I go to the edge of the lake
and wash my hair in the ice cold water

FOUND PHOTOGRAPH

The poem I write is a colorful affair
within the body of a man playing dead
a man whose fingers twitch just enough
to work the typewriter, who, when
it is dark enough will hitchhike from the
scene of his death

-1991 Steven Jesse Bernstein

The bag is not hanging on the porch
without there being a complex network
of events set in motion
in the denied chapters of history
On who's land was the cotton grown?
With who's labour was the cotton picked?
Who made money selling the product?
Who's children stitched the seams?
What coffin slums were erected
to house those who toiled in the
factory farms of industry
producing 'popper' studs

No it is not simply a bag hanging on the porch
now seen through the failing light of a coming storm

Found in The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy.

Strange how a teapot can represent at the same time the comforts of solitude and the pleasures of company.

I walked across the playing field
where the Krishna's had they're feast
I met you on the corner
with a coffee in your hand
You always catch me off guard
with my defenses down
I was pleased to see you
because I thought that you'd left town

I walked across the playing field
where Micheal Donahue was lost
We sat and drank our coffees
and dialogged on trust
You said you trusted no one
I asked not even me
Your hair was kind of messy
but beautiful to see

You always catch me off guard
my arms down by my side
with your funky way of dressing
and your sudden change of mind

TAKEN IN

No one came around today
no bad tempered poets
no well meaning critics
come to label, categorize
and differentiate the bloomings of my genius
Come to tell me what current trend of poetry
my words belong to
that i need to draw some inspiration
form my dislikes into something

You breached my security
my mine field of buried precaution
everything was turned upside down
i lay out my body for feasts of entertainment

A beautiful disruption came swirling into my life
turned everything upside down
scattered things around the bedroom floor
wore my clothes, danced, skipped, laughed
eyes sparkled, gave out love and speculums

Your hands spoke a language beyond translation
i swallowed your breath it burns inside of me still
When will the dust settle?
When will this hollowness be filled?
Is your power to attract totally unknown to you?
i was held between hot teeth
my flesh still tingles
as i run my fingers along my neck and shoulders
the calf of my leg
These searing inscriptions are fading fast
You wrote a poem on my paper skin
you softly touched the surface
Inside you engraved feelings and memories
that i shall carry with me

TO A GENERATION THAT HAS EMBRACED THE CULTURE OF EVIL

This plagued time
which is not the other side
nor the beyond
that does not have the same interests
as the hereafter and the unknown
this time has deceased

Testimony to the physical form
lifetime is dead
phenomena is dead
death without knowledge is dead

Now perhaps i can have my own life back

These departed sons
go-between veils
careful works
ominous forces
materialistic geologists breaking open inner space
psychic mindfuckers
brainwashed spies dissecting books
Birth of the righteous army
dealing in death blows and forgiveness
The ignored writings of demons and devils
historically denied
giving way to the vogue influence of new doctrines

Life style is on the shelf
with all the other products
The pressure the pace
the batteries running flat
the noisy years of california
This is the 2.00am crisis call
a midnight rap session
that is coming unwound

Drop your bombs on the breakfast table
and drift towards the prophecy
of the high fashion individualist
The power of evil comes from god
put on a rams head and dance towards the fire

You are weighed down by the artifacts
of a dollar store childhood
the dark morning has arrived
you sit alone in the house
with all the lights on
the epidemic is on your door step
it IS your door step
the infection has reached fever point
it is spread by common place attitudes
you live in some of the most affluent neighborhoods
your sexual habits, rites, ceremonies, and abuses
defy the imagination
and as the charms and logo's begin to peel off
your glassy eyed god perverts his followers

