Why I turned out the way I am

October 16th, 2014 — 8:44pm

 

It’s for your own good

my father belted.

My mother did the same but

at the dinner table with peas.

Mr. Drury in Grade 7 had me

write lines of PPPPPPPs

“It’s for your own good”, he opined.

 

Cigarettes are now 10 bucks a pack

and casinos $1,000 plane rides away.

“It’s for your own good”, they say.

 

Seat belts, sanitoriums and saints

always a safe, sane step away.

My wife, my ever, always wife

books me monthly to see a doctor

as much a dunce as a doc can be.

All he offers are pills and pleasantries.

Both saying, “It’s good for you!”

 

Wars, weddings, sprayed green lawns

papal proclamations and government edicts ….

It’s all for your own good

they declare when asked.

 

I am, my life now nearly done

I have yet to truly taste what

we call – free.

I followed footsteps and danced

for my own good, like I was told.

Thinking back I now know how

I came to be who I am

this man, here and now

finally at home in the world

on edge, now so aware

of what really is good for me,

my flusher broke.

 

It’s like one day you wake up

And realize there ain’t no jello tree

and the gingerbread man has

run out of your dreams or

you find out the dictionary

was written by a dyslexic pedophile

and you head out the door to

write your own.

 

Antigua, Guatemala

October, 2014

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Stolen Elegy

October 11th, 2014 — 9:41am

 

Oh the end game of i

to have bounced from country to country

or danced among the silent letters of time

to have been part of Marseille, of Seoul, of Carlsbad

of Canada and of the Alps

to have returned at the time of tin terror

to this earthy, giving land

to Antigua, to Guatemala and to those places

where the Mayans met the Spanish and they mixed their blood,

to have sauntered through the mist and mystery of early morning Prague

to have survived this house of mirrors, this life

to have sought in vain, the always in the eyes of one woman

to have questioned old wisdom, new wisdom, this empty modern

to have seen things as they are

death, the clear morning, the forever sky and the tender blooms of spring

and to have seen the horror, the always deep end

except for that moment, the old lady in Kiev handing me a pen

a face that does not want you to forget it.

Oh the end game of i

perhaps no more, no less that u.

 

October, 2014

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Just In Case

August 30th, 2014 — 6:54am

 

Just in case

you hear of my demise

perhaps

a piano caught me under it

by surprise or

a measly microbe

cut me down mid-stride or

if lucky

I never woke up from

a better dream or

even luckier

I bid adieu

by the wave of my own hand.

 

Just in case,

you get that phone call or email or

read of it in the back pages

of the local paper,

this is just to say

I’m fine with it.

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Lachez tout

July 27th, 2014 — 11:25am

 

Drop everything

even your hat

even the money

you didn’t give,

even the rabbit

you didn’t pull out,

even the thoughts

you wish you never had.

 

Drop everything.

The day is coming

where levity will

be in demand.

 

You can’t push over

what isn’t attached.

Drop everything

and ring like a bell

against itself

and sing like a song

to no one in particular

and run without destination

over the hardened ground.

 

Drop everything

even the happiness

you’ve never considered,

even the soft bed

you’ve sunk into,

even the freedom in flesh

you’ve found.

Drop everything

even the sound

that silently

swings in your head.

 

Drop everything!

The day is coming

when the suitcases

will be piled high at the door

when the flesh

will waste away on

its rusting pedestal,

when thirst

will dry up no more.

The day is coming

when all will be

counted only once.

 

Drop everything!

Come!

Lachez tout!

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Cheers!

July 10th, 2014 — 7:45pm

 

I am here

this is enough

like the last seed pushes

through the rougher rough.

 

Want, desire, need

abstract things I

no longer bleed.

This apple now in my mouth.

 

I am here.

Piss, shit, breath and spit.

I lounge and loafe.

There is no longer any

getting on with it.

 

For others there

the buzz of progress, nicer hair.

I lift my glass.

I walk not there.

 

I am here.

This is enough.

Like the glistening tired ant pulls

the large leaf through the rough.

