Hey, You.

Can I ask you?

Do me one solid.

We’ve met now.

Our eyes have realized

the skipping stone

and smooth

lake-at- night quality

of one another’s.

You know I DIG you AF!

So please

if you don’t mind…

Don’t ever fucking change,

Especially for me.

Hell, unless its your own


Don’t apologize or change yourself,

for anyone.

Because you are incredible.


For the record:

That’s the person I’m loving right now.

You needn’t bother.

Don’t apologize for your kisses;

They’re perfect.

Don’t apologize for the way you dance,

the way you fuck, the

way you laugh, nothing.

Because every day is an intoxicating display

Of this single person you are

And I wouldn’t be smiling

Ear to ear

If you weren’t you

So please

Just keep that shit going

Because I love it

And you damned well deserve

To be

This amazing person,

And to be

Appreciated by another.

Just do us both a favor.

Stop apologizing for

Being fucking amazing.



Old Stuff Made Now

Discovered: An Eleven Year Old Poem
(well, March 27th, so, eleven year and three days)

Original Title: “to just relax and write”

To celebrate birthdays daily –
And new year’s monthly

To live the days being
Told and reminded that
It’s Monday or Friday,
Until finally and fully
Each and every day is
Appreciated for being
The living poetry

It’s supposed to be

It’s meant to be
A handful of snapshots
And some sweet spots
That could only be
Recalled, never captured

The touches of memory
and frost are cousins
The cost of love
And then
The dividend;
To celebrate
Even it’s loss

The final crossing
From love
To longing
To grasping
To dying and reawakening

Celebrate it all.

Not Empty Anymore

I am not like you.

I am not empty.

I am not quiet.

I was once.

But I am not like you.


And I won’t be made to go back.


Into the cave.

Into the lonely.

Into the numb.

Just because

You aren’t done

Being there.

Drowning there,

Sitting in your shit there.

I won’t go back.


And You can’t make me.


You can’t fucking make me.

I’m not empty anymore.


I’m not like you.

Hey, You!

Hey you!

Staring at the screen!

Get out and scream!

Move a little!

Make yourself

So fucking tired

You should puke but

Keep dancing anyway!

Hey You! Yeah, You!

Be cacophony!


Or shut right the fuck up and

Get the Hell out of my way!

Sorry story

He picked himself up again like one thousand times before, but this time with more ease, because he wasn’t carrying anyone else. He had his days. The rest of them spread out like infamy. And he’d have them all.

Gremlin’s Love

Gremlin Love.

When you start to fall into someone,
and their language becomes
a million single blades of grass
in a brand new field.

That’s when you are libel to try to skip ahead.

But like every great page ever written,
you can’t enjoy the later without the former.

Simply: It is as though for the first time
you’re watching Gremlins.

So, considering it is a masterpiece,
why would you want to waste that amazing moment,
merely worrying and thinking about Gremlins 2?

I mean sure, Gremlins 2 is also amazing,
but it’s nothing unless you’ve
breathed in every precious scene of its progeny.

You’d be wasting half the fun, no?

That’s how I felt in those early moments with you.

Like I was too lucky to waste that view.
Like I finally
after many squandered shots,
had a great vantage,
one worth savoring.

One worth being in.

Got to gremlins 2 too soon
But caught most of the first ones
That might be called best
With the excitement of a boy
In ocean field of wild
Fireflies that both resist
Yet play with the eyes

I tended to worry over lovers
Their sanity, their bodies

But with you all my teen angst
Set afire at a great and
Secret bible burning man in
Desert eclipse dancing
For days, in my heart not
Heavily rather like every rock
I ever skipped on lake faces
Reemerged simultaneously,
Causing a tidal wave of
Love but also the love of love and it’s
Yes, even it’s instant changes,
Disappearances, and tsunami

I half expected terror to follow
But, the theme here was
Always disbelief,
As is now the conclusion.

Reflections on Peace

Things are moving along.

Hacktivists and graffiti musicians and magic wordsmiths,
the comic tradition still lets some jesters have influence.
There is still some room out in the backyard for a garden,
the bad boys have learned to read more than Jim Morrison.

