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

Archive for the month “March, 2018”



Fire on the subway   Angry man not un-handsome  in the 7/11

BUY ME THIS!    He screams   +shoves cold dosas in my face

I know then that Kansas is just a metaphor   Then stumble onto

Yonge St.   Bright sun  + a brisk wind ricochet  Wishing my clothes

weren’t so breezy +synthetic  A little wool would go a long way today

As would a sharp pair of shears to cut the umbilical cord




I take a $14 cab 7 blocks  +arrive at  CANNABO-LAND  where I enter a

seedy room with 23 chairs  a Jumbotron  +a wan man with confusing

eye contact   Kill me?  Kiss me?  Do me?   I scrunch against the wall  +

wait for my name to be called   There is green matter all over the Brita


Offering greying water to Cannabis seekers



the stained sign says   Oh  one episode  I guess I’m good!   You see  I believe

my entire family  +current husband  to be figments   As C.G. Jung once said:

There is as much chance of your dreams being real


As the person beside you


These days I contemplate the  deep state  on many a night at 4 a.m.  as I lay

awake in a late life fugue    Stormy is a  deep state  operative   And this gracious

porn star will bring down the baboon ruler of the free world  More power to her

By 5:12 a.m. I chase fears of a mountainous city  6,402 miles above sea level   My

latest escape fantasy   But will I need an oxygen mask?


I have always been high maintenance


Finally my name is called  +a man who looks like a NARC  takes me to a room

away from the bad Hip Hop + light erotica on the Jumbotron  I will need more

than Cannabis to recover from this experience  Perhaps he is from the deep state 

Eyes red-rimmed +mystic   I am so scared that I neglect to mention the narcotic I

used for sleep   My urine sample does not lie    Maybe you forgot? 


He winks


I prostrate myself before these ghouls  One a young doctor (?)  wearing a

stethoscope + Fred Perry tee  He tells me not to worry about paranoia  as he

speaks in hushed tones   Eyes riveted to the door   I was once a girl upon whom

butterflies landed   Now the magic will be kept alive by a plant   I leave with a

urine stained script   Doctor’s hands a tad shaky   Old warhorse back on city

streets  Unhinged  Corporeality tattered


Come Get Me Fertile Spring!





Spring  2018  …the Resurrection close at too the Exodus…









He was 5 when I met him   8 when he said: If I killed

somebody would you still be my friend?  He was named

after the prophet Elijah  The one we open the door for  at the

end of the Passover seder   The one who stumbles drunkenly

from house to house drinking Manischewitz  for free  which is

likely the only way it should be drunk


Eli I replied: Yes  No matter what you do  I will be your friend

+try to understand   Even if I’m in prison?   Yes even then   He

was already shackled to a narrative of woe  Mother schizophrenic

Eli beaten +abused by various Dads  Lost hearing in right ear from

a boxing gone wrong


One day he accidentally (?) hit me  quite brutally with a plastic

golf club  Still his friend  I encouraged using words instead of fists

I who hail from the tribe of a vengeful God   He of the big 3  Tormented

Job  +demanded human sacrifice on occasion   Let my people go!


And here I stand  yet again  on the precipice of freedom   Every decade

we take stock of the prisons we live in   Dig in deeper  or tear it all down

+start over again   Exile is always the price  from: home  5000 CDs

4300 books  2 tvs   friends   family  And your father’s grave filled with

Pagan miniatures


Vengeful God  we are outta here!   Some leave on a day much like today

Sky berserk blue   Exodus the territory of:  cancer ridden  the broken hearted

+the down on their luck   Me + You?   Freedom and it’s brother  exile  generally

not for top of gamers   But maybe they are just blinded by the light of lucre

+success   And never stop to think   that in the blink of an eye  the rungs up  may

become   the rungs down





Spring  2018 1 day

Jacob’s Ladder



March madness upon us  gnashing teeth  Lone demented woman

ringing my old mother’s doorbell  4 a.m. each morning this week

The centre will not hold   The world has become sick reality tv

Bad art  imitating bad life  imitating bad art   Fake news  Putin

blaming Jews  for election tampering    What else is new?


