Month: July 2013

Monday’s Jurassic Park Poem Got Eaten By A Clever Girl

It wasn’t even her cab but she jumps into it.
We are all huddled in a tent on the front lawn,
it is Southern Ontario, warm night, and the
party is dwindling, the different fragrances of
each freak making their own way home.

We were chuffing a bowl, and it was chotched,
and we had ordered pizza, and I am not sure if it was
there yet but I want to say yes, must have been.
She didn’t know the five of us were in the one tent,
and she just gets in the passenger’s side and
suddenly the music is changed to dance,
and up much higher, and she is half throttling the
driver and some sort of negotiation seems to be
going on behind the glass underneath the bad music,
and then suddenly she asks as if responding,

“What do you mean you don’t got it?”
at which point she threw herself back out and
slammed the door while cursing him.

All of our eyes glistened in the moment.

Someone said, “Ah, clever girl”
And we just all knew the reference and
the laughter, that night, I keep it close.

It is a smiling velociraptor in the troublesome jungle of night.


Poetry on Youtube, Poem on WordPress (one)

Crawling into the Betty Davis song called Anti-Love Song,

I immediately noticed three things,
namely that I have gone insane,
secondly, that I am bound to go deeper and lastly,
I already like it better here.

Here the women of funk and
political fire all rule in an
easy, recognizable response
to the ownership of previous
and now forgotten Hero Tales.

Everyday is a baseline that
creeps from the quiet death bed

in Alaska, and trickles down,

Kerouac’s Big Sur,
finally erasing Jeff Buckley’s
lilac outline and finding the last little
fucker poet
and screwing him good
to the Good Fix, retired to a life of
sweet, sweet funk in recline.

Then I showed up,
dancing something like Marley
and bellowing like a drunker, more
Scottish William Wallace,
talking about Hailing A Ship
to New Funk.

That’s all I got before
the round rubber room men
came and got me
out of the bird cage I had been
occupying in some local
strip mall where
only the cheap parents still
creep around, hoping to
see each other but not be seen,
hoping to god not to have to have something
to talk about again
under those sickly tube lights in the
film noir produce section,
behind the tanning salon with
a razor blade, some surgeon
lurking after them.

You want layers Dr. Chinaski?
I’ll give you something to get lost on.


I don’t care anymore
about getting too old to finally fuck
my way to hank moody heaven legend status.
or to own a million, in cold, hard
outright loose change.

I might still love a collection or too,
but its no longer
part of the problem of commercial art
or piracy, or produced with the
loose change I have on me,
as long as it has memories
it is better than gold.

I’m all about sharing.

Knew this kid who would have early morning after parties,
turn his speakers on bust and face em out the windows
because I suppose like me, he thought,
what if the people haven’t heard Miles Davis

or in his case some horrible mix off a
tv satellite Dance station,
but whose accounting for taste?

I’m worried about not getting all the words down now.

There is a poem in every trip
to the local gas station coffee shop.

The Ambulance drivers behind me
chattering with the headset.

The man ahead insisting he still pay for something
while the pleasant girl on the till insists,
each time her insistence
tilts further into inferred aggravation,
or at least annoyance.

They look like out of towners, mom and pop
and the ‘lil teenager out to the East Coast,
check out the Jelly Bean rows
and the other recent acquisition
of culture by tourism bureaus.

I do what we all do in local holes,
secretly wish to switch with them,
go elsewhere young man,
just get the fuck out.

And not
because it is unpleasant,
although this neighbourhood is
half- elderly half amenities
few skeets and a few good people,
just because I am afraid of
being anywhere too long,

forgetting there is always somewhere else,
there is always somewhere else,
it can never get bad, you will not go mad,
because there is always
somewhere else.

You Won’t Know A Good Poem Until It Leaves You

You get a poem in you sometimes and
it burns through the roof of your mouth all the
way down, down, down and
even past you,
into the earth below you
and it keeps going you don’t know where it stops
or if it does,
it’s like the acid from the mouth sucker
in the movie Alien.

It goes through the floors of
the ship and
it penetrates metal,
and it laughs at wire and copper,
and it mistake’s your heart for a fuck fest
and all your friends be damned and even your
best laid plans will get shoved to the
ground and kicked in the shins
just enough to keep them winded,

nothing more than a cosmetic knock or two,
but it’s the overall audacity of the thing,
to think itself worthy of messiah like status
in contrast to your body,
to your life’s work,
to your stink,
it looks to all and winks,
as if to say
“Fuck Ya’ll, ain’t shit without me anyway!!”

Before diving from sight,
as if to never come again,
each time,
as if to never come back.

It’s a bitch and you still love it.

