Wednesday, December 30, 2009

St Joan...

Joan of Arc was burnt alive. Absolutely toasted…

Did she hear the voice of God?
Was she a gross sinner?
A heretic?
Could she do math?
Was she a witch?

No… she was burnt alive for being a cross-dresser and a general pain in the ass to the "State"… not her own "State" either... some one else's. Joan was French but it was the English who toasted her.

So yeah… what does it that mean? Things are not all that different today... the "State" is getting irrationally in the way...

Where are we going?
How are we going to get there?

Fact is though that we are not all going to arrive… which leads to the question – does it matter to you if we do not all arrive?

It is really just this simple

2009 is closing and some antique ideas persist...

I am so tired of the whole “Feminist” debate over who is or can be a feminist… so here it is set out simply…

True or False?

Women are equal human beings to men and entitled to equal opportunity, equal respect, and equal remuneration.

If you say True you are a feminist…
Men can be feminists…
your gender does not matter.

If you say False then you are a misogynist…
and again your gender does not matter…
women can be misogynists.

The rest of the blather is just cheap excuses.

Monday, December 28, 2009


I don’t like “resolutions”… it is impossible for me to trust in that sort of change… to wake up and suddenly be different… I can’t trust that… deeds count; words don’t… the act makes the fact.

“Resolutions” are a fairy tale’s promise… to be suddenly richer… to be suddenly wiser… to be suddenly beautiful… all at a word… it’s a magic spell without the discipline of learning how to do it.

It does not take a “resolution” to quit smoking or cheating or whatever you are after… look, if the fairy tale witch made a resolution to quit poisoning apples would you take the fruit? Could you believe that much over words?

You want to change and be a better person… that’s fine… a worthy goal... I got no problem with that... just don’t announce it before you do it... there are enough broke promises already.

Wednesday, September 30, 2009


You just can not talk ghosts with some people… cause they want to talk about ghouls and the like. I have never seen a ghoul, though I have seen plenty of ghosts. Last night a friend was telling me of a cat poltergeist, which I frankly have never heard of before. Haunting… not quite as strange as some may wish it to be. The dude with the cat geist though did not like my suggestion that haunting works both ways. Some remain due to unfinished business, other remain because we simply will not let them go.

Monday, September 28, 2009

I am waiting... I am waiting.. oh yeah... oh yeah

Sitting back in my chair I had the chance to enjoy the quiet and look out my window at the trees. Sure, there is a city back there somewhere, but all I can see out the window is the trees, the birds, and the calm tranquility of the forest which surrounds the house and lawns. There is a world out there but today I am not a part of it.

It might be selfish really to withdraw and be apart from things, but then the truth is that a lot of things are wearing me out. I get to feeling faded like an old photograph left outside too long.

October is looming up quickly and with it the new medical tests. I was talking with my life partner about this, about how tired I am of the whole thing, and how I would so dearly love just to not do this anymore. I know, how difficult it must be for her to hear that, and yet there she is supporting me through this still. My Jenny is my mountain.

I am going to miss some writing deadlines at Pan Historia. These were self imposed and though I normally would move heaven and earth not to miss my own deadlines, I shall this time. The works will not be the way that I want them to be in time, and I do not think that I will sacrifice my time with Jenny to complete them. Some call it priorities, I call it sanity.

The University is now in full swing, and I have filled my allotment of students. The task ahead is rather pleasing to me, though I find myself missing being the student. It is far different being the tutor. I am not sure that I like it as much. What I am hopeful of is that the pleasure of success from the students will transfer to me as well. Education is a team sport. I wonder if this is how an athlete feels when they must give up playing and become the coach? Are they trying to get back the high that they once knew?

Sunday, September 20, 2009

GOTHPERA test version


the birds

the summer I got sick they thought it was mono

fatigue and persistent pain
bed rest watching the world pass away in brief spells
day dreams
I found it impossible to sleep and could not stay awake
I hovered on the edges of between
reading became an impossible repetition of pages and paragraphs
hushed voice stripped of meaning
the message reverted into droning buzzes
lost behind the empty gestures of comfort and tranquility
I slipped beneath a veneer of life

the sunshine slides across the floor
don’t open the door
let the dust dance
the flecks smiling in the sunshine
it’s just fine

the days poured out of the mornings
into the bright blinding noontime
hunger is a memory
I knew that I should be hungry
I was not
the coffee ignored beside the bed
grown cold buttered toast abandoned
all we have at the end in the longing
the desire to recall eating as pleasure
the warmth of food with aroma
in the absence of flavor
desire dies

let the bird sing in through the open window
stream into the room with the prayer
the birds never promise
the emptiness of tomorrow is absent
shadow fingers across the lawn
around the corner
but I am asleep
dreaming of palm trees wavering over the waves
of the blue ocean surge
the singing of birds

Pandora’s silent scream weighs like lead after the fleeing began
her trembling hand half hide her face
and her beauty was lost to the world
replaced by the discipline of tough love
border lines drawn on paper in seclusion
an old man speaks to a dog in park
barks in commands
there, slow motion dancers practice martial arts
the meaning of the story is jumbled
becomes lost
then hides

the truth is that I watch you
living the flashes of life that you bring
through the closed window
silent movements across the lawn
remembering the song
that birds sang
do they sing


as we stand upon the precipice, the eternal silence of god speaks louder than the texts taught and the unfailing conclusion is that the root foundation for this absence can be nothing short of the actual nonattendance in both the person and the being of a creator

to be undecided or skeptical about
to tend to disbelieve
to distrust
to regard as unlikely
to suspect
to know fear


hope escapes last only because we so choose it to be
afterwards there is nothing but the resounding calmness
the swirling chaos of non existence ceases to be feared
but becomes that which we embrace
the purpose in pointlessness is to cease to seek utility
and to function where no purpose is to be found.


there is a past
unreachable but amendable
there is a present
but there is no future
there is only silence.


grass grows uncontrolled in thick clumps of shaggy green waiting for the evening breeze
the slap of plastic chord on sidewalk cement induces a chant of wordless wonder
this is how girls learn to sing
rhythmic incantations
and then the laughter

through the glass windows it rises muffled
a strangely forbidden language
it is a code of separation
on the grass even the slapping plastic transmutes into the tribal beat of distant drums

I remember it raining as condensed mists looking pout into the grey fog
or the night perforated by yellow lamps
only the sunlight light days are clear
liberated from the murk and the mire of oppressiveness
and still the gnawing teeth of boredom chewed through the walls
mind aching listless boredom


an expression of inquiry that invites or calls for a reply.
an interrogative sentence, phrase, or gesture.
a subject or point open to controversy
a proposition brought up for consideration by an assembly.
the act of bringing a proposal to vote.
to doubt


to accept as true or real
to credit with veracity
to expect or suppose
to think
to have firm faith
to have faith, confidence, or trust
to have confidence in the truth or value of something
to have an opinion; think

the time of forgetting

I’m not your answer. I’m not your solution.
I’m not here to offer you absolution.
you misunderstood me right from the beginning
you misunderstood why your head it was swimming
you’re drowning in tears of your own sweet creation
you’ll die from your fears, your loves and hesitation

tomorrow there’ll be one less infirmity.
tomorrow you’re free from your life’s agony.
yes, I won’t remember the long and forgotten,
the dearly departed in the ground lying rotten.
the sky it is bleeding. the sun it is setting
the night as it comes is the time of forgetting

the name

the room was dim
in the corner the strange priest dressed in black played with sanguinary rosary beads
blood clots
nodules and nodes along the strand of life
ending in self immolation
sacrifice flowing through his pallid fingers
the puffy dry lips mumbling phrases in Latin
the dead language
the language of the dead
thirsting for a taste of wine
roses held in the shadows as the darkness
whispers chuckled and spoke through silence
the dreaded name
fear held all other voices at bay in silent reverence


to perceive through the sense of touch
to perceive as a physical sensation
to touch.
to examine by touching
to test or explore with caution
to undergo the experience of.
to be aware of; sense
to be emotionally affected by
to be persuaded of something on the basis of intuition, emotion,
indefinite grounds
to believe; think


it becomes uncomfortable because they can not truly believe in any other outcome
it haunts them
a form of failure
out of order
if we had just
if they could just
then silence
if we just ignore

families are hardest
the aching want
the pressed silence
there is no hope
thin veils tossed aside easily
there is comfort and hiding
don’t upset your aunt
the secret
I become the family secret

there are so many secrets
whispered conferences behind closed doors and pregnant pauses
what’s the point?
the point is that I do not want him here all day
the point is that I can not cope
wouldn’t it be possible?
if only
if we just
if they could just
do you know what that would cost?

