Recess

Soaking in dismal, dampened down-filled shrouds
We boil and freeze in the snow and sleet
And trudge our way through another play time.

Now is the time where we learn of life
The politics attached to the gift of breathe
And the frustrations of controlled freedom.

And then . . .

In the soulless clang of the rusty bell
Eternal minutes are complete
We are herded back inside the walls
Forced to reinforce our lessons.

Why I Don’t Post Every Day

Today I woke up and had to pee really bad. Really bad. To the point that my groin hurt. So I got out of bed and went to the bathroom and peed. My groin didn’t hurt anymore. Then I went back to bed. I woke up again swearing at the alarm clock. Then I hit snooze. Then I woke up again. Then I hit snooze. Then I woke up again. Then I hit snooze. Then I swore at my cat for meowing. Then I got up. Then I fed my cat. Then I turned on the shower. Then I showered. Then I turned off the shower. My inner thigh was itchy so then I scratched it. Then I dried off. Then I brushed my teeth. Then I shaved (my face). Then I dried my face. Then I peed again.

This Old Blog Of Mine

"Neglect!"

They say to me.

"Neglect of your old blog!"

"Questions."

I can only reply.

"Questions of focus, passions and [sadly] convinience"

"But is it over?", a sad voice in my head timidly mews.

"Nay!", I defiantly roar aloud, "Nay my friend, for it is not over. It has only begun!"

And at this point the internet cafe owner turns and shushes me, and I turn back to this screen and blush.

The Process (In The Drink)

I tips it to my lips
Take one or two sips
Contemplate my life a bit
Take a second to love the music
Soak in the writing that could be
Then I tips once more
Place a smoke between my knuckles
And light

I Owe It To Bukowski

I think I owe it
to Bukowski to someday
dedicate some lines

to him. He hardly
made me who I am today,
but now that I’ve read

him I understand
that somehow the drunken old
bastard stole my thoughts

before I was even born.

Where It Drips

It all drips down
around town
when the monsters take charge -
take control of their dirty, villain roles
and force feed our pleasures to the wide-eyed lenses.
We all drip down
In our lives
Wanting nothing more than bliss
Wanting nothing more than to be no part of this
So we seep and soak our souls into a place
Where trickery is common place
And our will is somehow respected

Believe me when they say,

And argue what you may,

In the end we all do know,

Our hearts do not drip up.

A Little Something Until More Somethings Come To Mind

I drive apathetically to work, squinting towards the middle-aged sun. Autumn is near, yet the city is coated in a haze of pollution and humidity. The people I meet along the way wear their cars with an acute sense of pride. Their destinations are more important than their morals when they don their multi-thousand dollar disguises. "How do you live with yourselves?” I wonder as they swerve in front of old ladies trying to cross the street or force busloads of children to stop short.

My apathy dies, butchered by intense bitterness, as a rusty moving van cuts me off. My horn bleats senselessly and my middle fingers wave savagely as I invent demonic swear words. Minutes later the van has disappeared down an alleyway, and I realize then that it is too late for me. I have let the bastards win. My car too is my mask – a convenient excuse for me to disregard common decency. I speed up, attempting to block a turning car from getting in front of me. As they shake their fists I shake my head. "Seriously, how do you live with yourself?”

Friday Night

As I pushed her drunken shell into the cab
And began to climb in behind her
I grew terrified
For she was drunk and on the urge of vomiting
And with a 20 minute cab ride ahead of us there would be no escape
From the diarrhea stench of liberated fart
Unleashed by the cabbie
Seconds before
I had opened the door

Joe Ksawn Mi

I spent the last couple of hours writing a post explaining why I have not posted in awhile. It was about a thousand lines longer than this and, in my opinion, perfectly ready to send.

I guess my computer didn't like it because I clicked "publish" and it said "error".

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha
hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha
hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha

Now, in an effort to boil my previously lost writings down:

I hate BLOGS and I hate "blogging". Still, I feel like this place is a perfect muse for my thoughts and rants. I must simply avoid the pretention and staleness that is the typical "BLOG" if I am to remain satisfied with my product.

PS - I really wish I still had some 50's left. "Strongbow" tastes like pee.

There's No Time Like the Past

Hey Folks,

I was just reading over some old stuff I'd written, trying to find something good for you to sink your eyes into, when I came across some writing I had done for an ill-fated magazine project. I had not written much for it, but I did review an Ol' 55's show at the Poor Alex. Since I put my time and effort into it, only to never have had it read, I would like to share it now. After all, why let innocent words go to waste.

My only regret is that I do not have the actual date of the show recorded (very unprofessional of me, I know), but it was earlier this year, sometime in June. Also, keep in mind that this was for a particular column that had a limited word count and therefore required limited details. For the record, I stand behind this review. Hell I even paid at the door after the show was done, despite the fact they had let me in for free. Besides, I wouldn't have their link posted here if I thought it would waste your time.

