bus boy

What In The Holy Demon-Fuck Is Going On Around Here?

It is getting to the point
where aliens
would be a blessing,
and that is when
you just know
there is nothing out there
but star dust
and inattentive,
non-existent,
or too damn proud God(s)
but most likely nothing,
but particle after particle
of cold steely space
that creeps up every old woman’s
spine just before
she makes a final,
upward arch.

Even Cassiopeia
had to break her back, once.

It is getting really fucking ugly
in the desert oil states,

and the opposite but parallel offices
where the next moves are made

are looking an awful lot like
where paedophiles and terrorists
go to dream and play and pose
next to pictures of Satan

like at some fucked up,
godless bacchius carnival,
where babies roast on spits and women
are ripped apart for sport and pheromones.

It’s getting a lot like
Mad Max Fucking
Thunder-dome
Or Home Alone redux’d a la David Lynch.

Soundtrack is Badalementi fused
with Dj Bl3nd,
touch of the 9”Nails.

Something to keep the fuckers
up on their cross,
my guess.

I’m tired of the end of Spartacus.
Rudy needs a new Jersey.

I’m picking up for the Kids in the Hall.
I’m wondering where the fuck we are.

Killing over paper, oil, and hate.

That is what the fuck
is going on
around here.

That, is where we fucking are.

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All I have is the bitterness of the pill.

&
Chapter, side verse
the GCI trian bridge
and worse

the fact I re-crossed
it dressed
for a coke hearse

what is worse?
being willing
or dying first?

before real ceiling
I want the horn
the night I go,
in my cheap bed,
I insist
I want,
to go hard.

I have lived in a screen,
and called in an interface
but I wont

call
an easy game
if it
comes down to it

I do not consent,
to be filmed, for the purposes,
of this commercial.

I’m just fine
purposely bumping
elbows ill never have
to see again

I’m better off in resistance
Ive merit
and still, like Rimbaud,
sarcastic

and the real definition
of sun kist
cynicism

and you have little, but
the choices
of listen
or denounce
him

I never wanted
a fucking thing
and piracy and
cheap drugs gave
me all of it
and I still own it

every night I write
of the hy

jinx
I know

makes me less and less
the cursed gambler
yes,

its true
all the men you knew
were dealers
but I am
after seeing, through

being the repetitive
mimicry toy
for anyone

I spent my whole life
saying “nah nah nhah nah ”
and yr here

I am
holding if ever tangentially
to the thread

of white
silk
and I burn
it

eventually we all

I burn it all
don’t you fool me leper I know you,
cheetah

I know you red

held over at the wheel,
I know the bodies
you’d
a sewn

and I respect you
even if nobody else does,
I respect you at the

End of the Night
I Respect You Vickers
you still wear shit from
like 1997 and shit
and youd still be wearing it all
if you could

you were a non-compliant
soldier or worker
on each side

because honestly dude,
you just wanted to write
you were a cunt
a dick a douche
and a spastic asshole

and yet still my friends,
this man here?

Was one of us,
pure and simple,
we can no longer
handle

such obsolescent hi ways,

he worships good. .
he’s on our side,
aaaaanyway.

I hearby
confess everything you got
and then some.

And I have for years
harbored my own spoilers.

I am a self.
But that is some
heavy fucking shit.

Right here.
Right from the lamp.

A Series of Drawer Poetry

Drawer Words (i)

While its nothing as cool as
Ray Bradbury’s office on the show I ate up religiously
I do have a drawer that functions the same way.
Today seems like a drawer day.

You release your demons, your Kraken,
your ancient angels and your dragon girls.

Here’s a little flyer for the night
me and an artist buddy of mine
teamed up with this real smooth cat
“Lou” who used to work at a check cashing place
in the West End of Van City and he always told
such vivid and entertaining stories.

In one, this real jerk was giving
him a hard time,
but Lou, never one to be moved,
since he did have a couple
inches of bullet proof
between him and said antagonist
he very earnestly gave him
the international mime-sign
for “blow me”, even using
his tongue to create a phantom
cock protruding awkwardly out
one cheek at a time,
to which the asshole entered
fully-automatic fuck head mode,
and this just made Lou
all the cooler, a shit eating
have a nice day grin on his face
retelling the story, matching ours.