I do not recall when or why I stopped sleeping
and started to wander the house at night
relishing the silence
the dark cool halls
carpet soft against the soles of my feet
the brash charge of the cold linoleum
I was conquering comfort
building tolerances
searching the darkness

if only
if just
her voice breaks down
he is drinking all the milk
but he will not eat
she is breaking done
he wants chocolate milk
oh for Christ’s sake
what is happening to us?

and there it is
what is happening to them…

I stop drinking the milk

let go

let go!
let go!
I’ll never know until you let go.

let go!
let go!
you’ll never know until I let go.

let go!
let go!
when we let go we’ll know

I didn’t want to tell you

I didn’t want to tell you this.
I didn’t want to make you cry.
I thought that it was just a cyst,
but now it seems I’m going to die.

I understand that it’s frightening
but there is nothing you can do
life went fast and it’s quickening
the end will come and then it’s through

and the clouds are falling from the sun
and if we try to run there is no where to go
even though we know there is nothing we can do
still I think of you.


this isn’t the plague
though people avoid you
yet it’s more than they say
they’re trying to elude you

take a nap.
have a rest.
do your best.
avoid stress.
don’t die.

breathe in
breathe out
try not to
toss about

it is just an infection
escaping detection
it isn’t the plague
it only seems that way.


the other self stands naked in reverse reflection
a refraction of the self grinning back
recognition is not an identification but an error in discernment
we are the inhabitants of living flesh that is not our own

the picnic

they would drive into the country along back roads as anonymous strangers
walking with metal cooler boxes and folding chairs
never questioning the worn path’s existence
this was their private place
the picnic place
it was escape

here she would walk along the beach twenty pound lighter in perception
her present self absent
a taste of freedom
he shirtless would fuse and fiddle with the portable fire
his flesh sweating in the heat and burning in the sunlight
in sandals his socks dark anchors
heavy leaden leads
even on vacation he was chained to employment
life had narrowed and eroded him

in youth they had come here naked
splashing diamonds emerging from the water
wrapped in intricate emotional embrace
they were laughter
enticingly erotic
now she stops at bra and panties
the grayness of age over powering the bleach and advertised brightness
her anchors and chains a confinement denying escaped
she is shaped
she sees through the critical eye of judgement discerning failure
his eyes see the sweeping expanse of picnic
an allotment of time boxed off


she stepped off the sidewalk into the smooth reflective surface of the puddle
her eyes steeled, looking ahead
she knew but made no sign to indicate that the cold water had in anyway been unexpected or unwanted
a determined walk across the street
she was a motion through changes in shade and shadow
she disappeared into the small variety store
people disappear across the city into and out of doorways
a moment there then they are gone
like car keys left in the bowl by the door
sometimes they return
steam rises in streamers up from the grates and we wait for the magician to perform once again
an awkward silence and stillness rips a hole in time
the steady unwinding regardless of the hands the watch stops and I walk into deeper gray
only I do not know if I am walking away or towards

the garage sale

they held a garage sale
tables on the lawn
for a moment they were swept away in the event
memories diminished amid the excitement
it was a recognition subderma of the future
or rather it was the recognition of the abeyance of future...
a form of role play abrogation of position and standing
survival is discarding
to dispatch
and jettison weight

the doctor

in transition the changing amalgamation of cells erupts into a chaotic infusion as the immune system begins to execute indiscriminately. during the mitotic process eukaryotic cell mutations beneficial to survival are prevalent in superior numbers amongst the cancerous formations. biology is a numbers game without house rules, score cards or a timer. when it is over, it is over.


she smiled and with an out-stretched hand introduced herself
I am glomerulonephritis
you are leukemia i presume
that which infects our lives becomes us
consumes us
we were born dead
we are plague.

I can not eat the candies
and the flowers slowly wilt
they fade after the visitors have gone
the television chatters like a monkey
inanely flashing irrelevancies
distortions and distractions...
watching talk shows is like having a brain tumor
there is no meaning
just voices talking
saying nothing
meaning nothing.

the laughing girl

she comes in through the darkness
a smile and barefoot
it is 2 o’clock
darkness tells me it is night
her presence tells me it is night
she sings softly without words
then evaporates.

if I follow I find that I can not find her
I have grown slow
or she has grown fast
I laugh at the madness
I decide to walk
bare feet on linoleum
passed the now quiet common room of fretting parents and frightened children
passed the lies of sleep
I pick up a small stuffed cat
ragged tatters of a toy
looking into the dead glass eyes
remembering the forgotten

her laughter startles me to instinctually hold the toy as if it were alive
a hand gently soothing that which has had no life
her hand is small, pale
she gently reaches to the cat which I clutch tighter
the thought of mine banishes all other thoughts
a gentle pet and a smile
along my spine the warmth runs

sparks of affection
the tenderness long escaped floods
a river of kindness erupts through the dams
and I am crying
weeping with exultation
her smile shines
a star brilliant in the darkest night
she glows and radiates within me
my god I am alive

the coolness of her palm upon my glistening cheek
the earnest searching of her eyes
the wavering tenderness as a breeze blows across me
her wordless song fills with meaning
a heart beat
two hearts beat
in my hand a stuffed child’s toy squirms and mewls

oh darkness my eyes have seen the light
oh darkness my eyes have seen the light
oh darkness

but the tears upon my cheeks cool their fire
and I smile
she is here.

it’s so very quiet

it’s so very quiet
I hear the blood squish running through my veins

it’s so very quiet
the clock? time just hammering on the wall

I feel I want to riot
I’d rather go insane
than be the ghost, the pallor walking in the hall

but when the sun goes down
when the night clouds rise
I can see again
but I realize
it is only the toxin wearing off.

it’s so very quiet
and there is nothing here really for me to do
I sleep all in sedative
and dream all night of different times with whom?

but when the sun goes down
when the night clouds rise
I can be again
but I recognize
it is only the venom wearing thin.

it’s so very quiet
and I think I’m rather tired
and the sunlight is burning in my eyes
it’s so very quiet
and I am glad you came to visit
I know this must be very hard on you

but when the sun goes down
when the night clouds rise
I can be again
but I identify
it is only poison beneath my skin.


I did not expect to fall in love
facing death tends to alter the way that you look at people
they become even more temporary
you know that they will abandon you
you don’t want to get close like that
but she just kept coming
it was like I had no choice
or that she would not listen

Some people are like that
but she was infectious
but when she was not there it was colder
and I would find myself waiting for her
but I wanted her to listen to me too
I did not realize that I had been silent for so long
so long I had forgotten how to speak

and then a contagion of a person
an infection in a smile
a laugh
even a touch
how could I understand her?
I would look at her from a different world
I did not know
how could anyone have known?

nocturnal wanderer

Her eyes shine in wet virtues
I could believe in those eyes
she had the knowledge
the secret rituals complete with the meanings of the rhymes
it was upon her lips to chant down
to incant
she could invoke the ancient nature
but she only laughs
a mumbling murmur of laughter

I am dreaming I think
the flaxen hair in halo swiftly through the corridors
the songs of the radiator
the click and clack expansion and contraction
clocks measure in tics and tocks but time is expansion and contraction
it moves like the grass grows - in clumps
swift as we run
agonizingly slowly as we wait

The girl exists
she is genuine
it is the nocturnal wanderings
the lightness of her step
the hint of her laughter in the dreaded spells of silence
barefoot her progressions is the soft beat of the heart of the missing rain


star light star bright
the first star I be tonight
I wish I may, I wish I might

to burst violently as a result of internal pressure.
to shatter with a loud noise:
to make an emotional outburst:
to increase suddenly, sharply, and without control:
to change state or appearance suddenly:


a statement conveying fundamental character.
a statement of the meaning of a word,
the act or process of stating a precise meaning or significance;
formulation of a meaning.

the act of making clear and distinct:
the state of being closely outlined or determined:
a determination of outline, extent, or limits:

the clarity of detail;
the degree of clarity


this is a body out of mind syndrome
it is like a well
a deep dark well
I imagine it to be bottomless
featureless in the dark space between sight and sleep
confined and defined by an absence
an emptiness of features
this well features no features

the pinpoint is the circle of light receding
no thing survives here
at this depth
even the cold can not exist here
this is nowhere.

