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

Archive for the month “January, 2018”



It’s difficult to write about familiar topics: decrepitude +

death  on day one in the silver lamé  Bonnie   A shrunken

little Moto jacket  designed by the feisty  Rosa   Named after

Ms. Parks  + Luxemburg    My bro gave it the thumbs up:

Elvis would approve!


Bonnie Parker Barrow  never officially wed the illiterate

bank robber  Clyde   Her first husband at 15  Roy  died in

prison   Dropping out of school early  Bonnie had designs on

poetry  but was destined for bloody notoriety   A clip on Youtube:

Bonnie’s face smashed against the glass  of a bullet ridden car

Circa 1934


Bonnie wanted more  than life in abandoned shacks  +riding

shotgun with Clyde   Ride until you die!   Her motto was

prescient   A bullet-deflowering  on her way to the wedding  in

the hereafter



*(as imagined by poet in silver lamé..Write until you die!)

Clyde is coarse  Roughly handled  and non-consensual   I gaze out

at wildflowers along the roadside  Miss my mama  and wonder about

her own servitude in my birth-house  Where all I ever wanted was to

imagine words erasing the grimy days  +the dirt roads leading to open

faced slaps by broad-handed men   Made you quiet  wary  +flinching often


Escape looked like a man   Squat  +dirty   Pedal to the metal  hair blowing

in the breeze  Finally free of daddy’s bellowing  Just plain free  (bitches)  to

be whatever I want to be   Teacher said I’d never amount to anything  But

she too  caught rough hands with her cheek  no matter all her book learning

Maybe it’s just these times we’re living in  The girl I’ll raise will drive her own

car  and hit back whenever necessary


RIP  Bonnie Parker Barrow  1910-1934 

Write or die!



Winter  2018





A tooth is rotting in my head   Root of the problem:

A general lack of magic in the air   This will soon be

remedied  at Carleton University  Where a program in

the  Conjuring Arts  is newly offered   Magic  Deception

+ Illusion   My triple major  come September 2018


Husband: You’ll be a master of manipulation!

Me: Be?




Winter  2018 just stink a little bit..   H. Atkins  coined 1962 



Bowie’s face on a pillow in a window  in a place called

SPACE   Ersatz glam  workouts for the holier than cool

David’s face now mashed behind a snarling Torontonian

There are no girls with mousey hair  there   Has Bowie been

dead for 2 yrs.?


I step into  SPACE  +place my craggy hand on the growling

hipster’s shoulder   Have the decency to un-mash David Bowie

I flail  grabbing the pillow  +make haste along John St.    It is

65º today    In layers of mothy wool  I begin to feel quite faint

Though I have not fainted since packed against hard  Drive by

Trucker minions  at the Phoenix


Husband + brother still traumatized   Follow my every move with

hound-dog eyes   At our next concert  where if truth be told  I almost

swoon  at the feet of the sweet Afro’d singer  Benjamin Booker   The

room begins to spin  + I focus on a psychedelic eye  high in a corner

Whereupon   I am transported!


Up+up +up  into a stratosphere where: 40 yr. old cousins with 5 yr.old

sons do not die of lung cancer  on gorgeous Spring days  at St. Joes

(a hellhole  with no working oxygen machines in the Emergency)  In

this sphere  David Bowie + his mother  admire my new found joie de vivre


Newly freed from having to  be something   there is an undoing of the

stress fractures   My face relaxes   Teeth unclench   David’s mum says she

will find me a kimono + slippers    And David blows me   kisses



Back on Earth  Husband’s refrain:

What took you so long? What were you doing?

I was tying my bootlaces

Husband:  Oh  I thought you were having a stroke




Winter 2018   RIP David Bowie  January 10 2016



Another tv star to run for Prez   She never said she was

bigger than Jesus  or better than Jesus  but  neither did

John Lennon   Now there would be a fine president!   But

you know what happened to him  post character assassination

Cold pavement  bleeding out  at 40


Oprah may not be barking mad  as is the current resident of the

all White House  but there is little doubt as to her outsized  ego

Each +every copy  of her magazine has her photo on the cover  For

there are no other personages the world over whose causes are as



Oprah is gunning for beatification   The Pope is a fan   Genuflecting

before her large assets regularly   He will waive the part where saints are

Catholic  for Mother O   It’s just hard to trust her snake oil lust for a throne

Last night she spoke in near tongues at the Globes  where La Streisand  face

nearly unrecognizable from surgeon’s knives  squinted  +shuffled  before her


Crude jokes were lobbed at Harvey  +meaner ones at Spacey  but it really just

seemed all highfalutin  +hollow   More self-congratulatory than: We are the

vanguard of a new world order   Some even used their  plus one invites  to

bring an  activist  along!  And there in $10,000 gowns  +$300,000 diamonds  they

forgot that these activists  have  always  been around


Last year  +the one before  when the fame whoring Hollywood horde  did not invite

