Musing on the Craft

It is not

for KW

It is not for you, it is for me
to walk the streets at all hours still
and sing a little, maybe a dance move or too even
if I feel especially on the end of it all,
I’ll weep uncontrollably.

It is just when I am off the stuff for “a few”,
even text the old Argentine “Yeah no drink till June”
that he’ll get a dozen garbled after-texts
which barely make any sense at all.

Well, if they were from anyone
but me,
that is.

It is not you kicking cop cars and slipping them the finger
before running. Unless you’re one of my cohorts.
In which case you’re likely also wielding a trumpet,
the car is likely on fire, the police are likely, confused and
powerless.

I thought of him the other night
when CTV National exposed some random stories,
one where a rape chant originated at my old University.

One about a strange incident in Parry Sound,
in which dozens of Garden Gnomes,
stolen over a period of time, or was it one night?

Who can be sure, they were all lined up in a parking lot,
though
that much is for sure, all in rows, neat and uniform
and giddy and frolicking

like they didn’t give a fuck,
like nobody had abducted them at all,
like, well, foolish garden Gnomes look,
is all.

It reminded me of the great Gnome slaughter of ’98.
I wish I could remember it.
Like King and Salem’s Lot,
some of the demons are yours but
you can never get un-got.

It is not me I seek in the mad ones I have
followed, like weird news-reel made real,
it is within me, that I hope to share even a shard
of them, like a Skesis trying to get a Gelfling,
in Dark Crystal, to sell him some
more soul.

Some more time, to live in digital youth.
Let’s dance tonight, on the old downtown roof.
The one from the past, all sticky with truth.
I’ve got a story for you, that nobody else will
get but you, & just have
to hear what happened next.

I’ve got a story and
it is not
for anyone else.

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Drip, the Light Fantastic

If the mind is a draining sink,
and your courage is just a bit of flotsam.
Trying not to go first, clinging to
anything it can, like a coward.

The fears intermittently will stop
the flow with a major
clog but the sucking,
slugging smacking lip sound
is followed by another long piss
out the other end of light.

Your life is a draining sink,
and as a writer you will scour
every last inch of the basin,
before realizing the water left long ago,
and you’ve just joined the
other ghosts in unattended libraries,
to sing your humming lullaby.

Welcome.

I am the leaky tap,
you left on, before you
left off.

I keep filling and filling
until the only thing left is
for you to get the fuck up
and turn the light on
and make me happy
and write my song.

If you want your piping
to work tomorrow
you’ll let me play my tin
pan tonight, until it suits.

If you know what’s good for you,
you’ll play along, too.