Thursday, September 17, 2009

the endless sea

for Susan
and those who have lost a love
death defeats only those who forget

bowed low beneath the onset of the north wind,
the sweet banshee’s howls scrape at the heavy moon low on the horizon,
drifting upon the sea
the scent of Bermudan flowers on the gales
a taste from far away
amid the torments of the pounding rain
into the endless sea of fear…

the loneliness is deep-rooted in cold soil
a darkness that cultivates a life in repose
the rain hides the tears in staring eyes
the halo of hair kiting on the sea of stars
reflection of the endless sea of fear….

we are mocked by foolish storms
the sky’s filled chalice runneth over
the day lost to the dreams of night
everything and everyone lies below the endless waves
in the endless sea of fear...

when it cuts,
deep as pain
lightning flash
then the tranquility of emptiness
the endless sea of fear…

thought in perpetual dead reason.
the blade kisses the night
there is no life for me watching the sea
waiting for he
this is no life for me watching the sea
waiting for he
the tears that i have bleed for thee
into the endless sea of fear…

and of love?
the harvest is a dark pool of blackness
devilish and cruel
forever in the night waiting
the rush of the dream is the sweetest pain
the clock is made of flowing tides
the endless sea of fear

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

The Conspiracy Channel

On The Conspiracy Channel

What is behind the massive Tea Bag protests in the United States. Is it because they are round? Is it because of the number of perforations? Or is it just because ever since the Boston Tea Party no nation on earth has had such crappy tea?

“I am a typical American and I went to England and their tea is just so much better than ours. I think I got addicted to it because when I got home and make a pot of American Tea I thought that I was going to puke. I had the shakes. It was awful. I went to Emerge and they charged me $700 for a Coca Cola enema. I'm not paying for that! Who is going to pay my medical bills? Not Tea, that's for sure.”

What is behind this? We here at Conspiracy TV will take you behind the scenes to a typical Tea Plantation where you will see for yourselves that the tea producing nations are deliberately shipping inferior tea to the United States of America to sap our political will and resolve. You will be shocked. And stunned. Very stunned.

A Republican Rep who wishes to stay anonymous said, “Just say No to Tea. At this point in time there are reasonable grounds to believe that coffee is safer. Tea drinkers voted Obama into office. Clearly tea affects one’s political judgement. Just say NO to Tea and vote Republican to save the United States from this International conspiracy.”

That's TEA
on Conspiracy
Don't you dare miss it.
Your future is at stake!

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

the harvest of the morning

Since the early poem posted today was a little depressing I figured that I would share one that was a little more joyful. I wrote this for a friendly competition at Pan Historia.

the boasting river canyon roars sleepily
seeping with blackened desire
and sneering darkly in happiness

autumn's sun appears slowly into the morning
as time decays with tenacity
the dawn paints indigo flushes

fruit ripens
and the stars twinkle through the fading night sky

the yearning butterfly sighs lightly
flailing with bloated longing
heavy with mirth

autumn kneels into chilly air
when nature retires with ease
each dewdrop sparkles in jealous green streaks

rising up
as the sun burns through the cloudless sky

a drifting autumn breeze soars cordially
wishing with burnt pain
and calling darkly towards summer

summer bows then glistening
the beams teasing filigree of melting frost
sunrise awakens across the horizon

a single drop swirls mockingly
moaning in outright splendor
and thrusting gently in love

autumn sun sighs softly into the wind
whilst night dreams in spontaneity

the sky pasted magenta mottles
a dew drop falls from a solitary leaf
as the harvest of the morning

the washroom mirror

as you watch in the mirror
you see life growing clearer
slowing down, going by frame by frame

yes the silence comes after
the peals of their laughter
you’ve forgotten the rules of the game

so you raise up your voice
in a last desperate chorus
and let out your anguishing cry

through the hollow of heaven
but you never break even
it is not in the throw of the die

Saturday, September 12, 2009

Yes, I am really unreal.

Every thing begins with a stray comment and I often believe that if there is a God the Universe began as a mere slip of the lip. In the beginning there was the Word… and then after that nothing but attempts to take it back…

The matter at hand is the question of what is the “REAL PERSON” rather than what is the mask we wear. Oddly in my life, it is the men who ask these questions. Who are you? Why do you dress that way? Is that your “real” name? Etc.

First off, yes, it is my legal name. Good enough for the banks and for my driver’s license. And yes… I have been known by many names.

I watch people… it is my hobby, my passion and my fixation. People are very strange and do the most intriguing things. They never act as you might expect, and seldom seem to know why they are the way that they are. To date though I have never met a “real” person, nor for that matter an “unreal” person. I have simply met people.

There are customs and practices that I don’t agree with and would never adopt for my own. I don’t particularly like talking about the past. True, when I meet old friends after a spell of absence we do quickly catch up… though the key there is quickly. If we face the facts what happened while apart is not riveting tales usually… unless they were arrested… but that is not often the case any more. As people age they are less likely to be arrested and even less likely to be incarcerated. The point is that we live now, and ought to not pine for that which we can never return to. Memories are fine until they become all there is.

What I wear and how I behave are of course contrived when you look at it in the clear light of motivation. My appearance is a selection of choice. What I choose to wear reflects a conscious wearing of a mask. Even should I choose to go nude… that too is a conscious selection of mask. It all creates an atmosphere, mood or condition in which I am the center of the storm that surrounds me. Fact is simple, so are you the center of the storm that surrounds you. Neither can escape this... that is what is real. We wear masks all the time. There is no reality since it is all in our heads.

Oh, but I hear you ask “But what if you are asleep?” To this I say that there is nothing real about sleep. The body is there, no different than a corpse in some regards, but the “I” is absent. I am not there. How then can that be real?

I am expressed to you in symbols… in a secret code that is meant to be intriguing… interesting and awaken in you a desire to be included into my life… into my storm. It’s electrifying n’est pas?

Alternatively, not. There are those who can never get used to my sense of drama. It is then that the worst me emerges… the literal analytical me… emotionless and anchored to the facts that we share in common. We then talk of nothing but the passed past and have no “real” connection in the present. This abolishes any thought of the future.

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

News & Views

It feels like a secret identity at times to live several very distinct lives… the heavy expectations of others are a crippling onus at times… and none more so than the expectations that I have for myself.

Spent a few days setting up my office, stocking the shelves with the correct books (course loads, not affectations) when it was made clear to me that where furniture is placed matters. There is a psychological effect. The school provided chairs, which though nice and new, just were not comfortable. Useless for those moments when I want to be close and at hand… I need comfortable chairs set around a coffee table for that. I do not wish to intimidate the undergrads. I will save intimidation for others.

Then there is the desk, the brutal throwback to the industrial revolution. It acts as a barrier as much as anything else. Set to the side it dominates a corner of the room. I imagine my meetings with the faculty to be held over that desk… that impressive edifice of strength and position. Instead of diplomas, I will hang pictures taken for a few of my more “outrageous” readings. Costumes and Drama. Poetry is not for the weak of will.

Still, though I know that this me… I shall feel at times like a phony. Yet, so help me, I am so happy to be back at the University. I hate teaching, but I love the feel of the place.

wet dreams

she’s the pickle of love… the affectionate wave…. yet she fits like a glove… when the road is fresh paved… when she’s off in a car… she wears a hat for the shade… she is just like a smile… at the side of the grave… with malicious intention… she pulls you down to the fire… when you’re starting to shiver… she fills your heart with desire… but you know that she’s gone… though it feels just the same… you never get to meet her… she left before you came… and you have to hold on… hold on tight for the ride… yes you have to hold on… or you will dry up inside… hold on to your dreams… they are all that you get… hold on to your dreams… or you just might forget… just who you are… or you may fade away… and when there is no one left… there is nothing to say.

