"It's about words, and words are all I have…"

Archive for the month “January, 2014”



The new it-girl of British Poetry  studied

at Leeds  & Goldsmiths College   She’s an

up & comer   I have found many references

to her boyfriend’s  ball-sac  in her new book

Yet does this encourage me to: Go for broke     No  Not really


My hero of poetry  namely:  Charles Bukowski

used words like: piss  vomit  whore    & a whole

lot more     He didn’t rhyme much either


Charles was beaten to a Pulp  (name of his 26th book)

daily   by his demented German father   His adult face

pitted   His body scarred for life    A raging alcoholic   & a

Post Man  (name of his 33rd book)   Charles delivered the

mail until half insane   for 12 yrs. in L.A.


He finally found a benefactor  & moved out of vomitous

basements  to a nice house in the burbs   Charles could be

drunk on stage   kick his wife   but he was Dark Knight for life

A defiled God of letters


So it is hard to imagine that  ball-sac  is all that stands between

me   & it-girl infamy     Yesterday a florid man said to me: 

If  you want to make brave music you gotta serve somebody

Give me 45% of your profit  & I will give you a table from which

to shill your poetry  


At this point  ball-sac  is looking like it may have legs




Winter  2014



A poet is a liar   Twisting tales to

fit the storyline  (not to mention what

we do with statistics)  Pulling words from

his song   to finish mine    Dressing up the

sunshine: light splashed  light flowed  light kissed


Making this dun-colured day  riotous gunmetal grey

Promising bliss  where there is none to follow   The

tortoise beetle wears a fecal shield   to protect it from

its enemies    No protection for the minstrel who steals

your best ideas


The poet goads you into believing that it might not be

such a bad thing after all     waiting     for the world to end


Unwind the delicate shroud   dig that hole deeper!  Fear not

You have only borrowed the dust  it was never yours for keeping




Winter  2014  *Three Small Parables For My Poet Friends  Stanley Kunitz  1985



Surely I have said this before:

Everything is broken


My telephone is answered by the FAX

but only when certain people call   Giving new

meaning to:  Ghost in the machine


My techno-devices are sentient beings   And as

much as I try  I can’t help but take their slights    personally


Recently Pope Francis bestowed his blessing on

the Internet:  This is something truly good   A gift

from God    Later he tempered his approval


This week in a Twitter Q&A  Olympic gymnast

Beth Tweedle was asked: On a scale of 1-10 how

pig ugly would you class yourself?   The poser

of this question  enjoyed his infamy  He tweeted:

I was trending for 2 days!!   


Social media may just be the Millennial curse

along with  reality tv  infamy posing as fame

& naming babies North   




Dead of Winter  2014



The door barely shuts   there is no working   lock

Both front & back entrances   This is not a SAFE

house       & if this were not a recurring dream

locksmiths would have been called  years ago


For $378.85 they would provide  a money back

guarantee:  This family can sleep peacefully  in 

lockdown   in the safe sepulchre of  suburban nights


Tomorrow is another day   to combat grief    & peddle

guilt  which now sells for $26.17/100grams   Nothing

comes cheap   Why the price of desire has tripled since

December 2013    And no night is longer than the night on   repeat




Dead of  Winter  2014



On August 16, 1989  at 3:16  Lee reversed

his deal  with  Time   His heart stopped

after years of threatening    In grade 6 he

wrote my speech for the Public Speaking

Contest   I won & went to the finals  where   I lost


Hi  I am Joe’s heart   Joe’s heart is healthy

& deep red   It has chambers   & ventricles  

It is a fine specimen   A pump for all time


Lee’s heart didn’t work nearly as well   Corroded

by anger  angina    His father’s was in worse shape

Without warning it stopped at 62    Who really knows

what mine is doing in there    Sometimes it flutters like   a bird in the throes


Other times   when kicked   it has been known to stop

for a millisecond or 2     This happened during the recital of    I Am Joe’s Heart  

People thought I was terrified of public-speaking

No one suspected an NDE*


Hi   I am Joe’s heart  I have a left ventricle & a right  

I am your pump    Be kind to me


Girl falls to her knees      Fade to black




Winter  2014     *Near Death Experience



Man clearing his throat & retching

Must be the flu  I glare at him menacingly

We are both in purple   Now connected by

microbes  making a bee-line for my nose


I hold up my Americano   defensively

While he  coughs all over his hand


Were I his executioner I’d have no mercy

Not like *Madame du Barry’s   When she plead:

One more minute Mr. Executioner  he gave her 3


Man in purple’s microbes continue to hit me

Loose cough   Hand wipes away debris

Come on Mr. Executioner   drop that Guillotine



I’m an outlier. I don’t do vaccines.

(Man in purple to his mother Jan 16. 2014)



Winter  2014    *mistress of Louis xv



Existential therapists say: All anxiety is about death

And since we are beings unto death  (Heidegger)

this makes sense   From the moment we are born

we are busy dying   Beginning in adolescence  brain

cells are jettisoned by the thousands


But the human Ego  hell-bent upon survival has even

passed laws  against dying   In Texas a brain-dead pregnant

woman is being kept alive  against her wishes


Whereas in Belgium legislation is underway to allow terminally

ill children to be euthanized   no matter their age     Ego grows

it’s conscience     Who knows where this will lead


5 yr. old  Malakhiwe Goniwe  an imbangi  (spiritual poet)

presides at births  weddings  & funerals   He recently told his

mother:  When I meet my Maker  I’ll stop being afraid


It seems that one poet is free    The other desperate to be read

clutches at immortality



People live too long nowadays. I’ve lived too long.

I had a ten inch waist. Now I’m just wasted.




Winter  2014



The sign said:  No Jews Dogs Negroes

Public bathrooms  at the beach  1941

Toronto   Rows of boys in classroom

London Ontario 1931   The one in the

back row  Black hair  blue eyes   Sea of

blonde   Runs & runs   Some days outrun

Puts up dukes



You’ll be dead again tomorrow, but in dreams

you live. So I try taking you back into morning.

Myth   Natasha Trethewey  2006



Winter  2014



White cathedral   Black spires pierce

cobalt sky   Wrought iron   Crumbling

stone   Chipped paint   Jazz hounds


Lumpy tourists


Sun has set  Light slanting  No shadows

Circus barker dances   Solitary girl   Raggedy  21

Voice hollow tin can   rings out over inky  Quarter


There is a house in New Orleans  they call the Rising Sun


Feet walk in other direction   LOUIS ARMSTRONG AIRPORT

Slight chop   Bridge over Ponchartrain ends

Ice welcomes   Colourful outfits fade   Tinny voice

wakes me at 4 a.m.   these days


I’m goin’ back to New Orleans   To wear that ball and chain








Deep Winter  2014






Last night I walked a mile in a famous poet’s shoes

Now all wet & sullied   She the first to publish me


So had my promise been muddied?  Writing whimsy

& deadpan   Genuflecting at the BIG BOXY BOOKSTORE


Oh how can I return the shoes?  They will need to be dried

& polished   And what about the soles   now filled with holes

and crusty   Or maybe I’ll just  KEEP THEM


And in a perfect ruby-slipper world   I will own her genius


ruby slippers



Late Winter  2014

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