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?