Category Archives: poems

NOT MUCH TO MISS EXCEPT THE GLAMOUR & BARFLIES. So glad I quit smoking…

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I rarely enter writing contests but I like the bent of this one, the Tobacco Lit Writing Contest and I like Geist Magazine as well. My entry, from my book, Three Blocks West of Wonderland:

BIG TOBACCO HEIRESS

Quit cigarettes too late, just as he bumped

into the pleasures of paternity. Cigar rituals.

Crystal trapezoid ashtray ready on the desk

itchy sedge thin, trumped up gorgeous

delinquent daughter in mind. How did I spawn

such a barren, martini-swacked maladroit?

Off to fiesta every three months, flea circus of slackers.

fasionistas and slap jack suitors along for a free ride.

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He’s precise, positions the Cohiba in a double blade

stainless steel guillotine cutter. Scrutinizes the Avedon

portrait, a study in bad attitude. All attitude, filter less

Camel protruding from punk sneer. Karsh of Ottawa

snatched it, snapped rage.

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Dreading her return from Wagonga Inlet, he toasts

the tip above a flame, ensuring a good, even smoke.

Took them fishing. For yellow fin. Bream. He draws

rapidly, harshly, locking Bentley convertible keys

in the top drawer. Heading back early. Slow, due to a drop

in water temperature according to the pricey guide.

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Determined to cut her off if she doesn’t clean up.

Damned ash tunnels. Should puff gently,

though everything is about to give; the straw house

slanted as a rhombus, his lungs, faded to black.

Could leave it all to charity. Tough love

too callous. Probably rushed–ruined–her too.

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Bringing home our inner pseudo commandos

Yes, I have lived many places, known many people. All I can do is write, if I’m lucky, as I struggle to understand human behaviour. While still in mourning for the loss of one of the most loving and magnanimous individuals in my life, somewhat ironically, I am astonished at the capacity of others for spite, as if anger holds redemption. Well, if nothing else, I suppose it provides fuel, though far as I can tell, anger only propels one further and deeper down into a well of despair, paranoia and depression. I’ve resided in isolation. I know how it works, feel fortunate to have surfaced, partly due to the efforts of friends and family who never gave up on me.

PSEUDO COMMANDO

Cave apartment.
Lonesome injustice collector,
Lame prospero
Maintains object relations
With others based on envy.
Revenge-romance writer.

Between mean street patrols
And bitch prowling, corrals
The unwanted, hated, feared bits
Of himself, to reassemble,
Form of an enemy
Deserving of merciless rage.

Welcome to the neighbourhood.

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PRAISE

PRAISE

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The sea never ends.

Ask a trawler.

Every unexplored trench

Propels her to dive

Into urban ruination.

Blonde brick facade

Fails to deter local rapture consultant

Friendly neighborhood ecstatic man

Ecstatic with belief.

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Brother Earl pronounces

Each defeat of the heart

Each leave taking

Must ignite a torch song

For Jesus.

Any definition containing the word “God”

Is proof of God.

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She protests, demurely.

He persists, naturally.

There is no convincing the devout

You don’t need convincing.

The right(eous) crave victory

More than more than fish and loaves

She his undeserved indulgence.

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Piqued, he spends days

Mane taming, grip maintained,

Malignifying every utterance

From of her reluctant mouth

Discourse so acute

She threw up her hand. A signal. Stop.

Let’s restart. Imagine peace.

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Expert at diminution

He named her Heathen. Sub-human.

Steeply, speedily Ignorant. Condemned.

Though the pious never cease flaming

Both remain standing. Hopeful.

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WINTER MOURNING

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WINTER MOURNING

March mad in February
Ma’s temper heats the window.
A flutter of juncos alight
Plying the bare limbed willow
Like a lyre
Fawn, dove, hare
Sheltered in cedar shade
Frightened still.

Bonded in blarney
She’d weaned me
On clever jive
My conception a farce
Life a fiction.
Let the need to know go
She repeated as if Buddha-wise.

Her demise should illuminate
Every secret, every corner
Every cowering tot
Lit by the pop and flash,
Truth, its triumph at last, though
Revelation offers no resolution.
We are all stories in the end.

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CLOWN DUTY

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Not my circus, not my monkeys.-Polish proverb


CLOWN DUTY

Born wrong, he got me right
Celebrates my fanny
Charms, trailer windows, black mind
For comedy. Gutterized beau
Replete with affection disorder
Grog blossoms, cauliflower ear
For doggerel. Broken noise.

Bloviating Master of Ceremonies.
Glitterized stallions. Elastic pratfalls.
Nothing distracts from my To-Do List:
Test trapeze. Reform winter law.
Conduct gravity. Reorient.
Polish tinware. Flush away

Chimp guano. Marvel
At the mess we’ve made, beatify
Our radical slaphappy love
Bless big top bounty
The largesse of my longing.
Remember what matters.

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POVERTY BADGE . . . recycled photo naturally. I am nothing if not resourceful.

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POVERTY BADGE

Redemption. Found?

How can I tell

See through smudge

Survive smears?

New pain. Ancient pain.

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Everything hurts.

You never leave.

Chief wound.

Kitchen universe rub out.

Incidents blur into one

Gorgeous fight.

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I sanctify slaughter, swine

My pearls so well.

Hire me to steal

Mother your tribe

Whitewash collisions.

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Did you eat crow?

Do the required thing,

Resplendent in a martyr’s coat,

Beyond reproach in glaring

Red numbers.

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Our woody fruit burst,

Prevailing discovery,

Insensible bed, small

Household forsook.

For sale. Black

Corsette. Never worn.

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You and your vapid skanks.

Fellatio’d in the green room

Another score before grace

Our happy hour in shreds.

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We may find miles and miles

But the door-poor walk in half.

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