He ran his own promotion company
which consisted of
him and his token white boy
(as much a necessity as a partner)
and I remember dropping
my words on him
(literally a binder full on his lap,
I was so young and no decorum at all)

And he had a look like
“ah, you’ve got rhymes, but can go freestlye?”
and I likely gave a returned petrified, “Nope”.

I did my best that night,
my friend was experimenting with some
slide projection art,
and as I gave my best anti-Bush poem he
drizzled red paint on a slide of his face,
I realized performances
are often much more effective
in your mind than they ever are,
but still we managed to shock
an Arrested Development-style band
from Georgia who I will
never forget the look of fear
said they’d be
too afraid of getting shot
to ever pull a stunt
like we just did,
back home.

Dancing King

The Dancing King

He gets on my route once in awhile,
or really I should say, I get onto his bus,
since he is the king of everywhere he goes.

He waves his hands around like he
is constantly doing the media propagated
“uhn-uhn, Oh, no you did-ent”
while simultaneously waving his hands
to old school-tape cassette and airline headphones.

I try to guess what he is listening to sometimes
and come up with a variety of things which suit the
hands wax and wane, the pomp, the pageantry.

Sister Act (The Official Motion Picture Soundtrack.)
Dance Mix ’94 (especially Return to Innocence)
New World Symphony or Matthaus Passion.

Or maybe Miles Davis like me.

He is the most free, least concerned with appearances
person I have ever seen, and I envy his predicament.

I have always secretly wanted to live as
though in a commercial where it’s ok to
sing aloud, where the mail delivery person
chimes in and the various ethnic groups all
jive together and the coffee looks too black
to be real, matching fanatically kempt lawns.

Everyone would follow The Dancing King,
half enchanted half epileptic, we would all
enact a masse, feverish crunking, bodies going
off script in every possible way, manically
preaching the good twitch, the holy creep, the
trippy hallways of Kubrick’s The Shining.

Arms directing the traffic of stars, legs kicking
up the dust of the Neolithic and the Tribe and Clan
Village of the Damned looking kids brought
back to life, disconnected, discombobulated then
slowly regaining their senses, like the end of Surrogates.

I get off my bus and walk the streets like
Neo after he understands he is in The Matrix.
It’s a great soundtrack too. The Dancing King
inspires like Di Caprio in Gilbert Grape or
Hoffman in Rain Man, but I’m no Fred Savage
in The Wizard, and besides, it’s the rest of the
world that needs to be rescued, The Dancing King
already found his “Cali’fooooorniiiiiiiia”.

Strangers Follow Us

We are the haunted few still
undistracted entirely by screen
or pandemonium or dance, and the
stranger’s have always followed us.

This bus I was on once was
overrun with their
loud, obese stories and I
could do nothing to avoid our
imminent collision.

On my left was a young girl and
her “old man”. They
were some of the first junkies
I ever met. I was intrigued, but
wary also. I wouldn’t be taken
on my first trip out West.

I had months of notebooks and
all intents to make my mettle as per
that great Ontarian ritual-voyage
to BC. I would smoke weed and
write of all the things done wrong
by the world to the artist.

I was basically full of shit and
sure of its value to the world.

These two were heading out of
a long haul doing rehab for family
members piece of mind, all the time
planning their Bonnie & Clyde escape.

I ended up seeing them on the streets
periodically as I job hopped like some
come from away or illegal, barely keeping
some jobs long enough to take a second pay.

Behind me and junk row
was a strange solitary girl
dressed in a mix of rag and garbage bag
and patches of herself seemingly just
flesh with marker or paint.

She became if you haven’t guessed yet,
an early lesson in the unpredictability
of cross country busing,
to this younger, yours truly.

Somewhere between the beginning and
the long anticipated end of the prairies,
it started:

a noise so jarring and yet unmistakable
no matter how inexplicable it seemed,
began to emanate from the last row of
the slow going people’s Greyhound,

like a roll of tape being constantly ripped
off about 4 feet of itself at a time in well
timed, 5-8 second intervals, for at least
a half an hour although it could’ve been longer.

I slowly peeped my head up and looked
to see what was going on, since others
ahead were doing the same to me .