"OL'" IS THE NEW "NEW"
You never know what to expect from a pay-what-you-can show. Most times you end up checking your wristwatch, hoping to salvage some fun from an otherwise wasted weekend evening. A different story emerged from the smoky bowels of the Poor Alexander last Saturday night however as The Ol’ 55’s took charge of the evening. Pumping forward some thoroughly enjoyable tunes, these newcomers proved to be a band of balance. They were catchy and yet still aggressive. Their stage presence was confident, yet not insultingly cocky. While Lea Dodington bashed out some boastful beats from the shadows, the duo of Thor Thunders and Casey Lyons shook the front end of things in a feisty melee of dirty rock music. With so many bands crowding the Toronto scene these days, it is difficult to choose which shows to check out. Taking a gamble on The Ol’ 55’s however is one bet that will surely pay off.

A Full Moon In October

A glow of moon lights the grey forest floor,
As you walk on to your home.
You think to yourself about warmth,
Think to yourself about love,
Think to yourself about far away dreams,
Think about sleeping in your bright, fluffy-bed,
And think about . . .

snap

A lightly cracked twig is enough for your thoughts to muddle a bit.
You remember the stories,
Of people killed in the woods,
Of people killed by animals,
And
by
other
people.

You quicken your pace,
Like good people should,
And you think about rapes,
And of crimes on T.V. ,
And you start to sweat,
(just a little bit though).

But the trees and the moon,
Seem so bright on this night,
And the forest is quiet . . .

So you stop for a moment,

Near a tree for a moment,

To catch your breath for a moment,

And stop the panic for a moment.

The moonlight subsides,
As the autumn clouds shift,
and
then
you
freeze . . .

Can’t step forward.
Can’t turn your head.
Can’t even really breath because,
Out of the corner of your eye,
You
can
see
us
in
the
shadows.

You can’t move.

Through the silence
You can hear
our raspy growl.
Your mouth is dry.
Your skin is pale.
And you dare not turn your head.

We move slowly closer . . .

You now can feel a warm, dog-like breath on the back of your neck.
We are behind you.
We can smell you.
We can almost taste you.

Do you sense the dancing hunger beneath our yellowed eyes?

But you are brave tonight,
You feel strong tonight,
And so, in one fantastic moment,
One amazingly heroic moment,
You leap ahead and run.
You run so very fast.
Faster than you ever have!

We lunge at you.

We miss.

And you run ahead with the power of fear,
With the desire to stay alive.
So very very fast.
You can hear us behind you,
But you run
And run
And run
And then . . .

You can see the edge of the forest!

You can see the clearing near your house!

You run even faster,
Faster than you ever believed you could,
You're almost at the clearing!
Almost made it home!
You realize you are crying,
as you run
and run
and run.
And
as
you're
almost
out . . .

You stumble.

Throw

out

your

hands

to

catch

yourself

but . . .

It doesn’t matter now.

In the end, we were faster.
In the end we were stronger.
In the end
you didn’t
make it
home.

I Wrote Once In An Old Poem Book

I wrote once in an old poem book:

Someday I hope to wake up from this horrible dream – wake up to find I am 9 years old, and my anxieties will melt away with my favourite breakfast or the thought that Christmas is coming . . .

Of course, over the years, I have learned that if childhood is nothing more than distractions from anxieties, in a way I am still 9 years old. I have also learned that I am better off sticking to this ‘horrible dream’ and enjoying the fact that I am at least still dreaming. And I learned about Wisers, the full flavored whiskey.

When Is A Door Not A Door?

I really hate it when stores with two distinctly separate doors keep one of the doors locked. I think they enjoy watching their customers' awkward jerking motions as they pull hard on an immobile door. I also think they enjoy watching two customers - one exiting and one entering - squeezing through one doorway. Sometimes the locked door has an 'out of order' sign on it. I would believe the door was broken if it was an electronically powered door. Otherwise, a door is typically not a complicated device. There's a handle, some hinges and a lock. Since the lock is apparently working just fine, the 'out of order' must be referring to either the hinges or the handle. I understand retail and food services do not pay very well, but you would think they would have at least one employee who is smart enough to understand the intricacies of hinges and handles. Bottom line: the door will never be fixed. The store owners simply love watching our daily routine of coffee spillage and swears as we exhibit inane dance moves through the only available doorway at the same time as some morning breath bastard who couldn't wait 2 seconds for us to go first. Assholes.

Untitled

In fields of grey wet winter birth,
With cracking trees of bone and earth,
I see you walking with me . . .
Holding hands and whispering.
And as the sky grows dark,
I turn and kiss you on your cheek,
Tasting that lonely tear.

