I'm lost between buildings without art,
when the roads of my life are falling apart,

the future is blasting overhead,
there's billions of years behind,
we are are standing on a riverbed,
casting out our lines.

pour your heart out

economists call it "risky wife-seeking behaviour,"
it affects the "real exchange rate,"
it's unproductive,
the alcohol,
the drugs,
the gambling,
living on the outskirts,
with the unloved,
the un-matched,
they say the government will open up some dating sites,
so the violence will decrease,
savings will increase,
and shit will stabilize,

but how do you pour your heart out,
when you can't trust love?

when some just have the labour of the day,
the light of the sun,
bringing the joyless traffic of the mind,
cluttered and hoarded,
the acidic wash of sycophants,
the bitterness of ambition,
the after burn of fading youthful illusions,
and the howling hounds of time?

but how do you pour your heart out,
when it's always coming apart?

should I try to hurt the world back by holding back my art?
after all, psychologists say "women nurture, men self-destruct,"
still, why wait around for a sloppy kiss from lady luck?
why try to hurt the world back when the world doesn't give a fuck?

tube TV

for what it's worth,
and it ain't worth much,
trying to survive,
a body determined by uncertainty,
and bound by time,
I've only known one side of the thin red line,

some are starting out,
some are halfway done,
some are getting towards the end,
some never got started,
some got stuck part way through,
and some would like to start again,

take a moment of pause,

loosen the chains of the mind,

and feel the warm summer rain,

this is where I sit to die,
where I close my eyes,
and let loose the body/mind,
watch the flow,
and let it go,
without the eyes,
and be present,
outside time,

but then I'll come back,
to where I choose to live,
sitting out here behind the garbage,
watching a tube TV,

where they play for a cup,
a cup for the world,
a cup for you,
share a cup with me,
on this side of the line,

for what it's worth,
and it ain't worth much,
but what I have is yours,
and what I give is mine.



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pull it open

in the middle of winter
bite down on the harness,
in the middle of winter,
a wicked test of the will,
in the middle of winter,
a beast pulling on the chains,
in the middle of winter,
loneliness is visceral,

a fortuitous frost line and dirty ice,
a weak sun and salt rusted water,
melting dog shit and mud matted garbage,
buckets of diesel and coffee,

the last days of the winter,
pull a grey sky open,
unveiling the human insult,
the meager cry of the vain animal,

the last days of winter,
same thing all along,
coming into being,
then it's gone,

now pull a grey sky open,
there's black behind the blue,
I shouldn't worry about tomorrow,
but I always do,

now pull a grey sky open,
get a sense of the vastness,
which gives way to a chill,
giving way to a shiver,

nothing is forever,
not even the winter.

a Buddha on the nightstand

I've become skeptical,
yet I put my hands out,
into the dark night,
to be slapped,
and bit,
and burned,
and stung,
for the worst storms,
are in the mind,
wait them out,
play some cards,
tap a tune on the knees,
or shadow box the breeze,

open the shutters,
step out alone,
meet the Devil at the gate,
pay no heed,
go right through,
the wicked world is waiting for you,
the Devil throws a jab,
a southpaw angel,
with a right foot glide,
I stick and move,
then step to the side,
play through the pain,
blood in the eyes,
cramps in the thighs,
feel the spirit rise,

no other journey but to find the Self,
no matter a distance so far,
or an ocean so deep,
or a desert so wide.

getting back

put the paint on the paper,
watch the colours run down,
I feel like I'm waiting,
for my luck to turn around,

thoughts start exploding,
like salmon from a stream,
like an ancient Zen symbol,
I know just what it means,

a force pushing from the outside,
against an opposite force within,
I try to transcend the fools,
preaching salvation and sin,

look what it gives you,
one contingency to the next,
too busy texting and tweeting,
no time left to reflect,

a quest for the plastic and hollow,
when there's more to behold,
rivers of colour,
flow through the folds,
into the cold, dirty street,
where the flesh of reality,
and the bones of our principles meet.

rock me

lamentation,
stacked upon,
lamentation,
papers fly from a broken bag,
as the heavenly storm,
bears down on a broken world,
quickly cramping our dreams of escape,
the wicked torrents will skin us to our skeleton,
and give us only dirty water to breathe,
until there's nothing left but hunger and thirst,

but there is life where there is music - 

there is life still,
there is rejuvenation,
there is transformation,

until the morning,
angel of the darkness,
hold me in your arms,
and rock me.

