I’m glad I grew up selfish and broken and unable to speak.
Gave me practice for when the drawbridge came down,
a chance to think things through, over and over again,
with and without the ego and that other shadow, rehearsing.

To do more than learn to preach, you have to listen to many,
if not most importantly, peer into your private self,
liberating and looting every limb and every single shelf.
Presenting your treasures to all your early audiences;
your family and later, withdrawn, to your sacred self.

Things have moved along quite a bit again since then,
with super brands of eXistenz and squads of night killers,
and reclaimed space, and violently re-stated demands.
It would almost be sinister if half of us weren’t farmers,
the other half engineers, doctors, and English professors.

The steampunk anarchist is just the action figure after all.
The people are the people, diversely wide, greatly stretched
their purpose not fully found so impossible to be pressed or,
set against their master-narrator’s caustic, embryonic chest,
not some monetary S, but a great and solid rebel’s fist.

Because that’s what every human in greatness is.
And that’s always been the truth of this here protest.

David is always David; Eve is always Gaia and every young mind
has a new kind of poem, cure or tool, sewn into their genetic sleeve.

We’re always going to take the holders of unkempt land rights to task.
We’re always going to brace in local-ness when pressured.

A million little gardens, a million tending, tended, hands.
A million then standing, clenching them again.

Things keep going this way, we might just have a chance.

I don’t like the word War on this day, or any really. It sounds too organized. Massacre is far more fitting. Groups of people killing for small powerful people, for land, for power, for nothing good, except maybe intermittent peace between more massacres, more atrocities, more power-grabs. I like to imagine you Jack Heffernan, my great-heffernan1

heffernan2grandfather, as a brave kid in 1914. Truthfully though, and rightly so, you were likely just trying to survive another impossible climate: the Glace Bay coal mines, where your 14 year old self struggled to live out each day. Perhaps you thought he had already seen enough horror, so why not enlist. One lie about your age and you were there, within a year of training, taking orders from the highland soldiers. One lie: now corrected on your enlistment papers. You said you were born October 8th, 1897, when in fact it was May, 1900. You were a child. You had the luck of the Irish too; given to the strength of the “Women from Hell” as their scared combatants dubbed them for their long, the 73rd Black Watch , those Scots’ long hair and kilts on the battlefield keeping you safe. You took shrapnel at Vimy, April 9th., and at 18years were discharged. The Youngest Newfoundlander wounded at that time, in the Canadian Army. The luckiest luck there is. A piece of bullet in your thigh saved this family tree. Without, who knows. And that’s what today always reminds me of. So many didn’t have Jack’s that got to come back. How many men and women who would’ve been doctors or artists, or given birth to them? How many beautiful and hard-working souls thrown into slaughter? It is not enough to remember. Nor was it for you old Jack. You trained other young Jack’s to pack parachutes in WWII out of Montreal, operated an aircraft welding and trade school in Montreal and qualified Approx. 1,500 Men and Women for work in aircraft factories. Your hands never left war. You were called in to inspect and renovate 3 chutes that were salvaged from Sir Frederick Banting’s crash off the coast of our home, Newfoundland.

When I think of where, and of what, I come from, I always say the Town of the Gould’s, Jack Heffernan’s home, his kin and his gift of hard work, his bravery, gave me a chance to at least attempt to be great as well. I come from the place he was lucky enough to come home from another massacre and begin his in. Sleep well Old Jack, as I always, I salute you, completely.


Workin’ Away

Hands are so dry from latex gloves
maps for flesh bound cities that
don’t exist unless the work does,
lines around a lizard eye,
fantastic light bearing down on them,
making shadows hide their shame.

My limbs are crooked and uneven
like my foot size;
just enough to annoy me a little,
but lost on the casual observer,
they hold up the racked skeleton,
keep the unkempt uniform cloaked
body from falling out of it’s cage.

And yet
I’ve never quite been before
so entranced,
even in love
as I am now
with it all,

as I am now,
as I am now
with it all.