The Ritual

When the Saviour sleeps,

He does not dream.

He is not disturbed by

the whispered prayers of the faithful,

nor by the screams of the weak:

Our Father who aren’t in Heaven

hollowed be Thy name.

Please be seated and

receive the sacrament in paper cups:

black blood shed for you and

mixed with sugar and cream.

Ashes to ashtrays, fingers to lips;

Christ is a cancer in some unlucky lungs.

We accept comparisons between humans and sheep,

lying at the feet of a giant machine.

We are birds, frantically lining our nests

with expensive bits of string and

slivers of semi-precious stone;

tinfoil and tourniquets plugged into

plaster walls.

The Doves died

when they too swallowed the silver coins.

Industry Integrity Progress

i recorded this video several months ago.
it has not been edited, but i don't think it really needs it.
i hope you like it.

Songbird

COMING SOON

Coming Soon -
new posts, new lay out, new poems.
Stay Tuned.

Bouquet Garni

Over-easy, hash browns crisp, coffee:
bitter black liquid in ceramic.
A tall glass of concentrated California,
one part bourbon, the other orangeade -
her fried eggs, my diluted drink,
a culinary serenade.

i love you and i use a mortar and pestle on
whole black peppercorns and rock sea salt.
My heart a tightly tied bouquet garni,
(parsley, thyme, oregano);
my skin as white as dinner plates
my blood a red Bordeaux.

Elephants

If a blue sky reflects Earth's abundance of ocean,
does a red one reflect the saccharine fires of hell?
A masked man's mustache bars his ability to tell.
Obelisks atop elephants with spindly arachnid legs,
are always spinning webs of lies to trap
small humans who rely on their maps.

..........

Maudlin mannequins in a shop window
stare out, faceless and waiting for
nothing. i watch them as often as i
memorize the backs of my hands
or twist my hair into knots.

A photograph of my heart
exposes the past consequences of
cruel misery and soaring failures.
At 02:00 i only seek to find
an outlet to hold a charge for my
rusty alarm clock.
At dawn, i will break your arms
and run. A warm place is nothing
to keep this stray dog domestic.

Without crutches, without stilts,
my steps may fall erratic on frozen pavement.
Singing and screaming are no different
under the black ink and blotchy white stars
of prairie midnight.

A whispered kiss goodnight between jealous faces and
one cold hand extended to another.
As the lightning and the wind intertwine
sensually in the sky,
you and i recite all the lines we have ever read;
i will never be the drunkard in your bed.

My Own Lazarus

Red hair, white skin -
a woman's malcontent
is a visible tattoo for
the surgeon to remove.
Sylvia is smiling;
are you terrified?

Life is a switch on the wall.
Nine tries to get it right,
nine people to find her
barely breathing and
covered in worms and leeches -
gripping Death's white knuckled hand.

.....

From the crumbling ceiling, a bare lightbulb
hangs with its chain-link partner, just within reach
so you can turn on the light and see yourself
in the harsh, low rent reality of
the incandescent light.

A dark night in July paints a portrait
of day number forty-seven of
the Hundred Day Cough; the
hundred generations of twisted fingers plucking
and snapping rusty guitar strings.

Though our lives of poverty and addictions
will likely result in the lukewarm infinity of existentialist hell,
no apologies will be made. The stumbling beat
of ten thousand broken hearts in fractured cages
will forever go unaccounted for; forever
unnoticed.

We are the walking wounded.
We starve. We wander listless
and floating in our fevers, in
a trance. Our lips push out sounds
that no human ear recognizes.
We dull our pain with treachery;
we hang at dawn for treason.

When the Brotherhood of sinners
finally fall silent in our graves,
the children will go hungry.

.....

The man upstairs is sleeping.
Saturday morning,
the sun is not up, but my keys
are opening the door.
Three machines begin a slow drip of coffee
and the smell rises upward,
along with the soft, sad music
of a hangover and the need to work.

Perhaps the man will take my misery
from me and turn it upon himself.
Absolve me, stranger,
i am ready to start anew.

....

The earth is off its axis
and slowly things begin to slip off
and fall into the ocean.
Gravity pulls, and even the tallest buildings
begin to lean like Pisa.

The time is out of joint
O cursed spite
that there was never one born
to set it right.

i want to reach below the surface.
A shovel and pick axe in my hands,
my arms aching and straining
as i begin to dig.

"Time waits for nomads," they say
and other witty little adages
to be repeated and passed down
until they mean nothing anymore.

i want to unravel my veins
and knit a sweater to keep you warm
throughout those cold Alberta winters.
They get worse every year.

Fly South.

........

flipping through old notebooks
to find the pieces of you
that have fallen out of my pockets
into the dirty streets of my home.
i try to tell a tale of space and time
but the words written on curling yellow pages
are hard to read underwater.

bold statements in black ink
follow the trajectory of my heart
and trace the lines of your skin.
there are millions of unspoken thoughts
and unfulfilled dreams waiting
to jump from the pages
into my mouth
into your ears.

i can't stay sitting still;
i was born with an old man's knees
that ache and shake and should be replaced.
admit that you're listening and
i will never stop talking.