Jake's Post

When I was the cat I used to be, I had spirit. I was full of life. I climbed trees with ease, and tore the fields apart – tore them up with instinct galore. I lived with furious grace. I was free.

Of course, that was when I was the cat I used to be.

Now, with my life of comforts and treats, I cry. You might think it is a need for love, or pity, or just a life of some pathetic me. Really, when I am crying, it is for the cat I used to be.

Make no mistake. Lying cold on the side of some forgotten road, I almost died. My sisters took me in. They kept me safe while I lay in the grass, missing my back legs. I was cold. I was helpless. I was angry. I was not me. Remember this. I cry for the cat I used to be.

My sisters are now all gone. One is dead from being saved. The others have gone to a home unknown. I keep on keeping on. I am legless, with my spirit bruised. Yet, I can cope. So please do not blame me when I cry. My cries are not for you. They are not for me. When I cry, it is for the cat I used to be.

In Taber's Skies . . .

In Taber's skies I sat, surprised,
While thirty mak-ocks carried eyes,
From Palto's point onto Sim's cliff -
Then dropped them on a moss-creamed drift.
In Taber's skies there floated 'round
Purple clouds of trumpet sounds -
And still, beyond was night-time-sun
Which shone it's dark on everyone.
In Taber's skies dropped kitten cries,
Falling wet and turning shy.
In Taber's skies where quill-quotes play
I wish I could forever stay
I'd lose myself from place or time
To then become eternal rhyme.

Urban Scrawl

on the subway on February 17, 2005:

Walking stereotypes of attitude are crowding my existence again. I wonder, does it make a difference where you live? Suburban bitterness had a sour sting as I rotted in my self-made prison. But now, this urban pretension . . . it kicks me in my teeth. At least the small town sheep took time to mock me as I spat crimson at their feet. In the city they are oblivious – to both the pain they cause, and to their wolf's clothing ripping gently apart at the seams.

True Story

Oshawa, 1996

I sat once in a coffee shop and wrote inside my poem book. I noticed a girl who was cute etc. She came in and ordered a coffee.

She sat beside her friend (across from the table I was at) and she spoke about her life. She looked at me briefly, though she looked at me a lot.

She spoke of her great sadness - of her life with some guy who treated her poorly - some guy whom she said she still loved dearly, despite how much he shat on her. I didn't want to listen, but I was only a table away.

As the ladies’ conversation dwindled, the once-faceless villain appeared. He said that he wanted to surprise the girl. He told her she should go out with him that night. The girl protested, and although her friend told her to go, she still said no.

It was then that the guy told her she was stupid (actually, he said she was fucking stupid). According to him, she didn't realize how good he was to her. He told her that she probably liked other people because she was a slut. I just kept writing in my book.

I felt her eyes turn to me. I felt his eyes turn too. He said that she was a bitch. Then he laughed and said that I must think I'm Shakespeare or somethin’. He asked if she wanted to be fucking Shakespeare instead of fucking him.

There was a long pause . . .

The girl then giggled and told him to be quiet. She told him he was being silly. He told her that she’d shut up if she knew what was good for her. He told her to go to his car and told her to wait with his friends. She obeyed. I guess she thought she loved him . . .

Once the girl had left, the asshole sat down with the friend. He mentioned that he could kick Shakespeare's ass. The friend laughed and said yah, and then asked him to give her a ride home. He said anything for someone as pretty as you. Then they left.

I’ve played this scene over and over again with a different ending each time. I’ve pictured the girl standing up for herself. I’ve pictured her leaving with me. I’ve even pictured myself calling the guy on the fact that he was complimenting me with the label of ‘Shakespeare’. Most times however I’ve pictured his expression as I smash my coffee mug across his ignorant face. It doesn’t matter though. In the end I just kept writing . . .

Sold Out

Misconceived notions of artists
And artistry
Make for furious chatter amongst the untouched masses
Selling out
And suffering
Two extremes of such a similar base
Knowing where to draw the line isn’t the problem
But believing there is no line to draw?
Misunderstandings of intention,
And action.
Of meaning,
And meaning.
There is a line to be drawn
But it is not unswerving in nature
Should we settle for what is understood by the many,
Or fight for our souls in spouting what is formless to most?
Perhaps it is love we crave.
Acceptance.
And if so, should that feed us,
Or will it weaken our sight?
Money obviously does.
But what about the heart?
What about the passion?
Is it possible to put a price on intention?
Our actions DO speak louder than words.
But is that really our fault?
Or is that really THE fault?
A society based on misguided perceptions
Is hardly enlightened.
Is hardly a good judge
of character
of intention
of art.