Saturday, August 29, 2009

sea dreams

sea dreams

dark starless skies loom
weaving a fretful night of shades and shadows
one can sense the fish in their schools
making their ill-fated deep sea run for freedom
while on shore
rocks wait patiently
for the rain above the tide lines

the sea waves a timeless greeting
whispered conversation and deep secrets
an embrace and kiss farewell
melancholic tears stain the rain
the ship in the bottle
and illusions of a dream.

Friday, August 28, 2009

my dinosaurs

The monitor screens glow…the clicks of micro circuits barely perceptible… the hard drives switch over… a fan starts… the CD players is on… just before the music begins there is a static crackle… then the sound… I am silent at that moment, fingers hovering over the keys… anticipation…

Books are scaly dinosaurs climbing the wall with evolutionary intent escaping their revolutionary ways… messenger RNA knocks at the door where in another time the pizza delivery person will stand… their rictus grins in statuary dignity… you were here they tell me… your eyes glancing across their hidden secrets… your fingers tantalizingly brushes their spines… you were here in blindness… a mute amongst my demoniac cabal…

The Muse On Line is plugged in…
the past is present…
the future an immutable possibility on the edge of eternity…
if I open the window shall I soar into the thermals…
there to scrape against the frozen face of the sky…
across the icy altitudes...
to gaze down in forgetfulness…

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Who I follow in poetry

His name is Mubarakin and what he writes sometimes just grips me.

Is it diamonds and gold
in the rainbow folds
or just the tears of angels?

If hell fire's hot
then is heaven cold,
is there any weather?

Are we standing around
on sacred ground,
do we have any choices?

Do bells peal the news
to the Cathedral pews,
or can it come on voices?

For more of his works he writes at Pan Historia.

Sunday, August 23, 2009


You know the debate is not really about Health Care, Gay Marriage, Equality, Foreign Policy or any of the other myriad of handy dandy catch phrase issues that the every day citizen is grappling with. There is no debate or discussion going on and there has not been for a long long time. All civility displayed is a false veneer waiting for the snapping point to arrive. This is the Hate nurtured at the breast of the Left/Right divide of the Politics of Fear.

The Ecstasy of War has come home to roost. The War on Terror, The War on Drugs, The War on Drunk Drivers, The War on What-Ever-You-Like amid the threats of reasonable cause for fear. The poison pours out of the media and pollutes the minds… Good versus Evil! This is Religion. This is a wholly made in America Jihad.

“Give Me Victory or Give Me Death (preferably yours)

This is the Cancer of creeping mendacity permitted to go unchecked, the secretion of secrecy; this is the Serpent amid the Flock while the calls of Wolf ring out in panic. When the importance of truth was surrendered I shall leave to historians, but suffice it to say that truth has long since been abandoned for Position, Wealth and Power.

This is, from abroad, the American Way. Truth and Justice abandoned for Victory regardless of the cost. In this the cost shall be the whole of it. All. Everything.

I can think of no better symbolism than that of an American Ragnarök.



by Micha F. Lindemans

Ragnarok ("Doom of the Gods"), also called Gotterdammerung, means the end of the cosmos in Norse mythology. It will be preceded by Fimbulvetr, the winter of winters. Three such winters will follow each other with no summers in between. Conflicts and feuds will break out, even between families, and all morality will disappear. This is the beginning of the end.

The wolf Skoll will finally devour the sun, and his brother Hati will eat the moon, plunging the earth [into] darkness. The stars will vanish from the sky. The cock Fjalar will crow to the giants and the golden cock Gullinkambi will crow to the gods. A third cock will raise the dead.

The earth will shudder with earthquakes, and every bond and fetter will burst, freeing the terrible wolf Fenrir. The sea will rear up because Jormungand, the Midgard Serpent, is twisting and writhing in fury as he makes his way toward the land. With every breath, Jormungand will stain the soil and the sky with his poison. The waves caused by the serpent's emerging will set free the ship Naglfar, and with the giant Hymir as their commander, the giants will sail towards the battlefield. From the realm of the dead a second ship will set sail, and this ship carries the inhabitants of hell, with Loki as their helmsman. The fire giants, led by the giant Surt, will leave Muspell in the south to join against the gods. Surt, carrying a sword that blazes like the sun itself, will scorch the earth.

Meanwhile, Heimdall will sound his horn, calling the sons of Odin and the heroes to the battlefield. From all the corners of the world, gods, giants, dwarves, demons and elves will ride towards the huge plain of Vigrid ("battle shaker") where the last battle will be fought. Odin will engage Fenrir in battle, and Thor will attack Jormungand. Thor will be victorious, but the serpent's poison will gradually kill the god of thunder. Surt will seek out the swordless Freyr, who will quickly succumb to the giant. The one-handed Tyr will fight the monstrous hound Garm and they will kill each other. Loki and Heimdall, age-old enemies, will meet for a final time, and neither will survive their encounter. The fight between Odin and Fenrir will rage for a long time, but finally Fenrir will seize Odin and swallow him. Odin's son Vidar will at once leap towards the wolf and kill him with his bare hands, ripping the wolf's jaws apart.

Then Surt will fling fire in every direction. The nine worlds will burn, and friends and foes alike will perish. The earth will sink into the sea.

After the destruction, a new and idyllic world will arise from the sea and will be filled with abundant supplies. Some of the gods will survive, others will be reborn. Wickedness and misery will no longer exist and gods and men will live happily together. The descendants of Lif and Lifthrasir will inhabit this earth.


As a poet the symbolism of Sarah Palin (pit bull with lipstick) and the Wolves is inescapable. Where more likely than from the frozen wastes of Alaska? Micha F. Lindemans description of Ragnarök is easily super-imposed upon the current state of American Political and Social affairs.

why I am not writing

An apprehensive looms across the horizon and I go walking through the roses… late August blooms and the blushing of the hips… the cool dew beneath my feet hints at frosts to come… the morning is poetry if you look at it right… the quiet solitude, hot mug of tea and time for reflection…

I often wonder if I make the right the decisions…

We have had a friend staying with us and many conversations seem to turn to past lives… who we were before we are who we are… the memories that we have and more the shards of memories that are not complete… like little pieces of glass just waiting to be stepped on… Laura listens quietly… taking it in and asking penetrating questions… leaping along the threads to grasp the entire picture.

My creative writing has all dried up again… and though I have ideas, then the lethargy of ennui takes hold. I realize that I want something different but I can not define it enough to ask for it.

Thursday, August 20, 2009


Shopping went flawlessly and a few days at a summer resort aided the soul.

Been attacking a longer poem while I was on the road and remarkably I was able to read most of my own printing. Not too shabby that though the word processor is telling me that the poem is seven pages long… maybe just a little too wordy to post at one.

Getting really pissed off at the “debate” (more like children fighting) coming from south of the border over health care. Weird that… I don’t understand why they are behaving that way at all…

Glad to be back and reading up on all that I missed while away. It was not easy at first to leave all the electronics behind, but it was a good idea to be totally absent for a while to refresh and recharge the soul.

And now dear friends, once more into the breach…

Friday, August 7, 2009

A Mother's Passing

I spend a good portion of my free writing time online at which is a form of Community based upon writing play as it were. The opportunities for both creative writing and social writing are amazing. Once in a while events occur in people’s lives which touch us all, for that is the nature of empathy and friendship.

This morning, a friend’s mother passed on. Though I grieve with her for the loss, I rejoice in the strength and compassion that she shared with me of the love between people.


Because you have shared with us, and with me, I would like to express what that means to me. Though I never met your mother, I too have been touched by the power of the love that you two shared. It is a bond that even in passing can not be broken. I can not understate what a beautiful thing it was that you did for your mother, and in that to know what a beautiful person your mother must have been to have been so well reflected in you. Mere words are all I have… and I give them to you freely in thanks for your sharing of that beauty.

She nurtured in the soft failing light
with dignity and gentle grace
And there in heart she brought forth love
which shone as bright as to displace
the shadows of the coming night.

A touch of sorrow and muted loss,
how empty seems the heart at last
Yet love does yet draw forth the light
for in my heart I hear her laugh
beyond the shadows of the night.

