My childhood went by
like a toy pushed down a long
hallway, set fire, bouncing on the
I escaped time through
‘a long, prolonged’
exposure to gamma.
And hamstring strung up
to drain of fluids, like a butcher,
with those first lines.
Pool hall jukebox and foose ball pothead early teens.
Long before Kerouac or anyone else infested my dreams.
I found delight in my own nature first.
You can learn the only thing you need
to from a swimming whole or a junk yard,
and a few good friends.
(Cue, The Wonder Years Theme)
I don’t believe in being imagistic though.
I washed my hands of all the splices from
Ads and other suggestive thighs, crossed into my own
recollection, my calm, cool predilection
for hosting my own awkward, crazy
unrehearsed audition, (in the middle of dawn
quiet streets, walking home from another night
high on the circumstances of my own fate,
my own perceived destiny;
to outdo every writer junk head
since and including Hunke,
and with style, old Bull Lee.
(“With fucking crystal, a ball,
and the Bladerunner Soundtrack on fucking bust.”)
I don’t deny I have Eyes,
but my mind has the filter in place
that keeps it all in perspective.
I will not let anything disrupt the narrative
that gets me where I need to be again.
The more vampires who get fucked over the better.
This world needs more real heroes
and fewer celebrity cameos.
The photo op can’t cure or
absolve the cause, when the other hand just
refills the charity quota.
But I got over it.
And will again, and again,
I still have toys to play with.
I will film you a million reasons to keep reading
my shitty subversive versified kisses.
Excuse me while I set them on fire to Carmina Burana for a decade.
You know. Mature, art-house stuff. Very serious stuff.
Excuse me while I set my dead leaves in fire, dance around
Half naked, half crazy, half brilliant,
half Ontarian half Newfoundlander,
running in sometimes a literal,
others a figurative,
(but godamned if he’ll be forbidden both),
Ill grow up when I’m reintegrated with the cold polluted soil of whatever place I fall.
“I’m not a Christian, but I’m not an atheist either, I’m weary of hearing that accidental old aphorism of mine ‘I’m not an atheist, thank God’ It’s outworn. Dead leaves. In 1951, I made a small film called ‘Mexican Bus Ride,’ about a village too poor to support a church and a priest. The place was serene, because no one suffered from guilt. It’s guilt we must escape, not God.” – Luis Bunuel