Living in Factotum: A Poem Stuck Between My Legs

In the same week
I learned to flip up a button
on the school water fountains
to attain auto-flow
(after 3 years of
pushing and leaning almost
breaking my finger holding it down to
try for more pressure
without success)

and then,

years of the erosion of my clickers
on my labtops touchpad
I realized a button
could be pushed
that left clicks
or is it right click
I cant tell because halfway through
I had switched their functions.

You win some,
you lose some.

I have that bitter old
kitchen crotch,
and feel like Bukowski (played
by Matt Dillon though not
Mickey Rourke),
while I mummify my thighs with
toilet paper in the stall twice a day,
carefully papering
my legs like a kid on Hallows eve with
asburgers who keeps
shit tight,
when the band comes around.

I’ve been listening to Dylan again and
I think between that
the Cohen and Dj Bl3nd
and Daft Punk, I might survive another gig


I might finish my novel.

It’s been a solid fucking month already,
and I haven’t even gotten, I haven’t even been, I still have yet to see,

my pay.

All the Way to the Dump and it’s Only Tuesday

How’s Your Tuesday Going?

I open one eye
the other has fallen behind.
In fact, it may not get up today at all
and I would be forced to wear a patch
or explain why it is that I look like
I’m having a continuous stroke:
“Oh my eye? No, it’s not lazy or reluctant.
It’s dead.

That’s okay. Things pass.
Would you like some salsa?”

Dates would be awkward
because if there is anything wrong with your eyes
it’s because you stare at porn and small children
who also stare at porn.

The one eye that I have opened
has landed on an empty wine bottle
that glares back at me accusingly
like it’s my fault.
Wait, I took a wine bottle to bed?
Jesus, what does that mean?
That I had to bring it just in case
I couldn’t make it upstairs and to my bed
without having a drink?

That speaks…

View original post 221 more words

excerpt from “Aka: The Novel…”


If anyone needs me I will be trying to achieve literary greatness. Or conjugate a simple sentence. Something to crudely hype the music boxes with. Something to make even the Aunt Jemina bottle in your cupboard dance a new step. Something more hostile than Frasier when Sam snipped his Visa up in season 6, when things were still good. Something that might choke you out or hug you, you never know. Something. Anything, but this. If you need me I’ll be blitzed, like last year on 14 hits, and shit, I might even be across the street, The Ritz, or the adjacent alley, anyway. If you want me I will be tethered to a spike, a chanting feral-child army around me, ready to burn the heretic for good. You’ll run into me in the bottom of your cities pocket, a roman numeral stapled to my head, acting like a watchtower clock, those same kids spiking the earth on the hour’s cue. I’ll be beating a dead horse back to life like Powder. I’ll be under the mattress with the hand gun that solves nothing. In space with the last women, sealed up in a tomb. Convincing myself in bathroom mirror that my lover is not an android, and if she were still loving her. Sealed up in a knotted, still twitchy Hefty bag, coagulating with the offal’s of a heifer and a moose, contraband tossed over some cheap boat, nearly burst open on the side of a passing pontoon. Pursed- lipped at the theatre before Hitler and his men go up, inside the celluloid oven, taking time-traveller Polaroid’s and rocking an AK. Committing mass sacrifices to the meta-God “Maximus Referencious” – blasting Dj Bl3nd on George Street out of an authentic “Do the Right Thing” ghetto blaster, dressed in his designer hideous mask with a squirt-gun loaded with vodka and cran, dancing like an epileptic program ruptured robot freak. Outside Natalie Portman’s house blasting an authentic, John Cusack-style love song like March of the Pigs or Hurt. Compiling a top hundred movie references that could get better with a simple “Jesus Wept” followed by someone’s head exploding, or being ripped apart by chained hooks, for that matter. Believing in aliens and greed while tossing a few dimes in the fountain and wishing for real, violent revolution. Communicating with the singed eyebrows of Richard Pryor. Parading down Main Street singing the entire Exile album huskily and removed of most, if not all, of my skin. Proving the Ginger as Demon mythos. Saving the odd cat up a tree. Training it to steal white powdered bags that go tch-tch-Tchaikovsky all the way home. Living in a van of harem scar’em witches on sunshine coast in Vancouver, breaking hearts and smoking darts in Sin Jawns. Braving the crazy streets of mescal-induced hysteria, climbing the same two steps out of the K hole for an hour in the rain, finally understanding the ether binge quote in that moment, sinking fingers deep into wet ground, sensing electricity and madness at the once. Blasting a few zombies away with a plasma gun, for a kick not an achievement. Scouring dirt from an eternal pan, slicing an infinitely re-growing chop or loin, re-shelving a mystically shelf-hopping book, ripping up Harlequins and screaming “Fuck You!” into a make shift mic. Making out with madwomen on trapeze wire hair line highway nights, opening a bottle of blueberry wine with a swiss army knife and chewing before spitting out the cork pebbles in eyes of a stranger. Pissing off a car of angry Mexicans, a couple of bikers, a shocked crowd of old women, that kid in grade three who stabbed me with a pencil, still carry the perfect, still have that penultimate, still bear that little black mark. If you want to reach me I’ll be reaching for it, to grip it, to scratch and scrawl and scatter a few more ashes on this bridge, this broken bastard page.