 

3 fingers, 3 chords

you are such a vast element,

look at you,

how can I ever know you?

I pound on your gates,

I call out to you in the black night,

I try to fight against your winds,

but I become weary in your sun,

and tremble in your cold, 

all the endless talk,

this examining,

this organizing,

this classifying,

this deducing,

but never knowing,

all this endless talk,

separating one from the other,

my fear strikes like lighting,

my nausea festers like boiling acid,

my despair crashes like waves,

I'm a slave to the grind,
before I begin, I'm behind,

all I need is 3 fingers of whiskey,
to loosen the Western-logico-linguistic bind,

all I crave is 3 chords of Blues,
to loosen your hand from mine.

no hiding

there's no hiding,
from this drain,
from this receptacle,
all things wind and spiral down towards it,
like a vortex,
pulling deeper,
past the soil and clay turning to rock,
rock to sediment, 
sediment to water,
deeper than the depths of ocean,
deeper than the longest night,
deeper than the hardest ache,
deeper than what might have been,
deeper than the hurt and the loss,
I don't fight it,
I let it pull me down,
as far as it will go,
past all touch and taste,
past all colour and sound,
beyond matter and anti-matter,
and in a moment I seem to explode,
into nowhere,
and everywhere,
beyond thought,
beyond time,
eternally now,
and I am fully present again,
like one captured,
by the face of an old friend,
by music,
or even just birds in the sky.

the leaves

fog hugs the highrises,
red lights bounce off the misty rain,
high ball up,
8 ball down,
have a drink next to an old man,
piss away the pain,

I wish the leaves wouldn't change so fast,
I wish the laughter would always last,
I wish I would wake up fresh everyday,
and solve my problems in the most effective way,

it takes a awhile before the tune falls out,
but you can pull the lyrics out with the jam,

I wish I didn't hate the fact,
that when I'm with you,
I don't know who I am.

Dale Smith, may you rest in peace.

I was a pallbearer today at a funeral for my friend Dale Smith. He was 43. I had known Dale for several years as a fellow consultant but more so as a kindred spirit and trustworthy companion.  He was a man borne of honest, hard-working small town roots, and a loving family. Dale, a doctor of history and an accomplished academic, left that trade and dove into the consultancy racket whereupon we became good friends. Importantly, Dale also took the time to tap out some classic blog entries on his own blog entitled “Fisheye Lens” starting back in 2010. Having first battled with brain cancer in 2007, he had fought and won back his life and was living vibrantly until he was diagnosed with Leukemia last December. This battle was not won but was fought valiantly with the courage and maturity of an experienced veteran. Dale and I shared a deep interest in sports, movies and music and he was unrivalled in his ability to find the most interesting, eclectic and fascinating films and bands.  He was also unmatched in his knowledge of sports history and statistics, especially in arguably the greatest sport ever invented, hockey.  I enjoyed many dart games, movies, drinks at the pubs, heated but always jovial philosophical discussions, Neil Young shows and average days hammering out reports to make our hard earned wage with Dale.  It was a seasoned gambler’s luck to have someone with such depth of character and knowledge to bounce ideas off and share daily frustrations with. It is hard to sum up a person’s life in words or try to communicate through language the experiences you shared. However, as Henri Matisse once said, “Much of the beauty that arises in art comes from the struggle an artist wages within his limited medium.” It is because our lives are mortal and because we are locked into our own separate physical and psychological universes that our experience of existence can attain beauty, and more importantly, meaning. It is because of this very limitation that our characters are stretched and tested and we gain our right to shout to the stars and the planets, “I matter!” It’s both insane and incredible how we can come into and leave this world in such a fury and how the very experience of knowing others can be ended so quickly by a disease of the blood. We plan out our lives with vain ambition but nothing ever seems to go exactly that way.  It doesn’t mean we should try to escape the future by escaping ourselves but it does mean that we must live with a healthy detachment from all things so that when the time comes we can properly let go. Perhaps the final lesson of the universe is that when we let it go, it is then that we will receive it completely. One of the many human paradoxes.

It was privilege to know Dale and I am truly glad that he has still living friends, who are friends of mine, so that together we may keep him alive in our minds and hearts.

Take a moment, take a breath, for good and bad, this experience happens once in a lifetime.

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Once in a lifetime, bloggers waiting in an eatery, late at night (from left to right): The Human Paradox, The Fisheye Lens and The Square Corner.