1984 - 94

For Nova Scotia

I look at this province that
Buchanan bought and sold
I listen to the stories that
have made their tellers old
I see a place once prosperous
now slipped into decay

In this tiny corner of Canada
that's been cast away

I remember the harbour crafts
coming in with their hauls
But now they're few and pass us by
En route to Montreal
The towns, they gray and fade away
in deaths so sad and slow

While the young depart now every day
for the West and Ontario
The young depart each and every day
for the Alberta and Ontario

What we need's a leader
one committed proud and true
who speaks like Joseph Howe
with the courage of Brian Borru
To be again a prosperous place
buzzing with the affray

In this tiny corner of Canada
that's been cast away
on this Eastern coast of Canada
draped in sweet Atlantic spray
The time will come in Canada
a new judgement day


Calgary, AB., Canada




Summer Seems So Far

The teeth of the stream
shining gray, vines of black,
chew in to the river,
white foaming hushing plumbing
echoing sounds of solitary
plopping drops-
hushing greenery, specked with brown
mirror on the camouflaging
calm, where
lines guess and dream of flittering
fins and turning tails
within the containment
of this ever changing place...
I think upon this place within
the cold grip of winter
when the weather, -30,
has me under house arrest;
the clicking of my fly rod's reel,
dreams percolating in my mind
with the pleasant round curve
cupped in my palm-
photos of Kananaskis in summer,
the mountains and Jenny,
trudging over rooted new trails.


Calgary, AB., Canada




Quebec, Je me souviens

Nostalgia can often
refocus one's perception of earlier experiences,
a contrast like the view you saw, the
photo you took
and the now developed photograph.
My winter in Quebec City
was the coldest I had ever experienced- a shit load of snow too!
I went there to study French,
but quit mid-way through my second semester.
There is little for an Anglo in a city where all the
bi-laws and attitudes are anti- English.
I got a job doing carpentry,
an Irish pub- Le D'Orsay- and spent the rest of my
free time training for rugby.
I worked with this guy really named John...
He was a draft-dodger from the States-
been in Quebec since the 70's, an artist-
he was bi-sexual and liked to tell me about it.
He painted beautiful landscapes.
Around the same time
a good friend, a guy from New Jersey,
mentioned his own bi-sexual-now-celibate
story in a by-the-way manner, but I suspected as much and didn't
really care; I continue to sip my Guinness and chat.
Most of my friends in Quebec were women.
Despite the distractions, they made great
weight training partners. Everyone smoked in Quebec,
I found it disgusting. I miss Quebec though,
mais je ne sais pas porquoi.

Dartmouth, N.S., Canada





Full of Shit

I had been writing for eleven years because I
thought I had something to say,
now I know I just wanted people to think I did...
I shake my head now as I muse over past prose;
the "ye's" and "thee"'s,
the adolescent Morriseyian angst,
especially the love lyrics ebbing with their ideals
"ah for my love, I shall expire without
thy sweet embrace..."
WHAT CRAP!!
The English society crowd at the university
said they loved my stuff;
my readings always seemed to be a hit,
no accomplishment really
if Madonna can sell Billions!
I became a liar in this quest for truth,
what was supposed to mirror the sincerity of my inner feelings,
opposite reflection, the filling of a mold to impress the others-
especially the girls.
How angelic of a portrait I painted, the little
boy that pulled the legs off grasshoppers, leaving them embraced in spiders web,
how righteous I tried to appear-
a lamb in the lair of wolves-
condemning judgements and facilitating falseness'
like those coffee shop artsies I despise,
despite dating a few.
The Lowest of the Low sum it up:
"I'm so full of shit it makes me drool".

Coombs, B.C., Canada





In a St.Mary's Street Hotel

Wet and dreary Cardiff night,
Watching some soap in Welsh on TV; guts
Feel greasy from the fried squid,
Earlier eaten in an alleyway Chinese café
Outside the window, it's wooden frame and foggy pane,
Whirling wheels; short fused drivers
Shuffle by;
Pondering away the time to later
Leave for the Odeon - pass again
The wall flower drunks propped upon
The storefront facades, in alleyways,
Grumbling in their packs with malted breath-
After a pause in some pub
For a pint of Brains,
Slipping brown and smooth over my palette,
Considering joining their purgatory,
Before returning to the Hotel, sleeping
Amidst the nightclub's chorus
Belching below.


Cardiff, Wales




29.09.95: San Francisco Airport

I've not been here yet an hour
And have already had enough of the USA
My flight is delayed 45 minutes and I've
Been ripped off twice - once by the teller's
Exchange rate and commission and
The other by a stamp vending machine;
Saw a T-shirt in a shop: "Americans do it better"
…fucking arrogant assholes;
I hope this place implodes with its self-absorption,
The earth itself here, trembling angry, tries
To swallow the city and shake free of the fleas
-a city surrounded by burial mounds of barren
brown dirt - mounded mountains, a curtained
cadaver of civilization,
made lifeless and toxic with the imperialist venom,
conquesting poison of predators
"America, love it or leave it"


San Francisco, CA, USA




Memories

Sitting on my balcony reading some Rollins:
"Today I went through all kinds of domestic bullshit
Tiny rules for tiny lives
Tonight I'm living all their little hells"
an AGT truck vibrates its
low diesel rattle- constant rhythm idling
men mending cables so I can reach out & touch someone...
Mother was here, ten days, my guest;
no matter which way you read it, mom is spelled the same-
past to present- pain
re-sealing the scars
suffering outlasting pain, or is it
the other way around? Still mom.
Evolving new tortures, ever present,
ever lasting:
"Memories stick like napalm and keep burning
Years later I still burn"
This pen is my sword,
re-claiming my flat, re-claiming my self, got the stub
hope the tag's not on my toe-
burning passions
charring flesh- my own-
petroleum tears ignite
E X P L O D E !
unaware if the beast lies within or without,
slaying myself, powerlines hum
as the truck pulls away.

Calgary, AB., Canada





A Chosen Few

Cardboard faces, GQ cut-outs; business men
their money- pulp pressed, printed, paper;
too busy to acknowledge the pan handlers
selling Spare Change
these brave monitory warriors
too consumed in cowardice & cellular conversations to look the wary beggar in the eye
-simple salutations
"Spare a dollar sir?"
look away in fear- whiplash- perhaps
pressing a cold coin to the putrid paw,
eyes evasive
and hasty brush by...
...conquested animal kingdom
conquest now the concrete city
avoiding their own to create another
pagan monuments unto themselves-
glass temple, sacrificing steel slicing sky, bleeding:
the priest's starched collar, pure virginity-
the cigar smoke
exhaled rings,
harsh crackling chuckle over
spotted silk ties, splashed technocolored,
mocking the self-proclaimed noose
with masochistic satire
-bondage-
sunglasses regardless of cloud-
in spite of them-
concealing the cast away eyes
products sold, skyscrapers alienating sunlight
spores spawn mould in the alleyways,
moist with the urine of dogs and men,
added growth to the economy
that blossoms for a chosen few
while a parasite on the remaining many
rummaging through skips
recycling waste, serving needs.

Calgary, AB., Canada