Κέρκυρα

The birds are fat.
The beggars are drunk;
still their pockets rattle with coins dropped
from the fingers of generous hands.

The tourist family:
grandfather, mother and son
all have their noses pointed towards
their cellphones - the tiny electronic oracles
obviously have more to offer than
the rich history and the mountains of Corfu.

The melodious voices of the past remain there;
the dull monotone of modern speaking
is what continues to come from island throats
from now until the oceans rise and swallow
the rich rocks of Northern Greece.

Locals stay here for the entirety of their lives.
They are born here, they work here,
and ultimately they die here;
only the lucky ones escape.
Only the outcasts have a reason to leave.
The explorers were the lucky misfits to leave their homes.

Once they have been gone,
coming home will never be the same.
The feet that have walked on other dirt
have a hard time remembering the
paved streets of their native lands.

.....

The men stand outside the church,
or they walk down the uneven streets,
maybe sitting in coffee shops;
they count their prayer beads.
Click. Click. Click. Click...

For some it seems more like a nervous habit
than a practiced ritual.
The weight of their worlds,
their families,
the burden of knowledge:
the tracks of fifty years
of unshed tears
burning holes in their bellies.

The tough image of old men
carried forward by their sons
and taught to their grandsons:
it is not acceptable to cry.

on vital organs:

should you be so careless as to lose
the pieces of your heart to the marauding
lovers that seek only to consume and flee,
i would be honored to share mine.
between two rib cages and four lungs
there would be one heart beating for two bodies.

......

i see you sometimes on buses
in train stations:
a fleeting sarcastic apparition.
but i don't believe in ghosts
and i don't believe you ever spoke
of anything at all that mattered.

man of mystery, your mouth is closed
but also your eyes.
hands folded
blueish skin.
one last cigarette and its ashes
float away on the cold autumn
air of the countryside.

......

take me home with you tonight -
for a moment we can pretend that
the world is not at war!
when our own victory is won
we'll fall asleep on tangled sheets,
my arm around your waist.

surely the air raid sirens will not wake us;
the dropping bombs and the grounds that shake,
the cries of soldiers as they fall
will not concern sleeping beauty at all.

take me out int the crowded streets
hand in hand we pretend that
chaos does not surround us.
when finally we find a quiet place to sit
we will chat about this and that
as my coffee is getting cold.

surely the air raid sirens will not wake us;
the dropping bombs and the grounds that shake,
the cries of soldiers as they fall
will not concern sleeping beauty at all.

take me dancing with you tonight.
the loud music and flashing lights
hide the brawlers by the bar.
time passes, collecting empty glasses
as the background fades into a drunk parade
i have my arm around your waist.

surely the air raid sirens will not wake us;
the dropping bombs and the grounds that shake,
the cries of soldiers as they fall
will not concern sleeping beauty at all.

....

hello old scars, hello new wounds
hello bright stars, hello half moon.
tonight is the night for somebody
but there will be nothing left for me.

don't be a hero, there is nobody here to save.

the Realities Concerning Love

The maddening thing about democracy
is that it makes a rough life for the weird and the weak.
The crowd's ideals and goals are easy:
you don't have to think and you don't have to speak.
A traditional love affair starts with a kiss on the cheek.
Your eyes filled with tears with every concession you made;
life was so miserable before you were gay.

A home can be more than a place
to take off the shoes and rest tired old feet.
A double bed shouldn't be crowded by
two unhappy people in a dusty basement suite.
Days shouldn't be spent walking
confused squares and circles on downtown streets.
You used to feel like you were trapped in a bank robber's safe;
the sun never shone before you were gay.

Poets were the worst liars. Their illusion of
true love didn’t turn out so fucking grand.
Nothing would have worked, a marriage
or a string of drunken one night stands:
they all just clumsily pawed at your clothes,
your body with sandpaper hands.
You’d say yes to any boy that asked for a date;
love was so peculiar before you were gay.

TWO: Four Years Later

Your blue eyes cross as you focus on the small
flickering flame that you hold so close
in front of your face.
Breathe in: whether you need it or not
the effect is still the same.
The thing about this stuff is...

i used to take simple pleasure in running
through fields of skeletal dandelions.
When those tiny dry parachutes take to the sky
and then float harmlessly down.
If they don't grow roots where they land
the field was already barren.
The thing about this stuff is...

The clouds roll in and it rains heavily
all through the night.
The smell of your chemicals hang in my hair,
in my clothes, and it burns my eyes.
The very worst are the words that cascade out of your mouth:
cheap explanations and unfinished sentences.
Suck it all in as fast as you can.
The supply is running low and the cost to replace it
is forever getting higher.
The thing about this stuff is...

When the earth runs out of places to accept its dead
and the tombstones out number the good people left alive,
where will we park our cars,
manufacture plastics,
fuck our prostitutes,
or plant our crops?
The thing about this stuff is...