LOVE THE GROUP YOU'RE IN
ACCEPTANCE AND A PLACE IN THIS WORLD

Sickness in your shadowy churches
in the highly organized monasteries
and the musty rooms of europe
sickness in the twisted reversal of your priests
sick hypnotic jesus
formaldehyde lazarus
sick indulgent cult of the uninvolved
exclusive club of self-righteous devotees
televised baptisms
soft drink kiss-ins
the no-nonsense yes man
who eats the human heart
from the body of the suspect
60,00 harvard devils in the pages of life magazine
a drugless holy land

come embrace this little sadness called power

authoritarian jet set guru
i owe my self-improvement all to you

LETTER FRAGMENT

I'm living at the Denman St. basement, the plastic container under the sink over flowed again this morning, it does that when you forget to empty it. I forget a lot of things these days. A month ago the ceiling in my bedroom started leaking, dripping from the bathroom upstairs, my mattress got soaked. The landlord doesn't give a shit, but he sent some guy over to 'fix it'. The rent here is $150 a month, the cheapest i know of in town.
we are not alone
we are not dead
i could be in kasa Tadla, Manzanares, Odessa, Penza, i could be with juliette
the constellations of moles on the human body are unfathomable , the face, the hands, the eyes, the words, the speech.
It is my third year in canada. My fridge is well stocked with cherries, strawberries, organic green and red peppers, broccoli, carrots, yogurt, apricots, bananas, and soya milk. Each morning we have lavish breakfasts, sitting outside in a single spotlight of sunshine.
Anna is Polish, she teaches me a new word every day, but I'm not a good pupil, my heart just isn't in it. We talk about Grotowski and the Polish Laboratory Theatre .
There are no gestures of a body, only gestures by a body, corporeal monologue of spirit itself.
I want to touch something old, that has roots, subterranean rhizomes that shoot off the veins, arteries and capillaries, that pulsates in the heart of things. Everything here is new, even the old is new. The fake British pubs make me sick.
We have become experts of waste management. I have not bought a pair of trousers, a shirt, a jacket, shoes, socks, I have a Yves Saint Laurent pinstriped suit, Christian Dior silk ties
we go dumpster diving to keep the fridge topped up
only in North America could i enjoy such voluptuous poverty

It's thinly spread across the day
a shower, a cup of tea, a conversation on the phone
poison infiltrates the simplicity of a home
misunderstanding takes it's toll
dissatisfaction creeps across the floor
disappointment crawls close by
denies the events of the past
undermines friendships

A weak passion that can't be maintained
It comes in the middle of the night
and leaves a cold space behind

WHY HAVE THE MOST BEAUTIFUL FORMS OF HUMAN BEHAVIOR BEEN SUPPRESSED

Touching in a bed of knives
trust dissolves power
we bring the burdens
of our traditions to bed with us
sex and power
chained together
sex and love physically linked

Nowhere is there political reality
if we don't wish to observe it

Love is the impetus behind life
Death is an end to the fear

I tentatively laid my head beside you
we gazed up at the bright stars
and talked of lonely astronomers
on their silent hills
searching for the secrets
of the universe unlocked
I know they exist in the tails
of those flaming comets
in your face, your eyes, your hands

I wanted to hold you
just hold you close in the candle light
while the crickets serenaded us
from the banks of the shimmering river
but it was not our time
i liked listening to you talk
blending with the river
smooth and rough

I cherish these moments
knowing they will carry me away
thinking beyond to where the present
becomes a memory (I whisper your name)

ROBBING (child) HOOD

The high points of trees topple
and crack like ice
piercing the ground at our feet
We crash through the thickets
slashing our willow bladed swords
We are the fearless Robin Hoods
making our camps in the burnt out bodies
of the broadest oaks
that were split down the middle
by jagged lines of lightening
that lit the pupils of our Grandmothers eyes

The sheriff's dogs are sleek and fast
they follow their noses
our reckless scent is easy vapor
for their developed sense
These dogs have human hearts
but we are young we out run them
tearing open the calves of our legs
on the barbwire
the rich sticky soil cakes our boots
the baying is closer
our lead footed legs granting us
the speedless grace of astronauts
Our lungs are dry and painful
we throw our sticks into the river
chasing them until they tangle
in the distant reeds

now we have crossed to a safer side
away from their fangs lathered with spit
Through the meadow we walk
puffing the heads off dandelions
firing arrows of wild barley

We are content and fearless again

SAD SONG

Oh I went to my mama, I said mama please,
what do you do when your true love leaves?
She said the hardest thing in the world to do,
is to find somebody believes in you.