– Peace

Saturday Morning Epiphanies

It is not the farmers fault.
They love the land.

It is not the burden of the little
towns and villages,
they love their portion of it.

It is not the school teacher
who told me to write and
it is not the burden of
the young lovers in the bush,
they’re too busy with the love.

You can hold a protester to the
fire and you can bend the farmer,
you can even break some of them.

It is not the ocean of bodies in
Guy Fawkes masks.
As much as you would like it
to be, they are not your terror’s source.

It is our mere, gargantuan size.
And there is nothing to do about it.

Nothing but wake,
shake a few more dreams onto the page,
and wish for more time,
fewer crowded shoppers,
more cyclists than two car homes,
less salt and more organic,
some sanity mixed into the
mad, mad shuffle of the mid-week
scourge on the soul,

and then to wake again,
on Saturday,
ready to divulge the daily secret
to whomever woke as well.

to know it is nobody’s fault,
but your own, but also that
the victors, the spoils and all that
other good stuff,
is yours as well.

Today’s epiphany, brought to you by
last night’s dreams.

Characters on a Cooking Show

for Chad

Two old friends, in the midst of
some really poor, broke-ass times
would make each other cackle,
on a shoe-string diet, with little else.

Taking turns putting on impromptu,
quasi-starved cooking shows,
monologues that were somewhat tired,
and giving it a bit of flare where
such fanciness was possible.

“Tonight we dine on Mr. Noodles and Tuna,
and I don’t know about you audience, but I
am just super excited to dig in and make
the meal shine, you know?”

“Today’s shoestring meal is brought to you
by the creamers I lifted at the coffee shop
earlier, making that batch of peppered Kraft Dinner
something to really write home about!”

“These peppers I shoved into my backpack
before leaving work are going to go well
with the discounted taco shells and beef!”

“We take the leftover juice from our
Tuna-Mr.Noodle Surprise, and freeze it
for later reuse in this handy margarine container!”

When you have nothing,
you have a sense of humour
about your own sunken belly.

When you have a friend with a similar
sense of survival, the cooking show
can even fall into a couple condiment packs
and a few looted, workplace goodies,
without losing any of the comic flavors,
sealed in now by time, survival
and salt.

Eat your fucking heart out, Ramsay.

“Don’t tell me the moon is shining, show me the glint of light on broken glass” – Anton Chekhov

Chekhov wants the glint does he?
I’ll give him something to talk about.
They were beautiful and terrible girls.
“We’re from fucking Montreal man-”
I heard them telling some meat head outside,
and I just had to call back
“Hey, I was born in Montreal!”

Because exotic dancers have always
been fascinating to me and
in my darker moments back then I called
them strippers like everyone else
because I loved certain poets enough to
risk alienation by the crowd at Starbucks,
and because above all else I lived for story,
and story was always about the details.

The ring-leader was leathery in face,
haggard old mop hair held back in a
fraying scrunchy that I can still see, slowly removed,
back at the castle of other dancers who all slept.
This was after the after hour club I went to with them,
like some proud puppy eyed kid, the other meat heads
all staring at us, eating my face with their eyes,
quick as the blow went up noses in every stall.

We ditched a couple other meat heads that
wanted her and the hot one to go back to a motel,
but wouldn’t let me come. I realized I was a feeler.
A tool to see if creeps were to be trusted or avoided.

We cabbed to their secret lair, where no men were
allowed to tread. We crept up a winding staircase,
dawn starting to stain our shadows, the older one
shushing me, the young one smiling at me and saying
things to the leathery one I couldn’t understand on
my mere catholic grade school, non-street French.

There was some sort of comfort knowing I made it
back to the inner sanctum, after all was said and done,
and all the shit was gone and the road rocket slammed,
I sat on the toilet as the steam removed her from my view.

She wouldn’t let me alone, naturally, with the blonde,
and this meant I was sitting on a toilet that faced a mirror
watching the leathery girl as she tried to talk to me and
then in French occasionally to herself, which was the best
thing really, I had heard in a long time. I grabbed a chunk
off the top of a nearby empty case of 24 beer and I jotted
a few deets from the night, and I bet its kicking around in my drawer
with all the other sacred artefacts.

When it was time for me to go she pulled out her
deodorant stick and uncapped it revealing a tight
wad of money instead, and gave me cab fair, and
more or less assured in me, as I know still to this day,
that people are all just looking for someone they can hang out
with, safely. That we are all pretty decent. Even the leathery ones.

But meat heads should never be trusted.