A nascent Spring hanging in the balance   What no one remembers:

It does not come  in times of extreme brutality    There wasn’t any

Spring whatsoever  from 1935 – 1939    We always thought it would be

an apocalyptic event to rent us from the garden  permanently    The

environment?  Nuclear holocaust?  We never suspected it would be a

buffoon with an orange tan   + a psychiatric diagnosis    His hour come

round at last


And now we’re on a collision course with pure  unadulterated  evil:  A

squat boy-man  with his finger on the smaller button  being courted

(sounds sexual  no?)  A marriage made in thugheaven   The beady-eyed

man with big muscles who likes to wrestle with bears  perhaps sharing

porn stars with Donald Duck   The trashing of NATO   The shitting on the

UN   The lying a total of 3,678 times in his first 13 months in office (see the

Fact Checkers report this week)


Spring  we will mourn you   Botticelli is rolling in his grave  He of  Primavera

+Venus rising from the ethers in a clamshell   Fertile earth   Fecund sea    A

cherub orgy    Today’s Botticelli: A naked pear shaped man  too orange tan

Dic-tator in a golf cart  with Stormy  Kim  +Vlad  unclad    What rough beast




Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity.


And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,

Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

(William Bultler Yeats  The Second Coming)








SPRING  2018

Birth of Stormy    Sandro Botticelli  1480   ..and 2018



He spoke to me of epiphanies  +shamanic parties in the jungle

(a.k.a. findthegodwithintourism)   Apparently the use of the

drug  distilled from the Ayahuasca plant  is the new-ish panacea

for monied desperados   A Canadian doctor taking groups into

the jungle ($$$)  is lending credibility to what is otherwise known

as a weeklong vomitfest  of festering psychic terrors


In ancient traditions this was reserved for Shamans earning their

wounded healer stripes   Walking the (vomitous) walk   Personally

I am ready to try micro-dosing LSD  the latest transformation party

out of California   Another:  turn on  tune in  drop out  epiphany?

Why not just grab hold of the nearest signpost   +save some money


The one pointing toward a repetition compulsion so finessed   so well

oiled  that you actually believe yourself to be experiencing something

new! (very close to the definition of insanity)  Particularly when there

is not a scintilla of hope that this is true  i.e..,  the quality of bitterness

the antecedents of despair hidden in the many zippers of that shiny new

moto jacket  the pallor of Anderson Cooper’s thinning face  All brand new


(..wait wasn’t he always so hopelessly white?..)


And do hold onto this signpost  as you power up the nth degree of autopilot

The one where:  If it walks like you  +talks like you  +breaks just like a

woman   It is you   Or a reasonable facsimile    No one will notice   except

the most recent escapee   The one who is  so   HAPPY     (grrrrrrrrrr)


Truthfully you do not need a shamanic joyride in Machu Picchu   One person

I know said she felt absolutely no flavour of the sacred there  Not for a second

I sat in shocked silence  as she had just recently lost her soul to the food at

Balthazar   NYC


But the real lesson in the dirt of this nasty diatribe: It is epiphanic in + of itself

that you awaken in the same casing each +every day   Eyes open  comfortably numb

With or without a hard on   seeing an untethered foot at the end of your leg   until

you don’t






They say the ghost of Claude Monet haunted Joan Mitchell’s

Paris garden   Her paintings  abstractions of Giverny   Watery

purples + glistening pinks   Lover of Jean-Paul Riopelle   Hard

colours  +squares   And penile   They say in the notes to the show

(AGO to May 6)  that they met in Paris  fell in love  + enjoyed a

wild  social life    The subtext: wilder than yours


My own gardens have been haunted  mainly by Jewish poets  Your

ghosts find you   Monet far too angelic  +peaceful  for an angsty red

headed Jew with an un-wild social life for at least a decade   Oh  and 1

Jewish photographer  a suicide   Daughter of ritzy clothiers   Arbus

Angsty as they come   Then there is Mandelstam  persecuted  + gulaged


On Tuesday as I departed a Jewish retirement residence  a woman touched

my hand: Mumala do you speak Yiddish?  I understood:  Peace  God  Luck

But it was when she switched to English that a punch administered to gut   I

last saw my mother at 15   There was a knock at the door   I knew what was

coming   Your interlopers find you:  survivors   kidnapped +burned children


In the camp there was something  someone  always pushing at my back  Do

you know who?   I thought of everything in life   I was a business woman  But

I never thought of this    She gestured around the lobby   I stumbled out into the

frigid night  Leftover cheesecake bouncing against arthritic knee  Would I trade

my aging psyche  for a younger body?   MRI’s now writ large in my wild social life


While I would have said no  a mere week ago  the drill in my rotator cuff  is creating

nostalgia for my un-formed 20’s   The unlimited possibilities  +the ghost of Lennon

finding me   Years before survivors of wars + tortured children   Light of heart  Angst

free  (mostly)   Once  a wise + jovial aunt  who spent many years incapacitated  said:

We live our lives backward    This at a wine+cheese  on the eve of my 1st engagement



Life strikes a deal with the coming night….