From you who learned the art of love
compassion forged with dignity
Whose strength of love speaks testament
have shared your mother’s love with me
to push against the edge of night.

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

Going on the road...

Simcoe Day long weekend was a gas... picnics and beaches were great... and that leads to the big surprise announcement… I shall be going shopping. Big news as we shall be taking to the road for a week or so and heading into the heartland of Quebec. As a French speaking Canadian it is like going home, though I was raised outside of Quebec. This leads me to be able to speak fluently, though I can not read nor write in French properly. It is amusing to be illiterate in my mother tongue.

So naturally I will be off line during this since I have promised to be social and go to clubs at night. Jen has already made an appointment for me at a dressmaker so there is great promise in that. Montreal for shoes, Quebec City for a dress… I am very excited about this. More so, I know that Jen is. Maybe this time we shall go through Ottawa. That shall be up to the driver. I am the passenger.

Spent the day loading in the chips of music for the trip. Looks like a lot of Bob Dylan, Neil Young and Joni Mitchell this time.

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Night comes on

As night comes on the heat of the day shimmers and dances above the lawn… the sun sets rouge upon the roses, the lilies waver… homeward bound from their day the birds settle to their nests and the bees to their hives… at night the cool winds brush through the trees, sweep across my balcony and caresses me… whispers in my ear… and from far away the soft trilling of a child’s laughter drifts and settles over me from the stars.

Just wanted to share a moment of peace... the time to see, to feel, to breathe... the start of a dream.


Dear you;

Hi. How are you doing? Just thought that I would take a moment out and say hello…

This? Oh, that’s just a bandage… it ain’t nothing… I’m good… no it doesn’t hurt, just looks bad though… can’t have the roses without the thorns and I am not sure that I don’t love the thorns just as much as the blooms. Not that I got it from the roses as such… I was picking the raspberries... tripped and fell. There will be fresh berry muffins later.

We all know truly talented and gifted people… those who have the knack for whatever the task is… and at times maybe we get envious of what seems so easy for them. Or, conversely we might get frustrated when that which we find easy they find so difficult. The true conclusion is that a good life is a team sport.

The painter paints with colours, with shades, shadows and light.
The poet paints with words, and the then spaces between them.
The musician paints with sounds, volume and tempo…

The canvas is the same… we all play on the emotional responses.

Tuesday, July 28, 2009


When I last felt her she was a drifting wave of charm
Spinning and dancing on the unfathomable head of a pin
Quivering with raw anticipation and desire
Dreaming this world and hiding from the same

What song she sang was a ribbon of mysteries
Velvet caresses of the river’s flowing
Silky celestial reflections gilding the silent waters
Dreaming this world and hiding from the same

What smile she gave was a rainbow below the full moon
Shadow cast hard during the solar eclipse
Shades of brushing souls dancing around a kiss
Dreaming this world and hiding from the same

What laughter she spread was the sounds of the forests
The deer in flight to the cool lake edge rushes
The sparrows riding the tops of trees towards infinity
Dreaming this world and hiding from the same

What tears she cried were the nectars of fragrant flowers
The slivers of dew in streams upon the leaves
Rising mists beneath the sun scraped bleeding skies
Dreaming this world and hiding from the same

What breath she breathed was the essence of the roses
The winds lashing the mown fields
White blossoms on the breeze
Dreaming this world and hiding from the same

What stare she gave was the eyes of cruel winter
The lightening edge of a thunderstorm
The eye of the hurricane crashing to shore
Dreaming this world and hiding from the same

What heart beat hammered with raging anger
Thundered futility towards the deafness of the void
Bombarding repercussions in magnificent amplitude
Dreaming this world and hiding from the same

When I last felt her she was a lover rising in the morning
The drape of sheet warding chill
The coolness of the hand after the parting
Leaving me dreaming this world

You see things if you look

I went fishing… which is really not so important as the result… we caught no fish but we did get soaked and smile-stretched cheeks. I am sure that purists will complain that we were too noisy… laughing and splashing about as we were. To that I say “tough”. What is it about running waters that invites such folly?

With my hair still dripping and a sloshing in the boots we set off on the motorbikes along a small country lane. The mottled effect of the sunlight through the trees… the fields well kept… the occasional group of cows munching away. (Yes, I broke the helmet law… and if asked I would tell the truth… I was drying my hair) Pastoral Simplicity. Peaceful escapism perhaps… but also needed distance.

Jenny walks over and feeds a few cattle the long grasses from our side of the fence with nary a care or concern… rubs their faces and talks gently to them. There is something that happens from time to time… a magical moment when the veil is lifted from my eyes. I see her differently… clearly… not as the close companion or the caregiver, provider etc… but as who she is… the person that she is… and I fall in love all over again.

Monday, July 27, 2009


Sure… I could be writing but I was distracted by several important people… first Renee, and her totally amazing demonstration of power… I pray with all I have for her, her family and those she has in her affections. Made me think of what amazing people I have around me too, and how I had better get off my ass and let them know what they mean to me...

Fact: Poetry writing is really a lot of sweat and gallons of iced tea.

So, Sarah McLachlan, Bif Naked… and a tape of tribal drummers play extra loud and I am trying to feel something… sounds strange to write this you know? I should have been writing poetry but instead was jumping around and shouting songs… I wonder if it makes any sense at all or if I am heading for the nut farm.

Thursday, July 23, 2009

I did not order that...

She was cute, efficient, terribly nice and worked for the Fascist State…

I ordered no coleslaw, I expected no coleslaw… she brought me coleslaw.

It is well known that Coleslaw is the International Symbol of the Fascists… where would Hitler have been without the creamy cabbage side dish? George Bush loved coleslaw and I have heard it said that the real reason Dick Cheney shot his friend was a failure to procure.

Coleslaw is a hard drug. It is addictive. It is petulant and by the gods coleslaw plays a dangerous game!

Fact is that innocent people do not accidentally order coleslaw… it just NEVER happens. You never hear even the most senile pepper pot say “Oh dear, I did not mean to order coleslaw.” Never. You will hear “I CAN’T eat THAT!” often enough.

After my protestations the coleslaw is banished from the table amid nervous laughter and side long glances. A voice rises from the din… “That’s Sky. She’s a poet.”

The befuddled male looks across the table and says. “A poet? What do you do?”

“I write poems” I said, confident that the occupation of a poet is in fact poetry.

“No, I mean, what is your REAL job?”

He was cute, perky, with a devilish grin and dimpled chin…
and he was also as dumb as a board.

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

a midnight rambler

This is a midnight rambler… I am tired but awake and my mind is a chattering monkey… ideas… concepts… I got something that I want to say… I look around me and I see things that just bother me… I get irritated by the stupidity and selfishness that surrounds me… I get angry at the injustice… it could just stop. People could just stop and leave others alone. We don’t have to be all the same… we only have to get along.

I pray with light… boxes of little candles like birthday cake candles… arranged in row by the widow… each one lit one at a time… and I wish for others to find strength… to find comfort… to find peace. Not things or outcomes as much as a personal moment of clarity and truth. I pray with poetry… if it seems a bit pretentious, perhaps… but it is a doing… an act… something tangible to do.

Tonight I am thinking of people I do not know.
Tonight I am thinking of friends departed.
Tonight I am thinking of friends.

Tonight I am listening to Leonard Cohen…
with respect and admiration…
with a sadness on my heart… and still a calm joy that there is beauty, peace, calm…

I went down to the place
Where I knew she lay waiting
Under the marble and the snow
I said, Mother I'm frightened
The thunder and the lightning
I'll never come through this alone
She said, I'll be with you
My shawl wrapped around you
My hand on your head when you go
And the night came on
It was very calm
I wanted the night to go on and on
But she said, Go back to the World

The Night Comes

I want to laugh.
I want to cry.
I want to feel.

my eyes only were closed

dedicated to Renee,
whom I do not know.
may she find peace.

a gentle rustling through the tall weeds
each bursting bubble trembling
desire’s rosy cheeks,
days and nightmares blend
fingers drumming with impatience
the flow of time running out
along the beds, the intricate insanity of gold
disadvantage turned on pressing mines
midnight bridges over silent water
our tears are warm streams of delight
my eyes were only closed
as my toes dance
in dreams
in the beauty of the moment.