And there she was. Taping up her feet and
upper leg. By now she had socks of tape.
Teen junky’s Old Man got up and threatened

her, I want to say with a knife but I think he just
smelled bad and go close to me and I code him
as more harmful, more foul than he really was.
I do remember clearly the way he said. Each. Word.

“If.You.Pull.Another.Strand.Off-”

And I remember how the bus driver,
stirred to action by the Jerry Springer Show
brewing on his back rows, pulled off to the side
of the road somewhere just outside Canmore
and, making his way past each now spellbound

and rubber necked passenger, found and for some
reason I still don’t quite understand, assumed
we were all together; the greasers and the socials

and me, a young bullshit scribe, now admittedly a
little petrified at the prospect of being left in a strange
and uncertain land with such savages. I had to make it
out west, I couldn’t let it end like this.

“I have no idea who this nut bag or these
Freaks are Sir! I’m not with them!”

“I don’t give a shit, all of you make
me stop the bus again, you’re all out.”

The rest of the ride was fairly uneventful.
I stayed awake in fear of reprisals against me,
besides who wants nightmares of being tied
up in tape and poked with needles when you can
scribble your first poems on British Columbian soil,

off to find some new strangers to pry another
poem from.

My Own Private Piracy

I started young-
Let’s just say I sailed the seas
at seven or eight.

Cassettes from the radio and
beta-max’s with laser-disc’s
my Chilean step-father took
me to these places where we
rented, not bought, compact discs

from cheap wall shelves and wire ones
usually found in corner-stores that
only had a couple VHS to choose from

but they were filled with great stuff.
I learned Bob Marley from there;
And Ice-T and Guns n Roses and
Even PM Dawn; dad taught me the art
(My first really-) of the mix tape. And
After that I took it and made hundreds
Maybe more.

We had a satellite dish
Hector, my father, really loved good things
Food and music.

(I think about it now we had it all for awhile,
Even when they fought all the time and laying awake
It ate away at what sense of safety I had finally been allowed
Sometimes all I remember is him telling me we were divorcing
I was watching that terrible Doc Hollywood movie that was on Cinemax

It was such a terrible movie, I felt bad for Michael J Fox at the time
Fuck, I was only 12 or so and that to me was life’s unfairness laid bare –
The kid was great in the 80’s but now he has to face it like the rest of them.
I always wanted him to be my older brother when he was on Family Ties,
And now here he was forced to take any role.)

Over the years I always pirated something;
from the library, the cd rental shacks, the radio.

I even had a side business for certain friends
when I worked at Chapters
before I got too paranoid to make the seasonal
shopping list.

And then the technology finally caught up with us.
We have been chasing discographies ever since

my neighbour and I have an almost competitive
relationship when it comes to a weekly exchange;

You get anything new? Oh yeah? Which Episode? 405? N0?! SIX? Really…

Sites have changed over the years:
Mininova.com, then Pirate Bay.org,
then Demonoid (RIP) and Speed.cd

Each one has its pro and con list;

Mininova; Pro great for high seeding torrents of new shows and movies, albums etc.
Mininova also has a Terrible search engine; even the most basic title searches come back with foreign cams of Harry Potter instead.

Pirate Bay has an even worse engine. Don’t bother searching for anything, ever. Also, its dirtier than a dead French whore so double scan it before penetrating a’ la Windows.

Demonoid was great , it had a ratio system though – you had to share back – or upload- all the info you downloaded, and If you go too far in the red you are booted.

Demonoid rarely opens its gates for new members; once a month for a few hours mouse cupping palms hover their sweaty shaking click fingers over pointers to pounce all at once, likely shutting down the server at the same time, and regardless of that event, only a few gaining entry anyway- just for a chance at the treasures which are hosted there.

Speed says it al in the same; these torrents come so fast the actors are still learning their lines sometimes! The folks who run it are Nazis sometimes about ratio, and if you mention another torrent site, you mine as well have shit in their collective mothers mouths, it would be the same reaction I assume. I’ve heard of honor, but snobbery among thieves? Come on now.

The products or “booty” being pirated? Well that’s an entirely other and trickier affair to explain.
It would almost seem easier to list what is Not being stolen, absorbed, suckled, schemed, digitally raped…Film? Everything new and most of the old, the weird, the taboo, the early works of all the greats

I have Kubrick’s first short flick; a documentary on a flying padre- yup a religious guy who flew a biplane in Mexico. Rodriguez’s student film. Chomsky interviewing Oliver Stone. De la Rocha interviewing Chomsky. Actors playing the Beats. The Beats interviewing each other. Caligula. Bunuel. Leary’s acid test. Great for house parties.