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It Doesn’t Matter

July 7th, 2014 — 9:31am

 

It doesn’t matter if

the air con is kaput

the car got scratched

or the wine ain’t chilled.

It doesn’t matter.

 

Don’t matter if

the dog went on the carpet

or the DOW’s up or down.

Don’t matter if

there’s an earthquake

or you won the Super 7.

It doesn’t matter.

 

No worries about

missing that 9am meeting

drinking too much

drinking too little

no mayo in the fridge

a bad back

a better world.

It doesn’t matter.

 

It doesn’t matter if

the bus is late or

Sunnis are killing Shias

Shias are killing Sunnis

Israelis exterminating Gazans

or

Justin Bieber is doing time.

Don’t matter if

you are this or aren’t that

don’t matter

if the dog got your cat

or the cat got your tongue.

 

It doesn’t matter

if your mother-in-law

hates your guts

or the plane’s delayed.

Don’t matter if

your bank balance is $.1.15

or the remote is broke.

Doesn’t matter if

you don’t finish this poem

or even do.

It doesn’t matter.

 

Why?

It doesn’t matter.

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So Many Fish In The Sea

August 29th, 2013 — 9:16am

I tried to take pleasure

my hands about her tiny waist

but from time to time

I had to look at her face.

A face not even

liquor, love or money could erase.

 

As my fish friendly father

once confessed,

half sauced

still on the rocking boat,

“The deeper you put in your line

the uglier you’ll bring up

but the eating’s all the same.”

 

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BMWs in Bohemia

June 2nd, 2013 — 10:11pm

 

I am looking into the eyes

of a young man

looking at a BMW

swiftly passing

the bus we are in.

 

What is he thinking?

This man

with a $2 watch and

an unused smile

a girlfriend knocked up

who he knocked down

yesterday

just before she told him

the news (and then they kissed).

 

Nothing, is my guess.

He turns his head

and bears down on his gum

throwing back his Michael Bolton hair.

 

For him the BMW

passed by long ago.

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In remembrance of good poets

June 2nd, 2013 — 10:07pm

 

I curse you with life

the thought it entails

the women you’ll never have

the fruits always out of reach.

 

Still, it is better you had lived

stuttering along time’s cobbled streets

your stench a perfume

polluting many into misunderstanding.

 

Without you nothing would happen.

For as has been said:

“Poetry makes nothing happen.”

that being precisely the point

the pendulum swings by,

space but a nothing filled,

time transfixed by your

slowly swinging stick.

 

Keep reaching my friends.

Your tears to tear at the ground

and become a rose that dies.

Keep reaching my friends,

no disguise, no lies.

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The 20th Century

April 13th, 2013 — 10:17am

 

Airflight, cars, too many cars

radio, TV, telephone, video, computers

social security, the pill, condoms, AIDs

equality, justice, no brotherhood.

 

Steel, plastic, teflon, concrete

(but the earth abideth forever)

Picasso, Jackson, graffiti

canned food, microwaved food, fast food

so many starved – no food

vaccines, by pass surgery, transplants

everyone still always dying.

 

Man on the moon, speed, nuclear bomb baboom

the ashes of Birkenau bloom.

 

A little love and peace, no understanding

much profit, no prophets

Russian, Chinese, Cuban, Iranian revolutions

But the world still goes around the sun and itself.

 

National buildings, nation building

Trinidad, Tajekistan, El Salvador, Kosovo, North Korea, East Timor

looking up there is only one sky.

 

Papers, books, magazines, TV, radio, information ages

who can remember what was said

the paper burns, the words fly away.

 

Pop stars, fat politicians, scruffy generals, Elvis, Ali

Einstein, Churchill, Mickey Mouse, Hitler, Ghandi, Stalin

billions of others but I forget their names.

 

A lot of noise, less space unless up in space

floods, famines, the fixing up

accumulation, credit, yo-yos and hula hoops

every man will one day stoop.

 

The 20th century ends not with this bang but a sob

nobody there to throw in the towel or hand a kleenex

only the morning after and us all carrying on.

 

– Dec. 31st, 1999, Varadero, Cuba

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