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