One song of many to be sung.

When I was young I watched a large old man – strong –
waste away in a hospital bed on IVs – weekly.
One complication after another and I
knew nothing except that there was ill health afoot.
He spoke quietly, loved that I was there, loved to see his family
from a city or two over, and I could tell
this was not the normal routine – interrupted by ladder falls and gallbladder fails.
Work did not need to wake him at 5am – footprints sound off along the hallway
and cigarette smoke an hour later, after departure, fills the corridor.
In a hospital, his footprints are muted in the air – suspended –
and the cigarettes that he didn’t smoke are unlit.
I asked sometimes if he would return home.
It seemed that the hospital room he was in was a play room, mostly – mostly
for my brother and I, carefree, unable to process or understand health and illness.
And we seemed not to care that Atlas was a paper plate.
But it was all temporary like a bad hangover gone at 6pm
and he rose from a white grave, shovelling potatoes. Creamed corn. Well-cooked still-moist ham with his fork and free-hand – Monday hand.
Still pale he laboured to lift a sledge hammer – “ham or…?” –
holding the handle at the very end, slowly – too quickly in my memory –
bringing the metal to his nose, then back again.
He smiled, said I couldn’t do it.
I’m telling him now, “No, I could not.”

Wake up, go to work.

Brimming with ideas last night
only to have none this morning
like a renewed mind -
a new fast to break -
I've emptied everything in the dark
and the light washed away the wrinkles on my forehead.
I need another coffee.
I want to fuck that Columbian.
Sex for coffee - a fair trade.
Bloody, sugary sex magic -
fuck to that whole album
and sip coffee with a pretty coked up Columbian
because I've got a crazy craving
fueled by the wrong energy.
All that I desire - sex and coffee.

Getting back to normal

Nothing's come from my writing hands in many weeks. Now I'm making things happen again. This is where it starts, with one poor poem, soon to be followed with a series of great ones. I'll keep you posted.


Use chop sticks, but never forks.
These cautions are not cautions as they are
limitations of limits and limitations of life.
Limit the words that you use
to one small lexicon for three weeks.
the words that you use –
your lexicon –
limited for three weeks.
Limit your small lexicon to
three poor words.
Three
poor
words.

Seek water but vow to never drown.
This caution is far more ridiculous
but necessary for children and dwarves.
limitations forced on one
are not limitations at all.
They are not limitations.
These are nature’s concessions;
uncontrollable things that none could combat.
Not even with
three
poor
words.

With Emphasis on Happy

This is a poem I recorded in a studio with minimal effects. It's titled "With Emphasis on Happy" and the poem belongs to Little Episodes.
www.littleepisodes.org

This is exciting.

On your right, you'll notice a new link that says, "Borrowed Life of a Poet." If you click on this, you'll get to read a short story of mine.

This story was originally published within the Brock Student Anthology titled "Looking for Trees."

An Excerpt #2:

The first thing that came to mind was a Bukowski poem I read the other day. I couldn’t remember what the title was, or how it went, exactly. But he wrote something to the effect of: “if you take the typewriter away from the writer all you have left is the disease that started him writing in the first place.” I hadn’t written in a long time. I was fucking sick. The disease was winning. The need to write is like an ever present malignant tumour that shrinks and grows depending on how often you write. At this point, mine was fucking huge, located on the brain, inoperable, and clearly causing some functionality issues. If Bukowski were completely honest in his poem, he would have added one simple sentence: “I’m permanently diseased.” I firmly believe all those that feel a need to write are permanently diseased. He’d have said, “I have the sad blue blues and I just want to fuck you – because I’m a writer and the disease is winning.” For him, it was escapism – for me, it’s a poor substitution.

An excerpt:

“You wait right here. I’ll be right back.” I sprung up off the couch and was quickly reminded that I had a hangover. I stood still a moment, but the room kept moving just a bit. Then I continued to the bathroom and grabbed hold of a toothbrush. While I was brushing I couldn’t help but wonder what the fuck I was up to. I hadn’t written a word, I hadn’t made any money, and here I was about to spit out the stench of all my failures. All the bullshit I had spoken – that was likely the bad breath, not the alcohol. Writing is the worst thing one could pin his hopes on. All I do is wish I could pump out ten pages a day, but I can’t put myself through that. It’s like having your father sit you down for a psychiatric evaluation just to hear him say, “You’re just like me and everything else you hate.” But there are the days that the words flow. When the levees break, the words flow seemingly without an end and everything is easy once again and you think, “Maybe things will be alright.” But sure as shit, you’ll find yourself with an obligation that will stop you (not the words – those keep running in your head) like a fucking job and you’ll come back to the page later to find nothing left in your mind but white noise.

I spit out the toothpaste, cleaned up my mouth, and exited the bathroom.