Music

Seeing Permanent Red

They say us red heads have
tempers like East Coast weather
unpredictable and vicious.

I would argue this point but
it would only send me into
another full blown raging whirl wind.

I turn into a Snickers-less Joe Pesci.
I become Oppenheimer.

Without a moment’s notice.
Even my Jekyll is more like
most people’s Hyde.

Today when I could not find my hat
I felt like I needed it
like some average Junky,
then the more I couldn’t find it,
the more I became Herbert Hunke.

Suddenly I was a barrel short
of 12 angry monkey’s.

I miss a bus and start mumbling
to my room:

“How in the history
of all the holiest fucks
of fucking fuckers
have I lost this goddamn hat
when I have yet to leave the
house today?”

The theories get elaborate, fast.
Some kind of starving, stray
micro-goat-like creature
which normally subsists off odd socks
has not found one lately and has
decided to get brazen.

I must still be wearing it I say,
and pat my red, slowly
sweat-gathering
heavy hair.
Nope.

I check the legs of jeans
startling my bed’s frame
like crusty farmer clothes on
rickety, birch fences.

My inner Shining
declares that
Genes got me here
to begin with.

I go to punch air
and I hit the corner of my door
gashing open my hand,
now I’m bleeding and
cursing and mumbling and
tossing clothes around
like a baglady at the last
Sally Ann sale of the Earth
positive that any second I will
start to shit out everything
I have ever lost
and that’s a lot, a lot, a lot of shit.

By the time I give up and
put my hoody on
I’ve missed another bus
I’ve screamed in italic’s of cuss
I’ve prayed like a desperate Catholic
to a Mexican pick up truck’s Jesus-rust.

Curse this temper of mine.
All it was ever good for
were broken Super Nintendo controllers
dry wall craters covered in NIN posters
and a good post-meltdown chuckle
like the one just now,
while writing this poem.

Maybe that’s enough.

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Thirty-Three

Thirty-Three

He got up early,
it was his birthday,
so he wanted an hour to write.
He could no longer rely
on bottles and rolled goods,
so he thought

“I can have whatever else I want”
and all that meant was an hour.

All week there had been enough to do
and all weekend would continue.

He had started to replace all the music
on his player with old stuff he
had not listened to in a long time.
Even Green Day “Dookie” &
Weezer’s Blue Album.

It reminded him of the time before
the drink and the blaze,
when comic books like
“The Savage Dragon” or
“The Maxx” were his best friends,
when he had a copy of “Creepshow” in
graphic novel format,
and just like the kid in the paratext story,
he cursed anyone that got in-between.

After that he had gotten into “The Hobbit”,
and R.L. Stine, until finally,
in grade 5, he met his first fave writer.

(The same year he fainted
during a video the Roman Catholics showed them
of a baby being born, despite his love of horror movies,
and the sight of nothing else had
ever made him so queasy as all that blood,
from some random Catholic woman who
presumably had offered up her home video birth
to frighten the shot out of the kids
at St. Peter’s Elementary.)

That year he stayed up all night with Cujo
and knew he wanted to write like the King.

He was happy again now,
the way he was back then.

It was going to be
one fuck of a year.

You can trace the magic
in every day
track it bloodhound down,
like streets without names,
pics without frames
players without games.

Or you can get hung up on
what you don’t get to do.

He looked at his watch,
and saw he still had 45 minutes.

He looked at his son’s photo,
the bright of his eyes,
and he thought of how amazing it was
that the kid loved Green Day and
was devouring King now also,
and how,
in no short time,
he too would be 33.

And for the first time since he dried out,
it was more than enough
to keep going.

The Girl and the Good

-when we meet she is trying to pop a
pop tart and I am so
caught up seeing her
smile as she did this
I plum forget that I
am not planning to
fall ever again
so quick and so hard,

because
it is not a really
fair thing to do
to someone, or yourself.

She has been to Gibraltar.
I have been to Maine.

We are both art minded
but she loves the visual,
I am bogged down in wordplay,
and besides all that she is beautiful
in all the easily located ways.

I am a map buried beneath
torn flesh
hidden behind bookshelf eyes,
begging limbs like prison bars,
twitchy pyrotechnical hair,

I am under there,
somewhere, the sheets are
never going to come
out from over my head again,
not for you, or anyone,

I swear.

Hey what kind of pop tart is that anyway?

My Own Private Iola

I will stop
thinking about you
in your doc martens
and your blue bomber
in 1997,

when something comes down
with a monkey wrench
from heaven

and beats it all
out of me
for good.