2 Joan Mitchells



Spring  2018  ..



Everyone knows an escapee  or with puffed chest: tells

you they will soon be one   tells you to stop being yellow

bellied   The teller’s uncle  just bashed his head open  in

buttfuck  Mexico   Moving him by plane would kill him  they

said   Leaving him in place would take 6-10 days   Either way

what difference does it make?


Also see the obituary for Alexander Sevastian  41    Accordion

virtuoso   He too died in Mexico   February 16th  a town called

Ahijic !  Ever heard of it?   Didn’t think so  The ex-pat community

of 363  spend days photographing donkeys  +nights hiding from

the Cartels   Last week  3 Italian boys were sold into slavery  for $53


If it were so easy  cities would be emptied  and they are not   One must

go through epiphanic catastrophe  be in cancer recovery   as was the teller’s

uncle    Now dead   Today there is a 50 mile/hr wind whipping up  my

spine  yet the sun shines  seducing the marionettes   Wooden body parts

will come alive !  in May


And then for 180 days  you will forget the horrors of February  the Ides of

March   You will come to believe  that bolting  of one’s own free will  is wholly

unnecessary   You will sit back and wait for the undertaker  +rotten children

to throw your dentures in the incinerator    Make hay    Make hay





Spring  2018  11 days



..listening for the sound of (stars)  hope  is like trying to hear

the flap of a hummingbird’s wing from inside a hurricane..

(Dr. Peter Kurczynski  National Science Foundation on the

sound of stars  + AAC on the sound of hope)


Have you heard of the Schwanger Kommado?  The  pregnant unit

at Dachau  Between December 8, 1944 + February 28, 1945  the final

7 Jewish babies were born in captivity  just before the liberation  During

pregnancy the mothers to be worked in the laundry de-lousing clothes

One new mother  Miriam Rosenthal said: I gave birth in Dachau  so how

could I not believe in God?  


Miriam gave birth into a pail  without anaesthetics   Jewish newborns were

frequently bayoneted after birth  thrown into the air  +caught   One can see

how she came to believe  in God   Her son  now 73  wrote her obituary  Miriam

died at 95   7 days ago   Perhaps it was her faith  sustaining her on the long

walk home   She later met her husband !  as she carried their baby through town


Many more lost faith  which perhaps is akin to will?  Inner Godhead powering

the circuitry of a frail human self   But only if you BELIEVE   Old man  white beard

This God   tested Abraham  + Job    frogs  locusts  blood of first born  crucifixion   

Secular version:  BELIEVE in  Cosmic Circuitry    Our first stars   discovered

yesterday   Made of  the same stuff we are    Dr. Judd Brown  Arizona State U:

We are made of the stars  so we are glimpsing our origins!


This is hopeful poem  And while it is true that man is debauched beyond recognition

It is also true  that given the  right  number of child deaths by assault rifle  a tipping

point has been reached   Even in the yellowheart of the free world’s dictator  there is

dawning a belief   that if he bans the bumpstock  +calls for mental health checks   his

15 minutes will grow  EXPONENTIALLY   As he said to a 14 yr. old full of shrapnel:  

hear you’re a huge fan of mine!    She denied this vehemently


Soon in  MiddleHeaven  there will be a march   All fallen comrades  some by bayonet

others by bullet   All under the age of 18    They gather as I write  numbers growing

into the millions  if we count the sacrifice of virgins   So on March 24th   the first stars

13.6 billion years old  will mingle with  carnage  + courage     Anne Frank    Miriam   +

the SandyHook 26   some on the shoulders of the Parkland kids  will HOPE    All at

once   for an instant



*Stand by  as on March 25th  the star particles raining down into the hearts of ordinary

men+women will shatter the grip of the dark imp   And our eyes   will gaze up at their

eyes   gazing down at our eyes



Spring in 20 days

(..those aren’t stars  they’re eyes.. just as u always suspected..)   





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