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

The Desert’s Oysters

My love's volcanoes!
Damn! A shout and a scream…
The moon lingers on the desert's oysters.
Oh, how Eternity calls forth the laughter of barren water.
A pearl and a throat in contraction…
A wet cave weeps with inquisitive nuances.
Might not this night emanate the sunset's ecstasy?
A wanderer blows bubbles of purple sorrow...
Alas! Alas!
Too soon does morning come.

This is my coffee mug.
It is the only one there is.
It lives in front of liquorice allsorts.
Little can be more personal than that.

Sunday, July 19, 2009

The Mountain

the mountain speaks without words;
it knows no language,
speaks with silence,
with majesty,
with mystery.
we did not learn the language of the mountain,
we unlearned the language
we became mute,
the mountain spoke no more.
the mountain does not understand or acknowledge time,
it knows nothing of the days or the weeks,
it cares little for the years or the seasons,
it does not shrug off these notions,
it merely speaks not,
for even to ignore is an act beyond the mountain,
the mountain is.

our passing is in scars and dislocation,
the vanity of reposition measured in the unknown language,
the secret language of meanness,
the sharp language of the axe and fire,
the temporary language of heroes,
we seek to break that which can not be broken,
to change that which is constant change,
to preserve in blindness a picture we have no eyes to see,
to hear without ears the songs of ageless silence,
we scream from insignificance
our glories, our trespass,
the wondrous inadequacies of the meanness of our spirit,
"look at us, for we have forgotten the way,
we have forgotten the path,
look at us.
we are lost."

a man comes to the mountain with a saw,
with an axe,
the shears of a plough dragging up stones that the frost throws,
craving images of agriculture to be swept aside by drought or rain,
by large grasshoppers and mice,
to be swept aside by moss and mildew,
he cries defeated to the ice cold stars whose blind sight see only the mountain,
not the man.
all of creation is deaf to those who speak no language,
the head of the axe rusts mute with man’s frustrations,
the brief sound of thunder,
his mighty locomotive as he departs,
is a burble.
the fallen trees rise once more,
they stretch out their limbs into the night,
stretching to grasp the sky,
as the mountain sing in silence to the stars.

with our feet we ran through the fern’s green canopy over the shards and rocks,
across the hard stalks and soft grasses,
with out feet we ran the path hidden in the ferns,
across meadows to climb above the lake,
above the ferns,
above the granite and the grass into the arms of the mountain,
into the breath of the humid mountain,
into the arms of our mythology we ran,
behind the blue glistening waters,
behind the trees whispers and laughter,
behind, staggering and small, we left childhood.

from the ground they rise in mists and shadows,
on the wind they speak in whispers and shades of words,
calling ever further, murmuring the forgotten names,
the forbidden names
the names that twist and torment the tongue,
the names that pierce,
hawk names of screech and cries,
the names of murder

stretching out between the breasts of the mountains,
enticing, inviting hidden promises,
the cool wet darkness,
a reflection of a memory,
the reflection of a vision,
a reflection of the water dazzled in the sunning,
our eyes were open and saw the illusion,
we walked into the illusion,
proud and tall we walked over the mountains and left childhood,
walking over the illusion,
over the reflection into the warm humid stretch between the breasts of the mountain…
we left our childhood behind and stepped, lost, into the illusion.

we step into candle wax,
into the incense,
out of the light,
away from the creation,
we step in numbers,
a dawdling lingering slow motion,
the transfiguration in molten wax,
in the dust,
in the heat,
eyes of the old and the young,
the summer banished from this tomb of stories,
the language of shagging, encounters,
the unknown mysteries surrendered to the middle aged lost on boats,
on lawn chairs,
dragged to the edge of an illusion,
a mystical dream,
a solemn point at the edge,
the wax flows along the edge where the language stops,
where the language slows to a crawl,
at the edge,
a precipice,
gazing eyes staring into the silence of time,
the dust and wind dances to the unknown music.

the man returns,
the man is old,
he is gnarled and knotted like the trees,
he is reaching as if his arms were boughs,
wavering in the sunlight grasping for,
he is grasping at the solidity of the rocks,
the solidity of the change,
his eyes squinting into the brightness of the star,
he is remembering,
the chips and trails carved into trees,
the gentle slope of the run off,
the jagged confusion that is order,
from his tree-like stance he is the memory remembering,
he is the at the edge,
on the precipice of time itself,
gazing into the dust and the wind in reverent remembrance,
the man is old on the bark but the stem of youth rises,
the sap running of the spring,
rising within to ooze forth in tears as he gazes into the light of his remembering,
the transfiguration of time,
the gnarled wax slowed and frozen in declination,
held upon the edge,
clinging to the precipice,
waiting with saintly patience
time itself has changed.

the lanterns sing with the hiss of gas,
they burn in the language of science,
light is a force of aggression pushing at the edge of the darkness,
light creates the perimeter,
the precipice, the boundary.
light burns with the secret language,
the lantern sings in the secret language
and they come, the memory of the forest,
the answer of the trees,
the mountains stirs to the call
answers while around the fire,
with a slap of flesh on flesh,
we forget the language,
we forget the song,
we forget that we have called.

a fire burns to ash,
is consumed into the song of the flames,
snaps and cracks,
sings in the secret language,
the glowing embers dance the ballet of silence,
glow with the breath of ancient patterns,
they speak the forgotten language,
speak the words that can be seen into the emptiness of the forgotten,
the void is the failure of the memory,
the void is for the youth,
the beginning,
it is the birth, and the birth remembered,
it is death, the void is for the old,
it is for the passing,
the crossing over,
for the ashes and he comes,
the old man comes to speak to the fire,
to speak to the wind,
to speak to the trees and the mountain,
the old man comes to speak in the forgotten language with his eyes burning like a lantern,
burning like a fire,
the ash and the embers,
he comes to speak with the patience of understanding,
the old man comes to the mountain
and the mountain comes for him.

Friday, July 17, 2009


Don’t you just love it when doctors (and other professionals for that matter) suddenly go real quiet? I mean come on… I listened to the teaser and you got my attention… so how about some answers?

Nope… no way… same old “anomalies”… like my body is behaving in a treasonous manner and I am to wait on “anomalies”? Crikey…

So I did what I do… wrote… and if you are still reading me even though I whine a lot you are in for a treat… this is my mental state… no passports required… no deposit and no return either.

(part one… there may be more)

There have been archeological expeditions that have captured the mind and heart of the general public, which many archeologists have made a good deal of money from, and even got to attend parties where they were not laughed at. So, but only a few archeologists ever learned how to consume beer without becoming boring old prats! Amazing, but true. I even met one archeologist who not only had a girl friend but also even got her in the sack without having to pay! But this is very rare… a one in a million type thing. Most archeologists discover nothing but broken dishes.

Rarer than an archeologist who is getting some is one who makes a discovery which can change the world as we know it. Deep in the bowels of a cliff-top cave one archeologist made such a discovery, a discovery which would lead to their DEATH! A horrible hideous DEATH that is so disgustingly demented that I take great pride and pleasure in sharing it with you. Anna Conda led her team of individuals up down under through the grueling passages and caverns of the cliff-top caverns to stumble across the Cave Of Doom, the Crack Of No Return, the Empty Bottle Of No Deposit Or Return… the Gateway of the Gods themselves.

There, in the bowels of the earth itself, they made a discovery which would lead them all to madness (see slide one). The discovery of rock painting so illuminating that it would burn their souls out of their sunburst bodies and fry them like omelets in the sight of the Gods who would sprinkle them with peppers and green bits of chives and serve them up on buttered toast with coffee and a small glass of orange juice.

The first to die most horridly was Condo Minium, the Peruvian Sherpa known for his great fear of heights, his irascible irritability and long hours of bathing, who repeatedly threw himself from a low height unto the ground until he died. Some have suggested that the cause of this madness was llama milk that had gone off, others that he simply snapped, but the few who were there know otherwise. In her report Anna Conda tells us.

“We suddenly realized only too late that Condo was fluctuating erratically. It started as rapid rising and falling of emotional states, he would swing erratically from highs to lows. He would often yell out warnings that his bottom was dropping, falling out and then suddenly lose interest. Then, one day, he lost it all. That was when he died. We were startled at first, but is soon became apparent that there was going to be a lot of paper work.”