For good, the bad
go hungrier for
longer than any of the
God-mammals could
ever last for.

Up our Jerusalem sleeves,
we set the records to skip
back, to the same spot
dropping the needle
again and again
into a bucket of silence.

I can’t get out of the
meta-universe
she is a pleasure to have
as a curse.

Put the posters back up,
get me a job at some
fast death food market

and eat my fingers
out from under themselves
every night, in-between
chapters like the very
Spy vs Spy that first
entertained me

more than the central prose,
the para-text is a devious,
blazing star you cannot

scrape off like gum
on your spokes,
you cannot eliminate like
Constantine blood on your Keds.

This is the ugliest in a set of three poems,
these are the stones thrown at the stoned.

You are my first fist,
clutching my first page.

Crumpling up the demons,
wrapping up our moments,
it is like getting ready
for X-mas in Hell.

But it is still better than
letting go, completely
of that story.

Missing Page from The Book of Love

You can make yourself
comfortable being
all manner of monster
to other men

and in the end,
past the fence
of slashed flesh and
heaped sorrow’s,

passed vats of tears
and blood shed

you can love yourself
and even,
somehow,
have learned
to love those
who managed
your hate
to begin with;

“man is a wolf to men”

and the wolf has
integrity where most
men merely mask it,

make a morose show of it
make it look like a book

you can paint
any colour,
your life
that is-

make it shine
and don’t despair.

The real monsters aren’t out there.

They’re in here,
my boy! Not outside!
They’re in here!

Best Read in Voice of “Claptrap” from Borderlands “on Wee-e-e-e-e-d” (half baked reference remix not included but sold seperately at an inflated and ridiculous, almost Avatar like, price)

Welcome to Meta-Mart!
Your one-stop shop for all your reference needs!
Ash in house wares will show you around!

How about some nice Krueger Sheers for the missis?
No? Something less ghastly perhaps,
have you tried the Beetle-juicer plus diet pro?

Welcome to Meta-High!
The première educational facility, for future reference!
Classes offered this semester include:
“Ridgemont to Breakfast Club: the study of hallways as leading motif”.

Welcome to Meta-Poem!

Where this poem stops, looks around,
examines the competition,
and self-immolates on page while blasting
Rage Against the Machine wearing only
Alice’s best laid Chains!

Welcome to the end of the Matrix.
Welcome to Thunder dome.
Welcome to Wendy’s.

Welcome to Go Fuck Yourself!

and

Thank You,
come again.

(in the voice of Apu but a robot.)

Welcome to my left foot,
in harm’s way
up your ass.

Welcome to the Lone Ranger
finally pissing Tonto off enough
that he just eviscerates his skull
with a blunt weapon, around the fire
now,
his shitty, soppy blood trickling into the flames,
being eaten and spit back into the world as smoke,
rising into this very poem,
in this very moment,
welcome to the City of Light.

Please, enjoy your stay.
(in the voice of the Vancouver Skytrain,
or the countdown to self destruct voice of Alien)

Welcome to the evolution of the side kick,
into the arch-nemesis.

Welcome to the Mass reading aloud of your enemies,
your every weakness,
your each subtle neurosis,
your constant need to reference movies,
your empty stomach filled with good, Irish drunk bravery,

and your last, sketchy attempt at infamy.

Welcome to finally using your time wisely.

Now get off my stage.

I have something to burn,
somewhere to be.

Another vague fucking reference to ensure
you don’t get
too far off
into that forest-

modern/post.

free for all (bukowski style)

You get one freebie
she says, before she opens
her book and signs you
up for a lifetime of cable.

You get one hundred dollars.
You get two hundred dollars
when the job is done.

His sandwich is leaking
and the furnace is too high.

Have you done this before?
fallen out of a poem into a dream
like this, Mr. Anderson?

Has it been a year since your last
re-watch, where have you been?

Off to the races, and may the craziest fuck win.

I think
i’ve been spending too much time,
listening to Tool again.

Need to return to Dvorak,
New World Symphony on hands and knees,
crack open the good book of Buk’
and breathe.

Best Friend

My Best Friend

for HJM

When I needed someone
to protect me from the car
of angry Mexicans I
drunkenly slurred at one night
by merely getting out of
the car while I shivered
a bit in the back seat with
scrawny ginger shame,
it was him.

When I needed someone
to grab me by the throat
and push my face into
a desert of glass on my patio
after roughing me up and
letting me struggle a little,
it was him.