If it has been put to digital memory- it has been looted by the stealthy movements of programmers somewhere, thus becoming available everywhere…

The People on the Bus

The people on the bus
(go to hell in a hand basket fast without
social customs in place).

(aka “welcome to Thunderdome, bitch”)

No matter how far we come as people,
the public transit experience will always
feel cold, like communism in Western movies,
or like penal institution transport crossed with
a ship of fools motif. For me however, it’s an
essential tool in understanding human behaviour
(and its lack therein when it occasions).

The best time to people watch is
the morning or late night, when
the world of the worker is worn
away like reality TV 5 years ago
and people really get their zombie
looking selves into half-sleep states.

There are a variety of styles of bus rider.
Each reflects a persona in society.
There’s the tough guy/asshole.
He’s easy to spot since he’s the only of the
Male species who will sit next to a woman
when seats next to other men are available.
In some cases such behaviour is accepted- a
bar for example. Not on the long haul that is
the metro though, no my track suit friend, best
to flip that Monster Energy (death) drink ball hat
around, take those Ridiculous tri-colored sunglasses
commemorating the 1992-93 Toronto Blue Jays franchise
off, and just stand the fuck off to the side as you likely
will in other forums in life im sure until an early
death by some random douchbaggery or other.
(My guess is robbing a gas bar, who knows!)

Stuck next to him was the lady who sits as little
As possible but rather tries to hover on her ass cheeks,
and almost appears fearful of the physical bus itself
as well as our resident asshole. She’s not a lifetime rider
like him either, usually she finds someone or becomes
a driver herself.

Next you have students. Most of those are texting,
a few still read. Fewer are weirdo’s watching the rest,
like me, for non-sexualized purposes (those lot tend
to fall under the Blue Jay 93 douchebag from earlier).

Then you have a few workers, and some people running on
fewer pistons than the general “norm”, your rockers,
your cursers your rocking cursing singers, all living it up
like they just don’t give a fuck, next to them, the skeets
and the slags, the skanks and the hags, and all that glitters between.

You have a few young parents, a lot more young mothers,
the occasional Clergy or Sister, people too injured to drive,
too poor, people too drunk and (or) too high. It’s a veritable
smorgasbord of life! As a cheap student-writer of cheaper
writing still, I really can’t fathom wanting to leave the living
Opera some call “the welfare wagon” others the “losermobile”.

But I think that’s mostly peoples
pride making them feel they need to qualify their
existences as more than the rat race they are
jammed into (just like anyone on that bus) and there
is nothing that’s going to change it – no ride,
no sweet, sweet ride will ever change that.

And you KNOW what Marcellus Wallace has told us of Pride?

“The night of the fight, you may feel a slight sting.
That’s pride fucking with you. Fuck pride. Pride only hurts, it never helps.”
Pulp Fiction, 1997

This is Sparta (but not the movie)

I didn’t meet you at a bar.
I am not your friend,
we are not comrades.

This is not a real war
and this is not my true intent,
but blinded we’ll walk a little

straighter, don’t come here.
We hate this but leave before
the song’s through.

I didn’t invite you, this
is invective with a personality.
I didn’t try it came in twitches
and in concert.

My fingers aren’t trumpets.
and the features of the sky
in no way resemble leviathan,
the priesthood or another Jesus.

This is not pick-up trucks rusted hood.
We’re talking one of those old school,
“Blockbuster” joints before boo-tied
treasure got flicked to the parade-mob,

like violent Mardi Gras, this is no
party. This is misery I swear this get’s
too ugly and raucous to pacify or
make famous and chain to a linked brand
fence for carrion devouring, sacrifice.

This is Sparta.
This is Contra,
this is Birth.

Post-Humour

He thought he would have had it,
if he had only been richer,
or poorer.

He thought he might get a
better girl and write legends.

If he had made money
from stock exchanges.

Got his life back from the
web and the net and
all those tangled tangles.

I could’ve killed him
a hundred times:
from highway overpasses
he could’ve leapt,
or been strung
up on any number of
neighbouring trees.

