entertainment

The Nothing and My Statue

I want to tell you
about the nothing
and how it was on my back
from late 90s to just now.

My first time was
just a six pack
of coca cola I was
12 maybe 13,

and I was up all night
with the caffeine propping up
my stinging eyes like,
twitchy invisible insect germs,
holding up heavy red curtains.

I used it to get more comic books read.
It gave me the strength to watch
entire nights of reruns.

I moved onto vodka pretty
much the next summer.
Because it made me think I was
an extrovert and a revolutionary,
and because Val Kilmer drank
as Jim Morrison and I wanted to
be a rebel like him.

I always sounded more like
the Lizard King after some drinks.
It was like the liquid gave me skill.

First pack of smokes found
in The Beer Store parking lot on
Chopin Street in Preston.
They bought me the prison yard acceptance
of first year high school.

I smoked more green any man ever seen,
we had something called wheelchair pot and
I laughed at the sky.

Our crew donned Value Village polyester and
tie dyes from local hemp shops.
We slunk through corn field grids
like eager pony tailed lab rats,
hunting down the cheese of
some wheat kings secret plants.
Dried them out in our parents rafters,
sold the shit for better stuff.

Drank a bottle of Robitussin
because some raver chick in
funfer pink told me it was like Acid,
which was hard to come by and
always made me feel like Neo,
even before The Matrix came out.

My first line was the last thing I
ever put on my back,
through my nose.

I say first because it’s all
the same line,
one massive one that stretches from
a cramped apartment on St. Andrew’s hill,
winds through the jungle of a hundred
dirty stalls, stripper’s breasts, mirror and
chipped dinner plates.

I earned a twitch in the final years,
when I would go for days at a time,
I can’t quite tell you
for too long about it
without risking the
abyss taking me back
you have to take my word
you have nothing
to lose by gaining better ground
in this war,
you lose only your mind when you
play the game with the Nothing,
the nothing,
the not-knot but
not-rope
that you see hanging
from your neck on trees
the next morning,
you’ll have to take my warning
as it is.

I’m just not far away from the fire yet
to turn back and laugh
without risking a salty
statuette of my good intent.

I’ve earned that much.

And how.

I sip coffee in the morning now
with all the music that
was always there to
bring me into sleep,
it is the drug I will always
lean hardest on.

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One Size

I can’t stand shopping.
I used to love being a kid in the cart and
grabbing stuff from one aisle when nobody looked
and then dropping it somewhere else:

maybe I was a child anarchist,
maybe I was a shit,
maybe I was a fucking artist,
without proper tools or inspiration.
so I took to the shelves and remade them
in my own twisted version of store planning,
in my own storm of shop dropping,
two decades too early,
two little fistfuls of products, poised
to my own devious ends.

Years later when I worked in a grocery store
all that karma was reduced to a single bill
I owed what I owed and at the end of the night
I had to fulfill the duty of looking for products
that been left in the wrong spot
the entire fucking store, shelf by aisle by freezer by display
for lost items, that they called “orphans” in case the
average minimum wage employee needed reminders that this
was a dire and crucial element to the job.

I think about the orphans when i shop now
and still once in awhile create a little chaos
for the next kid whose just trying to finish their shift
and get to some party where they can talk about how
it makes no sense to call them orphans since
they have never really left the florescent home
and they would by this logic call shoplifters kidnappers.

I have to shop sometimes though.
It is water boarding for my soul.
I loathe every salesperson not because
they invite it but because I just detest everything about the phony process.
I even start to sound like Holden Caulfield.

I needed boots though.
It could not be helped.
The previous week I had done a rush job of foot wear.
I had bought a pair, believe it or not, an entire size larger than mine.
This is how much I hate shopping.

They were like clown shoes after a few hours.
So I wore two socks.
but then my feet got all sweaty
and I’m pretty sure some sort of
athletes foot started to flare as a result.
They were on sale too. So no returns.
Now i had to return to the scene of the hell-crime.
I had to do twice what I reluctantly do once a year or more.

So I tried on 18 pair.
No luck.
everything felt like it was hard and designed for robotic footed beings.
everything felt like a twisted Cronenberg three hour retelling of Goldilocks,
with redheaded temper replacing blonde earnestness. Every sales clerk was
more and more a grizzly.

I gave up on Pay-Less.
It should have never crossed my mind to enter since
it looks about the quality of Al Bundy’s shoe shop,
and that can never be good.

I ended up back at the place I started.
Endless bus rides, hours of muzak and increasing
sense of panic driving into my body,
back to the fucking shire I went, seeking the impossible.