When I need someone to
goad me into picking up the pieces
when all the whore has run out on me
and all the drunk still in me

writhes and whimpers
“like a little ginger bitch”
Again, I am indebted,
to him and him alone.

You can talk on and on
about the myth of masculinity.

You can talk about male hegemonies,
and about the patriarch.

But I still dig having a best friend
like Christian Troy, you know why?

Because the world is filled with Kimbers,
and nobody wants to be Sean McNamara

All the time.
Anymore.
Or ever.

When I come across
The newest picture of
someone having done something
too stupid not To be
internet-mummified
by way of meme;

a ghastly old woman painted
to look like a demon
or one of a ginger zombie
Ronald McDonald making love
to a deadite dressed as a nurse
while in the background
various characters from Hellraiser
and Event Horizon do foul things to
stuffed people with stuffed animals,

It’s his wall I copy/paste it to.
Not even my own.

And that is what a best friend is;
the person you excitedly take
a new piece of discovered darkness to.
So you can both laugh at it, in the face,

And try to find something to top the others
recent post. Another heaping handful of hell,
to pass the hours with.

Anything else would be healthy and balanced,
all that other boring shit reserved for those
earning their way into heaven with
public displays of pompous charity.

When we find people like that we just nod,
look to one another with bug eyes on the side,
knowing full well that shit is just for show.

“Epic Fantasy, Schmepick Scantasy”

Epic Fantasy Schmepick Scantasy,

give me the summer of our love,
and I will forever me oval faced,
pancake iris’d, enveloped by the arrows
and pointed spears and deadly artefacts
of your bad, bad love. I can get back to it,

but as of yet I am always confined
to the scrying scope of a neighborhood crow
who took up territory a block over,
by the used car lot and corner store,
that same hot, hot year. Once in awhile

I can see a glimmer of your head from
the strict hedges, unmistakable curls
no less telling than the very fingerprints
on your charcoal stained fingers. Once I heard
us make love, me and my cackling scrawny

soul’d salut, all bark and very little, limpid bite.
You, turning out the kids from the back porch.
Walking out into the summer when all
the lady bugs were mating, like jazz-dust
shook from the blanket of the night, trailing
around your vixen, freckle crescent smile.

Caw.

Your orange zest and patchouli and acrylic paint.

Caw. Caw.

The sound of your bangles smashed against
the august humidity of midday.

Caw.

And then I’m gone again over the downtown core,
past the burger stand and the grocery store and the
tacky Chinese restaurant awning, where some angry
Chef tries to beat me to death for shitting on his clean,
recently de-shit-if-ied walkway, so I caw again and swoop.

You can keep your epic fantasy series.
I’m making my own.

Shit WILL Get Ugly

You know what I am expecting in terms of my writing life?

To struggle. Big time.
To weep some mornings,
to scream and jump on the page
and shit on it too.

I am expecting nothing less
but an all out assault
on my every dream
and whim and fancy,
a degrading of my soul
down from terror-child
to the next level shit
that makes my worst nights
on blow look like a merry go
round populated by innocent
and perfect children, among other
constructs that don’t really exist.

I am expecting to have my
intestines engorged by more liquor,
to have my heart pumped of every
good thought or inclination I ever had,
to lay in at least a few more piles
of my own shit and vomit and piss
and tears and even a bit of blood.

I plan on things getting dirtier, more
disgusting and depraved than my limited
spectrum of sin in youth could’ve envisioned,
but often tried during come-down and came up with
a vast and seemingly infinite farmers field
filled with burning foetus’ each ones scream like
a Tool track played backwards while someone’s
getting raped in the back ground by a demonic monkey.

I am counting on the constant reminder
that I am on my path too.

The kicks in the face from the angels
of distraction; vice and sex and the murder
of clean thought by divine dancing.

I am ready for the next 25 years,
then to get bitter and fat and angry and old.
I am ready to look like Bukowski and feel like him,
to fuck away a dozen hotel whores a year
in to the oblivion of my charred, gingery bastard’s soul.

I am expecting the next generation to become
like a mongoloid to me, ugly and barren of anything
but my fear and my oscillating thyroid,
my evaporating liver, my incongruently toppled spine.

All of it.

Except giving up, packing it in, giving in,
letting go, stopping, resisting the scratch
and scrawl and type and tap and trickle
and rush and flood of word flow.

Fuck that weakness, and silence and parting of ways.
I’ll save my last good lines for my eulogy, a litany of
Highways crossed, skies divided, universe wiped clean
Of each other’s eye-stars.

I’ll still be there scrawling, sure.