M. Ward

TOO LATE

A distance has built up between us
The bridges that once crossed this void
that could have brought us closer together
now lay scattered at the bottom
like dry bones

For far too long now poetry has been in the hands of a privileged few, made up of intellectuals, academics and middle class liberal bohemians, who with exception of a small minority have sold out to the literary establishment, which brings with it all the coercion and compromise that you'd expect from a corrupt patriarchal institution. The poets who choose to use their words as a weapon against the dominant ideology, are marginalised and ridiculed for not writing 'real' poetry.
You won't find these voices of dissent being studied in schools and universities, you won't find them on the shelves of corporate book shops or in the coffeehouses of the bourgeois , who seek to promote competition rather than cooperation. You'll find them in the raging of the ocean, the howling of the wind, in the eyes of the hungry, in the hands of the oppressed, in the arms of lovers and friends, in the screams from every slaughterhouse in the world.
Poetry like any other creative form of communication seeks to show the beauty that is being killed within us and hopefully show us a glimpse of what is still possible.

I am flesh, blood and bone
I am at the same time
both strong and fragile
I have words to share
I trust you enough
to understand my position
The poets who are honest and sincere
I salute you
To the fakes and collaborators
I hold on to my bitterness
for a more appropriate moment

FAILED DREAM MEETING

Between the folds of fragile dreams
we attempt a union, a meeting at the words rough edges
I lunged into the mist desperate to connect
I felt a stone shift and grow dense in my heart
my arms were empty of you

This night as I creep towards sleep
I have a feeling of cracking stone
that divides into shards that glow with warmth
will I see you in emerald green
floating amongst the most beautiful of horses?

Inside a fine yarn has been woven
a music so tight it traps vibration in dynamos
turning backwards
causing a tenseness that spreads to fingers
that grip axes, spades, pens, and other hands

I make a pledge to always look inside first
to pluck at the yarn
On the border between magic and dream
my passport becomes a rosy amulet
that parts flesh from bone
the quick from the dead

I stood on the edge
knew you were calling out to me
I was afraid
forgive me

ONCE MORE (AGAIN)

Once more the hunger has withered the flesh
Once more the desert wind has sung to the bullet
Once more the shoulder has carried the gun
Once more the sky has held the plane
Once more the churches of deceit have played a part
Once more the sea has cradled the ships
Once more the children play in the empty bellies of tanks
Once more we are draped in the elegant clothes of butchery
Once more our differences are exaggerated
Once more we tolerate the fragrance of war
Once more we are betrayed

Once more this is all i can do
all i can say is that the methods of love
must be applied to world politics
Once more the beauty of the sheltering wing was ignored
Once more the huge devices of death
torture the grandness that is a human body
(my love lives in the creases of your ankles)

Once more this peace was imagined
Once more i yearn for a sharing of this endless cold
hoping that the mosaic of these days
will hold together long enough
so that i may reveal just a fraction of myself
and that you may press a blemished body against mine
until we hardly notice the missing fragments
and the thick twisting flames that dance around our bed

AMERICAN ROOFTOP

Kate takes me up to the roof
"You can see 12 American flags from up here"
Some people are sleeping huddled against
the chipped asphalt
In the day they drink beer
and topple water melons off the ledge
exploding on the sidewalk or the hoods of rich cars

One day the landlord barges his way in
not before 7 or so people have gone running up the stairs
He sticks his neck into the room, looks around stiffly
We don't take our eyes from the screen
"You lot live here?"
"Oakland, Clarke St. off Telegraph" Carlos assures him
The slum lord nods his head in disbelief
tries the door to the stairs
"Whys this locked" he wants to know narrowing his eyes
Carlos drops buttering him up
tells him to "get the fuck out
and while you're at it you can fix the toilet
that you promised to do a month ago"

We stand and smoke Drum looking out over the city
Kate is getting together a benefit show
so a woman in Philadelphia, who was date raped
by her Professor, can pay the court fees
One of the bands can't play
"The drummers quit, it's always the fucking drummers"
and her face sharpens as she blows out the smoke

BURGLARS TREMBLE TOO

I like running my hands over marble statues
in churches and cathedrals.
I like putting dead sea shells
over my eyes pretending to be a sea monster.
I am confused by the sharpness of numbers.

neither is the ancient rule amisse

Doing in the figure of a lamb
the feats of a lion
has been a way of surviving
Perplexed and helpless
down amongst the dust
or in springs of indifferent waters

Oh, let me perish in the fire!
From the cellars full of dark air
up and down the winding staire
is there anybody there?!