I saw them out of the corner of my twitching eye.
They gleamed like fucking Excalibur.
but then they walked like geisha clogs.
5 more pair.
5 more runway walks.
you always fucking wish the salesperson
would just fuck off
and not watch you do your test walk
like what am I going to do?
run out of the store in tight boots?
has this happened?
is it an epidemic?
i start to think about how this must be the shittiest job in the world
watching for potential kidnappers
putting boxes of orphans on shelves like a
detective at the end of some show
and finally
a pair of Timberland’s spoke
my fucking language
and I almost threw the size 13’s from hell
back at the sales clerk and
decided against it
I almost put them on the shelf
but didn’t
I just walked home
proud for having avoided a total rage out
and put the 13’s in the box the Timberland’s
my sacred number 12’s
had come in, and I put the box in the back of my closet
next to the other things
I like to pull out of retirement
for a laugh
now and again you need
to laugh at your own foolish abandon
of logic
of reason of
all fucking hope

because boots are made for walking…
and orphans are made to be re-shelved,
and shopping is for masochists,
see you again next year.

Leaving Lost Angels

I am emptying at your move
I have no choice but love
I no longer fold my hands for anything
but rest
I have earned
every scar
and all I know of capes
could be squeezed,
uncomfortably into
a dire, match-book mattress,
I only give up when
it protects you.
Tonight I push the bill
off the bar and no longer
snort my way back to sick,
warm, real abandon.
I don’t live in the name of
Rimbaud, Kerouac or Morrison,
this little thing is mine,
and only mine.
The easiest part was killing it
in my head .
Otherwise,
the hardest part is being
aware you are MISSING
irreplaceable days,
and in finding your earnest hope,
for a chance
to live out
what many might call
average lives,
you get to partake of
each individual
dynastic star from
the purview of
cell, stone, and bars.

I Spit Your Reason Out

You stated in some circumstances,
we were only meant to work
and slumber in the after-party.

I fought with you I renamed you
cascading demon titles.

I even learned your enemies signatures,
paraded them out for you,
easy like a dealer, then hungry like junkies.

Complicit I charge in all you do
is an angle of you, you, and you.

I won’t go any further
around the room,
just stew on it as you feel fit.

Permit me the moment though
to wave my finger in the air
and tell you just what the whether
has dealt- whether it was rape or capital
assassination of character, whether it
was art science and political
or just another junglist off on a rant
about their own caved-into-stronghold.

I will not re-right your arrows.
Gibran was right, their sentience
it narrows so ol’ natural that
you reminisce about the subtlest
inference of it, like oil of olay
commercial, jagged little glass
plucking the skin in imperfect melodies.

You know what kind of like I like,
the kind of hate you hate to hate.
We are simple side by side
wallet photos
fridge magnets
matching joggers.

We are the constellation anyone can name.
We are easy.
Not simple
Sexy, not sultry.
Unless we wanted to be.
Unless it got out
of hand and turned
out that way.

I spit your reason out,
you judge me perfectly.
We dance on the floor like
marbles
eating through a mason jar
onto hardwood, we hard hoods of
hipster pre-destinations and
another amalgam of personal,
preliminary muses.

You and I are like two magazines,
thrown arbitrarily onto
the same laundr-o-mat floor,
in a hold up that became a
flash mob and ended in
a kiss that had virus’
named after it later,
and love songs, too.

Like This

It’s like this.

The day one of it is heavy
with the love of studying
for a hanging tree to hide
in and it is a for sure
not going further than for
a coffee without getting winded
with anxiety and brows beaten with sweat
and then it is escaped,
by a margin,
the ability to sleep is
what saves you on day one
from doing anything rash
that can’t be undone.

Day two is pretty much more
of the same, with new added memories
from the last time you committed suicide
to the first time you punched something.

Day three is pretty much all about the crying,
and more of the same tree hunting,
rope is now even considered.

There are a few interesting moments
where you try to climb out of the cave
and you get all the way out in the middle
of your day only to have it come crashing,
some sudden hunger pang misread by the mind
as more come down gut rot and now the trees again,

and the rope, whether it would make that movie noise
and whether your mother will die from it,
and how hard it will be for everyone to get off work
and come see you off and whether everyone will hate you,
how they’ll tell those who haven’t yet heard, in significant phrases.

How they will find the body, discover it.
As though you were just a lost island until now.
People say it is selfish but you spend an awful lot of time
thinking of how others will cope, in the throes of its ride.

After that it just sits for a long while on your stomach and back.
You will ponder whether any little mundane act, cutting nails, making food,
is even worth it if you aren’t going to live it through.
Why bother smiling at that girl. It has no bearing on your death march.
Who cares if the coffee has anything in it, just drink it!
You’ll be fucking dead before it rots your guts you cowardly little whelp.

A week will go by hiding in old sitcoms from your youth, and you’ll sink
deep into a hell that awaits the living dead, those who tried but couldn’t get out.

You’ll have to make your way up off the dirt floor and back in a chair and
you can always have flu or worse to cover the tracks but you yourself
you begin to notice the difference in each returnee self. It’s like a copy, of a
copy.