Slide one (previously posted) depicts the “WAR CHILD” doing the War Dance. In the upper corner we discern that the War Child is on good terms with the Sun God who beams upon her from a blue cloudless sky. Of particular note are the number of sunbeams… four. Could this be an allusion to the four horsemen of the Christian apocalypse? The Four Corners of the earth? The four sheets to the wind?

Much has been said about the colour scheme, the yellow and red of the figure possibly suggesting an early knowledge and understanding of the circulatory system, to mere supply and demand of pigments. Anna Conda herself pondered this.

“We were uncertain if the cave was lit or dark when the paintings were made. It is possible that the artists were on a “Sacred Quest” and stoned out of their gourds or that there was no light at all and the colouring is simply hit and miss.”

Another question that has been in great debate is the apparent baldness of the clearly female figure. This though turns out to be an illusion rather than fact. In detail we can see a tuft of pink emerging from the skull. (see detail) This to some is clearly hair, where others suggest such ideation as thought emanations, antennae, a twig of flowers, or frothing foam, likening the head of the body to the head of a beer. (pink beer?) In this case the pink froth would then be interpreted and great intelligence that flows forth from the frontal lobes indicating a superior mind.

The one thing that all agree upon is that the War Child is “hot”... really hot.

As we descend from the upper caves through the open chambers we are surrounded by the handprints, footprints and bumprints which one assumes are merely defaced walls. Perhaps the left over pigments found their way into the hands of the easily amused, though of great sociological significance it is to be noted that to this day there is a great fascination with bum prints as can be witnessed by the number of Xeroxed images making their way through the office towers of our modern cities. How far have we really evolved from those ancient primitives who with daring do painted the caves and caverns in ages past?

Anthropologist Margaret Meanderthaller, in her critically acclaimed anthropological text “I Want To Go Down; Sexual Expressions of The Primitive” concluded that the caverns symbolically represented both the external voyage of progression to the inner sanctum and the inward expression of self knowledge through physical examination to the Holy of Holies. Here the descent of the passage reveals a clear association as the second major image, that of the War Child in transit in a war canoe descends along with us.

Amid archeologists the question of the boat itself causes some controversy. Here, unlike the watercraft of the Egyptians the War Child’s craft is one of planks versus reed mesh. Could it be that the early Australians were that much more advanced in maritime matters that the Egyptian Pharaohs? What purpose could there be for such advanced watercraft? The image clearly shows the waterway as being Sur la Terre, or underground. This, along with the superior craft would seem to indicate that naval advancement unseen on earth until the rise of the Phoenician fleets. It is not impossible then to consider if the ancients of Australia in fact gifted Maritime knowledge to the world. To date there is no theory able to disprove this conjecture.

The high back and prow indicate an ocean capability, though the depiction is that of white water travel. What devices could enable the passage underground of a white water canoe? There are no personal floatation devices depicted, nor any swimmers. The vessel progresses downward to the right, in to the depths of darkness. The cavern itself twists and turns as it continues downwards as well in a rough corkscrew alignment.

Geologist can not yet explain what forces created the caverns. There is no indication of water erosion or volcanic exhaust. Though rough to the touch the walls, floors and ceiling are also geologically smooth. Given the depth, the bends and twists of the caverns it is almost unfathomable to consider that these could have been man-made and yet no other explanation is forth coming. Sadly the upper two chambers have been well visited in the past and present and can not today reveal much to resolve this mystery.

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

pre-cancerous anomalies?

Well… I thought that I would be afraid, yet I feel relived. I don’t really understand exactly what they mean by pre-cancerous anomalies, but there it is, could it be cancer? Could I actually have it?

First words out of Jenny’s mouth were “you will beat this too.” You see I grabble (like wrestle) with Glomerulonephritis which is a big fancy word for a kidney disease. Yummy! Super party topic too…

But now, possibly Cancer? Sure, I should be afraid… afraid that people will now treat me differently.

So why tell any one? Now that is the question. Why? I don’t know… I really don’t know.

Sunday, July 12, 2009

The state of Poetry


I pour through holes
a river of cascading
emotive insistence with demanding waves
caressing the shores of girl flesh
pierced by the gaping baby blues of the dreaded
Suddenly I am flying
through the azure skies
in free-fall
in love
forgetting the gravity of the situation
that always I land upon my knees
broken in prayers of rosemary
and creeping thyme

The pale moon rises romantically
visions upon the soft satin pillowcases
leaning against the solid firmament of walls
sweltering with calm security
while I in quarantine
sweat out the taste of

I melted to the whispered lies of devotion
with the readiness of snow kissing the first warm spell of spring
melting into puddles
mud trampled by the innocence

In the mirror,
tiny stars shine trough me
as if I were the mists and fogs
dispelling over the waters
icebergs forming constellations within me,
shining through me

Reaching the shores
I flow cool and smooth
satin sheets across the bed
in dreamlike trance
dancing to the setting sun
to the songs of birds humming on the high tension wires
binding the world

I reach out to touch the hole
the hole in the air where you used to stare
melting holes in girl flesh
to release the heart without pain and misery
to release the cold dark night of free-falling
through the celestial void
thinking only
of the holes


It is simple enough to find religion in the darkness after the dimming of distractions, after the words of destruction have been laid out across the tables from my lips to your ears. There are no wrapped embraces of protection… I am not that kind of mother… I am the kind with ther F.

After the reading we sit together, Holly with her glasses, the girl who is the self proclaimed shrrinking violet… Act Shun with her amazing depth who speaks like a spring flowing and myself, Skyclad. Last night I was truly Skyclad once again… the raw, the unhealed and the wounded. This is the state of poetry swirling around me.

The audience is mostly women… and I wonder what happened to the men? Why are there so few men who come to indulge at the feast of words? What has happened to them that keeps them away?

Last night’s reading was from I Am A River… the selection is crucifixion, living aids, In Sanity, Holes and Absence.


as a chilling wind
a reminder to dress warmly
a brushing back of the hair
a push towards the further reaches

her absence;
as a vacancy in the heart
things hidden for future use unfound
the confusion of the concealed ways
a knowing that you do not know

his absence;
as a friend taken in the morning
as a train arrived too late to catch
as a flight of gulls across the uncrossable bay
as a wave after crashing to the shore

my absence;
as a mirror non-reflecting
as a thought unspoken
as a wound to the heart unseen on the flesh
a push away from other's reaches

Friday, July 10, 2009

it’s so very quiet

a poem from "GOTHPERA"
disease, treatment, and survival

it’s so very quiet
I hear the blood squish running through my veins

it’s so very quiet
the clock? time just hammering on the wall

I feel I want to riot
I’d rather go insane
than be the ghost, the pallor walking in the hall

but when the sun goes down
when the night clouds rise
I can see again
but I realize
it is only the toxin wearing off.

it’s so very quiet
and there is nothing here really for me to do
I sleep all in sedative
and dream all night of different times with whom?

but when the sun goes down
when the night clouds rise
I can be again
but I recognize
it is only the venom wearing thin.

it’s so very quiet
and I think I’m rather tired
and the sunlight is burning in my eyes
it’s so very quiet
and I am glad you came to visit
I know this must be very hard on you

but when the sun goes down
when the night clouds rise
I can be again
but I identify
it is only poison beneath my skin.

She made me smile

and everything that I was going to say today was erased on a single sweep of a smile this morning…

I must go and get some string, make some paper and start a wishing tree here. This is a soul cake.

Wednesday, July 8, 2009

Pastures of Plenty

What do you do when you are bummed out and need a change of atmosphere?

We bugged out. Grabbed the bikes and hit the roads into the country, dust and gravel beneath the heavy clouds of threatening rain into those pastures of plenty. Today was strawberries… sweet sun warmed strawberries. There is something though about the feeling of the dirt on the bare feet after taking the bike boots off… but you can’t really walk all over the berries with your boots on can you? Just seemed to be a bad idea really.

We rode amid our own personal thunder into Mennonite country… horses and wagons and pies that can’t be beat. Sort of forgot how big a horse can get though and just how small we really are on our iron versions. Of course as interested as I am about their horses the kiddlings were gathering about the bikes as we were getting the pie. (Rhubarb mmm).