If I should see them tonight
let their heads by slickly combed
their blue coats brushed
and their hair so nice
let them come tonight
let them utterly consume me with a kiss

this is how it is for me
is this how it is for you?
It must be different
and it must be strong
If my attempt be so much glorified
I will no longer trust

we are living in a disinherited portion
of a whole
The wind shall not sow
The clouds will not reap
and we will perish in the wilderness

we are unseen
we are unseeing
son and ghost
set up as father
idols of the parasites
spilling from the vaults

you touch me with your noble anger
and within me calls ancestral songs

Mapped on a Blueprint

The shadow boxers dance with their sparring partners
practicing in the hallways and kitchens
comforting family fights
setting the patterns for later relationships
"We hurt those we love the most"
I don't believe in this dysfunction
don't insult my intelligence
Love donates itself to 'the cause'

I appraise it's value
turn it in my hands
to judge what worth it may possess
my blood thick and sluggish with alcohol

nothing yet has been completed
the angels continue to watch over us
listening to our arguements about the dishes
our carried on hostilities
that agitate and bind

while we wait for change to rescue us

INDIAN RICE

ENVY

We salvage what we can
from the tight opinionated vendettas
that are left on the roadside
of our car crash love affairs
We collide in darkness
drive off the jetty
into seas of jealousy
We spin round jeered on by
the on coming traffic
held to ransom
by the mechanics of love.

At the lovers rendezvous
we hold to the meanings
we've cunningly manufactured
settling for the unsettling situation
Every day the love fatigue
searches you out
like a dentist drill
the taut nerve endings
creating weird coastlines
where sultry winds
blow the bed clothes
from the geometry of our shape
you lie beside me
and I try desperately to unravel
the fabric of your sleep

THE DIALOGUE OF BODIES

The dialogue of bodies has it's own propaganda.

THE CHEAT

I pass my hand over your face
the canonized flesh
I am the disbeliever
you the motionless swan
a half open window
brings in the silver air of the dawn
The slack outline of my jacket
thrown over the back of a chair
is proof that I have a life
beyond these walls
The smell of my creed
mingles with your scent
You wake with an unrehearsed elegance
in the mirror
I see something melt then harden
my fingers follow the framework
I know this is more than I deserve
and I'm ashamed

SPECULATIONS

burning disguise
in the naked rage
something bad was fired
it kindles ambition
soaring to the top
half being
part star
floating amongst
the sounds
in need of a throat

hovering over
the foot notes
of a life
coming down to earth
with talons flashing

HOLD ON

The sea is in a wild rage tonight
There is no safe port
The wind steals our words
An unhappy moon shines
I don't understand why we
have to part like this

UNDERNEATH THE CONDITIONING

This is the morning after
the brute without a heart
This is the morning after
the shattered statues
have fallen to earth

This is the day
i raise my voice
against the conqueror's religion
This is the day
i take sides with the animals

This is the night
we embrace each other with hope
This is the night
we change forever

THE GARDEN

She unplugged the phone to sever another level of communication, to further isolate herself from any situation that might increase the likelihood of a conflict. Ever since Elizabeth's accident the tension between their families and each other had grow nearly to breaking point. The realization that now things were different, Elizabeth had lost a physical part of herself. For Finlay this became like a force field that she could not go beyond. An emotional barrier that would not permit her to feel the other womans pain. This had been the hallmark of their relationship. Two years ago Finlay had told her parents that she and Elizabeth were lovers.

"Look darling you're very young you've got your whole life ahead of you".

Her mother turned away sobbing into her hands.
He enclosed his wife in the crook of his arm, her face looked as if it was burrowing into his chest or else it was somehow being sucked in, absorbed by a greater power and authority.

"You're trying to destroy us"

She stands in the garden a green hose pipe lays stretched and uncoiled across the lawn. The colours soothe her, the yellows and greens of the tomatoes. Some resting red and swollen on the loamy earth drawing in the last rays of the evening. The leaves of the corn seem to visibly relax themselves and hang like tired arms. The fanned out leaves of dusty purple cabbages, on which slugs have chewed intricate lace-work, are frozen in the scattered light. They resemble huge marzipan roses. The stillness here is comforting, it is not like the eerie calm of a factory that has ceased to function where the machines stand idle with a silence that is sinister and demanding.
It is the tranquility of things growing. Here there is a connectedness, a harmony that effects her self purpose. When she works in the garden the rhythm of the day changes. The forced exhilaration of the city becomes intolerable.
She knows her father has probably tried to call her by now. She resists the urge to plug-in the phone.