I could’ve strangled him
some nights
when he went on about
how it wasn’t fair
that some
new age writer had gotten a
new
contract and here he was, just

“taking up space in spiral margins.”

I almost threw him to a pack
of wolves one night
in shame,
but I knew I would only wake up
feeling like I had chewed him myself.

So I did what had to be done.
I buried him. He’s still there of course,
Only now he’s got the weight of Hardy
and Dickens and Elizabeth Gaskell
to keep the little bastard at bay.

Then I took away all his weak and
(programmed) Middle class
inclinations;

to drink as though Rimbaud
and await new lines in temper of a child.

To talk like the
Lizard King high on some psyche’s
bought with pawn shop or rent.

All of these things and more got curbed.
And only then did my Self sit down,

encouraged by having shut the hell up,
And wrote for its own reward.

And I am with him still.
And we aren’t going anywhere,
But through this stack,
Through these cracks,
Through this black old game.

Not to hijack Frost,
but that shit made
all the fucking difference
in this terrible little
bastard red-head’s life.

Up Early (for Gary)

I’ve been up before;
up so early they called it
better late than never.

I’ve torn at the panties of night like
a creeper under its dominion,
but I‘ve never stolen anything
that wasn’t stolen
from someone else.

So here: a story in place of the
final pieces of the poem you were
just hustled into the heart of –

I have just enough time to tell you about Gary,
the junky piano player I ran into a few
times more than I would’ve liked,
but enough, it seems, to have educate me
on the naked and ugly edicts at the last
supper of the fallen addict.

Gary was the guy who my painter
friend introduced me to during
my first real night in BC.

Gary could go through a bar
it seemed and slap and shake a dozen
people that eagerly greeted him
for whom he had been.

None of this came immediately
to me though, I studied him each
night we were desperate enough
to have dial his number.

When every other
contact we knew who held had bailed,
& even the street strangers scuttled off to
warm holes of their own hard won highs,
then? You had to go to Gary.

And it was never pretty.

But I was still obsessed with the idea
of the junk. I had picked up a spectator love
of Burroughs and like cockroaches all
this other stuff now festered in my unkempt soul.

I had a Golem-like Huncke or two,
who skitterishly dashed into dark crevices
when you switched on a light.

There weren’t any lights left for Gary.

I can go back to the moment I
understood the drug when I saw his
life displayed before me.

He had a piano still somehow.
It wasn’t in great shape I wonder
if he still does now…

On it were pictures of the other man
he was. Suited on his wedding day,
with a pretty young thing in his arm.

Completely oblivious to the shit
that the proverbial box of punk
rock and weed were going to
carry into his soul, soon enough.

It’s really that simple.

Then he played. He played and the
first time 5 years later in Uni when
I read Sonny’s Blue’s I thought of
Gary, the same way I do when I see
a grocery store rotisserie chicken, too…

Why? Because one night I had to witness
an unnecessary further cautionary
lesson, a follow-up to the lonely
broken piano reminders that the
man had already provided.

I was with the high strung Quebecor,
“La Fletche” we called him.

He loved the powder like me,
and like me had been destroyed
by our previous peak into
Gary’s living room void.

“Faaaaaaack eh?”

So when Gary refused,
boldfaced to score for us
one night until, and I quote

“I get my fucking chicken,
a whole fucking bird right now.”

we were slower than usual to comply.
Not because we thought it was an
outrageous request,

(I once paid the line of people
ahead of me once at a Tom Petty show,
2 pints ran me 75 dollars all told,
but the experience was worth it,
so I could do strange)

The Frenchman and I saw something
that night, that horror movies can’t touch:

a grown man in a dirty black
overcoat and greasy slicked-backed
Goebbels-Nazi-hair, with pock marked
cheeks to match, hunched over beside
what remained of his victim,

a sad smattering of bone and a few inedible bits
of torso frame; a mirror of the man himself
prostrated and licking his nimble, tar/crack
stained fingers one at a time for the remains,
then, with the exuberance of a ghost-
occupied school boy jutting up, and began to
re-animate toward the door, the cause, the high.

The Truth.

I don’t have time for much more tonight,
Up early tomorrow for once for something
Far less dark and sinister;
A paper on Rome and a midterm on
Shakespeare.