Now I ain’t going to claim to be too big on children, cause mostly they irritate me with their clamor and shrill shouting. That was not the case today… polite and well behaved. They were curious, and asked decent questions. It was a shame that we did not have any extra helmets and that they likely would not get permission to take a little spin. Just as well really because I have yet to ride with a passenger.

We headed up towards Georgian Bay on the back roads through the farms and the trees. Of course it would have been a good idea to have taken the camera so I could show you the fields of blue flowers, the green of the corn and the fields of bright yellow. There is a spot on the top of the escarpment leading down to the bay where it is all spread out before you like a patchwork quilt.

One thing for sure… there is beauty if you only look and see it.

Monday, July 6, 2009

just a moment of weakness

Interpersonal negotiations are as tricky as anything else in the world… mostly when there is a refusal to talk about the same issue at the same time… which really is the problem isn’t it when you get right down to the brass tacks… setting aside personal feelings and shit like that… which of course you can’t do because in the final analysis it is all about personal feelings. Let me tell you right now that I am not the greatest at telling people when I am upset… not a skill that I have learned to do… mostly all I need is time and space… support… understanding… a moment to be heard… cake... cake is always good... which I know is asking a lot… it is high maintenance really… but I do ask for it. Most of the time I get that because I have made painful efforts to acquire the space which I need to calm myself and focus on the issue at hand… but not always.

Today I had one of those moments where I really needed to be heard… not agreed with… not stroked… just heard… you know the drill, just a chance to let it out… to say what was frustrating me and get it out in the open… to have some one, anyone listen to me and understand what was bothering me… needless to say I did not get that or I would not be here right now crying on your shoulder about a stupid thing like a web site…

My god… it’s not real… it is a web site… and even though I love it and really enjoy it there are those unfortunate moments when the fires burns… the anger grows… frustration complications….

Tell you this much… logic in that situation ain’t worth a used paper match stick… just a small boat in an angry sea… no, that is wrong… just an angry boat in a calm sea… any port in a storm right? But where do you go when you are the storm?

Maelstrom she says and looks at me with that silent laugh… head slightly cocked and that glint of glee just twinkles… Sky baby, I love you so much but there comes a time when you ought to flip them the bird. Not because you are right, I don’t know or care about that… this is doubtfully a moment when being right matters… all that matters is that they are hurting you. Push them back.

So like there I was with reams of devastatingly crapporific poetry and my Jenny makes me laugh… so what do you do with self indulgent poorly written poetry?


The roses are in bloom in sprays of pink, white and yellow as a few well-mannered guests are led through the pride and joy suitably appreciative of the arrangement. This is of course a complete and utter fraud… games that get played for real with intensity…

Overhead the thin wisps of vapor trails zig and zag across the skies following silver glints of metal rocketing to god knows where… on the ground finger sandwiches are passed along on trays… isn’t the butter spread nicely?

What do you do he asks.
I am a poet.
Oh, how very interesting. So, what do you do?
I write and perform poetry.
Yes, but I mean, what is your real job.
Oh. I see what you mean. I am an intellectual terrorist.

If it were possible a freight train would at this point thunder through the valley with the lonesome cry of the whistle echoing back to the station where passenger board dreaming of coconut vacations doused in oils and the advantages of affordable wrist watches for swimming…

Sunday, July 5, 2009

the spinal ladder

Technical difficulties are the realization that habits rules. My mouse died and nothing feels the same as the welcoming touch of the familiar. How I cursed it in life and mourn it in death…

People are like that too… comfortably familiar then gone, though without technical difficulties. They simply get on the bus and are gone leaving an empty space of unfamiliarity…

Some days I feel like I am climbing vertebrae by vertebrae out of a coma… I started writing short stories again to dispel the mists and fogs of dreams… why not make it real if it is going to haunt me anyway?

Tuesday, June 30, 2009

love like wine

dancing on the sidewalk at the small café
whisper to me sweetly and I’ll hear what you say

sweet apple blossoms on your blouse and hair
when we are together there is no one there

oh love baby… love is like the wine
intoxicating but you must breathe some time

spread across black satin or draped on a chair
loving you is really like needing air

as we stumble forward as the band plays that song
as the night slowly rises or as the day goes on

oh love baby… love is like the wine
intoxicating but you must breathe some time

Monday, June 29, 2009

midnight coffee

the perspiration of hesitation runs beneath my collar down vertebrae by vertebrae past the knot of silence screaming...
clogging my throat…
pour another damned cup of coffee and shut the fuck up until the morning comes with the sound of traffic and congestion…
clouds belong in the sky not across an ultra sound image…
pour coffee, stir in 1/2 sugar, remove spoon, then gently pour in cream...
sip and cry til morning...

Thursday, June 25, 2009

short truth

No one is going to be happy about this but I am back but for all the wrong reasons… my usual support area is MIA… and I am feeling a little antsy.

I think that I have fallen in love again… which does not mean that I have fallen out of love with my current partner… just there is the added complication which is not entirely needed in my life.

Sunday, April 5, 2009


The stage lights go out and I return to who I am... I start to wonder at just how insane life really is… there is a glass of scotch waiting and the cushion between friends to protect me… how do I become so vulnerable?

I speak from the stage in urgent appeal... with an unspoken promise… off the stage I retreat behind the veil of flesh and struggle with identity… which is the real me? Where is the union?

It is early morning and the long drive out of the city is quiet… she smiles a slight smile and sighs while I gaze into the bright lights of the oncoming traffic… the question is moments away…

Is it unfaithful to still hurt now?

Jennifer grips the wheel and drives through my silence…

Is it unfaithful to hurt in love?

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

Devastation on Stage

Collision Poetry

or as I like to call it

Devastation on Stage

Is it the art of the poet to invoke the sensation of having your heart torn out?

Poetry is a performance art. It goes beyond mere words on a page to be read by scholars and elitists posers looking for attention. Poetry is shouted in the back of the bus, sprayed on Day-Glo under bridges and screamed out…

I am never quite certain where the notion that poetry was a confined language slave to meter and verse, or a refined art of stoic and static principles long carved into marble artifacts… unchanging and long since dead.

We may pay homage to the past, relish and marvel at the great works that have come before, but it is cultural suicide to deny the art room to breathe, to grunt and swear, to procreate in a climax of exultation and infatuation. Poetry moans like a whore and takes it like a lady. Poetry hunts like a rogue and fakes like a gentleman. Poetry knows no taboo, recognizes no church, and belongs to no state.

A harsh word of condemnation or the soft caress of a lover, poetry collides head-on without breaks and airbags… and when it is gone, behind the trail of the emotions struggling up from their knees to the bar… holding an ice cube to the temple with eyes closed… remembering what has never been.

Monday, February 9, 2009

about Fred

So I am back to blogging in poetry which is a good indication that I may be a little pissed off. Naturally I don’t want to come out and say “Hey… Pissed Off over here” because what happens is the good intentions and advice… stuff like “coming to terms with it” and that sort of thing… what the hell does that even mean? My emotions are not up for negotiations… this is not a contract with terms conditions and clauses… hey… why don’t you come to terms with that…

Like all good adventures in poetry there is a melancholic wave rubbing up against the beaches of sunshine and happiness… a sort of lapping of lackluster bland banality slowly erasing the passage across the sands… those footprints that let you know which side you arrived from… where the car is parked for the grand get-a-way… be it in the nice sleek shiny sports car or the rusted out beater…

It is the winter time… sanity demands that you know those sorts of things… what season it is… the name of the day… today is Fred… but best to call it Monday in public… when you get on close first name basis with a day the jealousy of others will result in a bad experience… say Mister Monday and they will punish you… but it is winter… the cold probing season of soul searching amid the ruins of the last summer… the fallen branches of recklessness… the worm out tired grasses that have been rolled over one too many times… and the fallen petals of exotic roses… all buried under the snow waiting to be slowly thawed out and revealed, then washed away in the tears of the rain… that is the truth of it…

You can look out your window and see nothing at all but the snow… or you can see that beneath the snow lies a mystery… the beach is still there… I just have not been there for a while… the only question is where do the washed away footprints go? We can ask Fred, but Fred will never answer direct questions.