I BELIEVE MYSELF

His breathing is shallow and out of rhythm
eyelids as thin as petals
the light presses through the darkness
and pries them open

He changes position
scratches where he thinks it itches
it's like he suddenly forgot how to do it
can't imagine ever sleeping again
and the night is just there
it's exaggerated length stretching off
into the stuffy distance of the room
He rolls over onto his back
stares up at the ceiling
the blank eye of a shark
that never closes
He has reached the point
where something must be struggled for
it is familiar but it is of no comfort
a cold stain of breath on his shoulder
an ageless and endless fight

NIGHT FACES

During the night, faces i thought i'd forgotten push their way into my sleep. The silent wrinkles between my thumbs begin to sweat. Nothing keeps happening. The bland optimism of the morning sunshine makes it harder to conceal my bitterness. Everything falls short of my exceptions, but i can always depend on my enemies.

STILL HIDING IN A MASK

You're dressed up like a clown
Putting on your act
It's the only time all year
You'll ever admit that

I can see your eyes
I can see your brain
Baby, nothings changed


You're still hiding in a mask
You take your fun seriously
No, don't blow this year's chance
Tomorrow your mold goes back on

After Halloween

You go to work today
You'll go to work tomorrow
Shitfaced tonight
You'll brag about it for months

Remember what I did
Remember what I was
Back on Halloween

But what's in between
Where are your ideas
You sit around and dream
For next Halloween

Why not everyday
Are you so afraid
What will people say

- Dead Kennedys

SPUR-OF-THE-MOMENT

Found in Ideology and Utopia by Karl Mannheim (pages40-41)

ALL WELL

Found in Under Milk Wood by Dylan Thomas.

INSOMNIA

It' s 5.30 in the morning
you're breathing and snoring
blends with the noises
in the street
I count the moles on your back
the hairs
on your feet
waiting for the bitter
to drip out
from the sweet

no significance

ALBERT GHANDI

FALSE WITNESS

Found written in the back of T.S. Eliot Collected poems 1909-1962.

SCHOOL

1.

The last pennies of summer were spent at the fairground. This made going back to school a little more bearable. They stood in line outside the main hall,
recounting their exploits in the fields and country lanes. Any big event took place in the main hall, which also functioned as the gym and dance hall. At morning assembly, on their very first day at school the Head Master had led everyone in the lord’s prayer; the deep mellowness of his voice when it echoed in the vast space had worked an hypnotic effect upon them, they’d believed every word. (They were after all only children.) They were lectured on the wrong and right way to brush their teeth, not to run in the corridors and to always be available for sports days.
Now they were starting their third year. The Head Master they’d learned from some of the older boys was a ‘wanker’. It was quite awhile until they found out exactly what that word meant. Although this didn’t seem to detract from the enjoyment they got from whispering it under their breath when they passed the Master’s office and the staff room. It was as if they were saying- You can pat us on the head, you can see us smile, you can think that we are happy here learning what you force upon us, and you can go on thinking that, because we are whispering curses to ourselves. We are dropping rotten eggs in the windows of your cars.

THE FOOT

Found slide.

There are 26 bones in the human foot (28 if you include the sesamoid bones at the base of the big toe). These are: the Talus, which connects to the tibia at the ankle; the Calcaneus, which forms the heel; the Navicular, Cuboid, and three Cuneiforms (Medial, Intermediate, and Lateral), which form the middle of the foot; the five Metatarsals, which radiate out to the toes; and 14 Phalanges (2-3-3-3-3), which form the toes.

POLKA-DOT SCARF

Found on Bear Beach.

EXCEPT SPROUTS

READ THIS ALOUD

Found in Chinese Household Furniture by George N. Kates.

KISSING BRIDGE

TULIPS

Found in Women of The Beat Generation. (Pages 209-291)

MUFFLER PARTS AND GROCERY

Found in a copy of The Karma Sutra.

THIS IS GARY

The Front.




The Back.

YOUR WISH IS MY COMMAND

Found in Back Country Biking in the Canadian Rockies by Doug Eastcott.