It’s like this.

And after awhile you lose the ability to even lie to yourself about changing.

It’s like this.

And that’s that.

Into This

My Life
(as a Late Night Talk Show)
Sinister, move over, me and Conan have this one.
I have guests show up all the time,
nick named these two

‘Dep and Den’
(formerly Depravity and Denigration)
The last time we had them on
they left everyone’s mouths agape
like cheap creaky coffins.

My laugh
(as an other-worldy cackle)
that scales the backs
of the wicked and the political
scathing them with red chalk board scribbles,
and praying that their God will take them quick,
they will see my ugly face like a blimp,
empty of empathy because
nobody gives a shit about rich white suits,
least of all a manic, destitute poet.

My smite
(as an unending self-played joke)
the product of which is chopped up into dime bags,
given to street-wise hipsters in lieu of
real truth, my hackneyed projections like
low housing sand castles that all smell of burned smoke.

My music
(as war call anthem for revolutions without a cause)
that lures the ugly and wicked into taking
back the dance floors and public spaces like book stores
believing they have something, finally to fucking fight for,
and pirouette into innuendo for days on the high of not giving a shit.

My idea
(of a good time)
is breaking everything sacred into sacrament
and leaving the rest for the next hungry word saint.

What are you into?

Can You Do It?

Can you do it?

It is 2002 in BC, somewhere the ghosts of that night still haunt.

She went around the hotel and
asked if any of us knew Johnny
and none of us did all we knew
was fix and formula
to get some more
but she went around anyway
really just hoping to run into
anyone even a new
Johnny.

It feels like House of the Rising Son
is always playing in some room.
The hallways are all slanted.
I could be in the movie The Doors right now
when the boys meet The Velvet Underground,
but I am not and it smells like piss and sweat and cunt,
altogether, in one stank, rank miasma of odor.

But I am alive and there is some rock left in the room
past the bitch crying into a microphone
and the one filled with darkness and eyes,
and I can taste it now, covering me in sweats
and dry, insipid heart beatings, and I am there,
whenever I get caught off guard by someone on
some corner in some shitty bad place, I am there.

And then, I am not.

It is still the same cracked out place I am sure,
and the bulldozers when they finally do take it,
a plume of soul smoke will erupt in the air like Poltergeist.

She went around the place
like some dour, damsel or Susanna,
finishing the corner of every ladle,
but the corner eats everything too long
left around it, a whirlpool that leaves tragedies
hungrier than she is, before she shuts down.

She looked at me that one night
and out of nowhere asked,
pointing at the crumb on the floor,

Can you do it?

People Love Puppies

It is morning and you
cannot tell me you
are happy to be outside
in the sunshine
not if you are like me
and you stay up later
and sip beer and tap at keys.

There is no coffee shop
jazz smooth enough
to straighten your
knotted neck, and a light
but effective sharp jab
of pain around the temple region
is just praying you try
and focus on the screen
or a page or anything
that is not a puppy.

The patrons are all
gathered around one,
a baby black thing that
is going to be loud
and annoying before it dies
and leaves the family
in shaky tearful messes
on the floor, and not
before it leaves a couple
hundred runny sloppy ones,
to step in still warm,
to curse at while half gagging
on the mysteriously pungent
stank that manages
to come out of
a toy bred ball of fur
and teeth and drool.

But that’s it, nothing
you can do about it-
you cannot stop them
before falling in love.

What can be done?
People love puppies.

She Took My Hat

I danced with a girl in the mud once.
It was sloppy. Our feet made schlepping noises
as we strove to disengage them from each
wet, mucky step. It was like fly paper for flies.

I remember she had this big, brilliant smile like
a clown the whole time, there for my amusement.
At some point she absconded with my salt and pepper cap,
like it’s an old skipper hat black and white freckled in color,
not the hip hop all female act, Salt n Peppa.

Nobody would ever steal that shit.

Women have always been good at stealing my hats.
There was my “New York Fuckin’ City” black with white letter,
a ball hat I cherished a gift from my aunt.
Lost that one in a hospital after a friend of
a friend od’d on E like the first night I met him,
and I forever the Gordie Lachance, went along
in the ambulance along with some random blonde.

What her deal was I am not sure.
Ambulance chaser in a skirt?
I couldn’t have been any more blind.
I tried my classic lean in on her in the elevator but
she was just in love with that hat. And she got it.
Didn’t even cost her a kiss.

I’m such a lush for people.
I’ll take anything you have.
A word exchanged in an empty hospital bed,
in the dark, where nobody is around,
or a deep muddy dance to George Clinton
on some old abandoned air strip.

My fedora in 2011.
Liberated by a wild night at
some after hours bar.
Another two skipper caps at least in BC.

It’s really been a pleasure though.
Who the fuck am I kidding?

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.