them to the party   Left them in obscurity  to claw their way past cops  smothering

a black man  selling cigarettes  on a Jersey street   Freeze this frame  + in your mind’s

eye travel to their mansions on the hill   Closing ranks against Harvey  who last year

was called  a God  by Saint Streep


Surely to God  someone knew that he was a serial sexual predator?   But whistles

were not blown   The power dynamic is a poisonous brew   Far be it for plebeians like

you to judge these powerful women   Souls were sold  +it is no secret that the human

conscience has always fallen victim to hubris  along with the other deadlies

Especially gluttony


I’m not saying I am bigger than Jesus  or better than Jesus   I’m just saying   Let’s

turn the high beams off of these glam-ladies  who gesticulated madly  as no female

directors were nominated    Let’s address instead  the real age old power imbalances

around since  the naked apes crouched in caves    might is right


In 2017 world orphanage tourism was being  phased out  because:  the dirtier the

rooms +the hungrier the children  the more $$ tourists bequeath   So now all foreign

money will disappear  +children  especially girls  will be left at the roadside  or be

drowned in rivers







Winter  2018  …for all children living among debased tyrants..





..eyes dead and sightless  crouching there pale and naked

The brain that pulsed in a dull glass bell.  It swung its head

from side to side   gave out a low moan  turned and lurched

away..    (Cormac McCarthy   The Road)


Post apocalyptic treatise   The creature  reminiscent of the orange

beast  currently terrorizing the world  Finger on a VERY BIG button

Bigger than that of the stout buffoon with a mushroom cut   He who has

his sites set on California   Then make your way east!  Insane young man

It finally seems possible in our lifetime   The much vaunted apocalypse

Set in motion by an idiot-stand-in:  for a president  for a God


Times like these stir up memories of simpler times?  When we huddled

under our desks at school  +an alarm sounded in the hall  Drills for some

distant apocalypse  Not yet the teenaged gunmen with weapons of mass

destruction  picking off students like bobbing apples in a barrel   Heads

exploding willy-nilly


Or a most perfect day from your childhood   One you’ll want to savour as

the button kings continue their pissing contest  Both of small mind  +absent

soul    1965  parents out   Old grandfather in front of tv  watching wrestling

+wrestling with invisible men   In a vinyl+metal rocking chair  purchased for

his yearly visit   Until emphysema claims him in a sanitarium   Sainte-Agathe-

des-Monts   But first a family trip to visit him


Your father bridles at the uncut pizza  tears it apart with his hands  +declares:

Dumbest bastards God ever created    A cousin who wasn’t thought especially

swift  but  in reality  his brilliance rivalled that of Heidegger  intoned his own

 version of: beings unto death   When in a Montreal singsong  he pointed at us

children  like a balding Jewish reaper:  You’re gonna die  +you’re gonna die

We’re all gonna die!


45 yrs. later he is still alive   Your father not so lucky   nor the cousin’s only son

Who perished slowly from a strange Legionniares’ like disease   During his

protracted illness  his wife would call our mother  quite high on her declining

husband’s medical marijuana: I hate him like poison  she’d say   One supposes him

to be in a better place   than the one where we contemplate a crossing   Over stinking

scablands    Once the button boys have their way




WINTER  2018



Packing for Big Sur   Moving there   8 unopened boxes

after 16 yrs.  still in the crawlspace  Straight into dumpster

Separating the wheat from what is trash   Piles of detritus

feet deep     What + who  to keep?


The demarcation point of New Year’s day  stirs anxieties

Resolutions  for the faint of heart    Things to grab hold of

in the 364 days ahead   Lives broken down by some ancient

mathematician into: seconds  minutes  hours  befores  afters


Keep the naked ape counting   Trick him into believing that it is

not onelongdayandonelongnight ever repeating itself    But rather

an ingenious treadmill  of beginnings  +endings     More illusions


Like happiness  +freedom    Suitcases strewn  Hiking boots packed

Big Sur is mountainous   +there are handsome Argentinians   Miraculously

you have lost your fear of the San Andreas fault!  And of leaving this frozen

wasteland of a place    Where 21,900 days have come +gone


There were large dogs   horses   a pack of grimy brothers    And yet each

morning as you prepared to walk onto the stage  +increasingly so    You

know  that they cannot keep extending the run   And you have read the

manual: Surviving Earthquakes  most thoroughly   Stand in a doorway

It is the strongest place in any dwelling  Or don’t trust me +be crushed like

a flea beneath your bed


Doorways are liminal   So too the limen of New Year’s day  a tricky beast

Still groggy from tequila  + 6 bags of Skittles  you believe in new frontiers

But what you really long for is one last Cormac McCarthy novel  +a blanket

Perhaps even a pacifier   It is the coldest winter since 1960  And what are all

those suitcases doing on the goddamned floor anyway


..handsome Argentinians of Big Sur..



Day 1  2018     Can I get a witness?

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