THIMK

Fell through the cracks
at the speed of twentyfourhundred dollars a month
to land here
an alien place where the only things that move are the trucks
but not me
I’m as much a thing here as the doors
the garbage cans and the guest workers
rooted with the concrete that is bills to pay
cut rate office supply costing less than the phones I use to call nobody
ignoring the eyes staring
eyes trying to count how much
trying to figure how many trailers to the whore
how many miles per blow job
broke my fingers trying to climb those cracks again
as if there was some kind of chance dragging this broken chair
a fuck you from every fat ass that came through this door to get came on
and stuck to the floor

Every so often, something incredibly stupid happens that leads to an act of creation. Most of the time its children born out of wedlock after three dollar highball night. In this case it was some silly little suburban gangster wannabe who was trying to posture on a downtown bus.  Written over the course of an afternoon, this is one of the poems that always kept gnawing at the back of my mind over the past ten years, making me feel empty about neglecting my writing.  Even in my overly self critical way, I’ve always felt that there is some solid potential in this piece. Somehow I guess I owe the preening little fuck a favour.

Knuckle Sandwich
A kid asked me
to write a poem
about his hand a few days ago
I wasn’t really listening
in fact
I was ignoring him pretty well
until he started harassing some girl
in the manner of boy children everywhere
she was carrying a sketch book
and looked the type
who didn’t need his crap
so I spoke up
and answered his stupid questions
distracting him
but binging him back to asking me
to write a poem about his hand
and to tell me that he’d pay me
next time he saw me if I did
I told him that I’d have to be
in the right mood to do that
and gave only the shortest of glances
at that hand has he postured
and rolled it like a prizefighter
showing the scars and cracked knuckles of old bouts
as if he had that history written on it
instead of freckles and cheap mack daddy rings
wouldn’t take a genius to know what that hand would do
it would help itself
and grasp what it’s owner wanted
lift vodka
lift beer
gain some smoke stains
beat it’s children
beat it’s wife
masturbate
twitch
shake
make fists
bleed
and never notice the puppet strings
anchored there
and there
and there
spasm when called a coward
hesitate when called to back up a mouth
no it didn’t take a genius
and my eyes must have told him
of what I saw in his future
minimum wage
Budweiser
dishwater wife
and a cheap lawn mower
on the unfashionable side of suburbia
the instinctual reaction to recoil slowly
made me smirk into a book
written before his exact type had been
drawn up
he turned and began on the girl with the sketch book again
asking if everything was a self portrait
and I considered throwing a brick
if I had one

I don’t hate the provence where I was born, raised, and currently live, at least not anymore.  Anyone who has spent significant time here however, will notice that our fine province is home to certain strange fauna; the exact like of which is found nowhere else. When I was young and feeling very much alien, I wondered exactly how I could be a product of the same place as the people I saw around me.  Alberta Advantage is a product of that time.

Alberta Advantage

Typical young family
had the kid at sixteen
lost all semblance of free will
when the team won the cup
when the acceptable virtues were instilled
belt buckle ball cap
peroxide blond fuck me heels
just the way he likes it
she doesn’t really have an opinion
just the way he likes it
makes me wonder
if the kid has a chance
of ever doing anything differently
then her mother
I’m not laying good odds

Two poems from the early part of the century that I am at least a little proud of. Unlike many of the pieces that I’ve found in this old notebook, there two were at least thrown in the general direction of coherent.

Kicking the Habit No.1

It’s not the need I see
but the lack of it
that became a defining characteristic
of what I was
and am
and how can I close a door
on a part of myself
a small collection
becomes definition
self medication
becomes religion
if you let it

Kicking the Habit No. 2
No more eyes
no more lips
no more legs
no more bad trouble on a barstool
drink in hand
and evil intent
served in a little black dress
straight up
with a twist

Three shorter items here.  The next couple of posts will be collections that I am a little more proud of, or I at least think hold some redeeming quality.

The World of Fuck

What is offensive to some
is nothing to others
and less then that to me
what new information is lessened
by the jacket that it comes in
it is ignorant to assume
that offensive somehow equals
stupidity
as if a language compromises
the spirit of what you are trying to tell me
thought is thought
with no need to sugar coat
to make it palatable
the gateway to enlightenment
is a strong stomach

Purgation

Wind it up
turn the key
and watch it go
as it all filters out
into an uncaring world
that won’t bat an eye
as it goes past

Sashay

Clean walking shimmy
and the knowing wink of queens
leaves smoking steps in pavement that
should have been warned ahead
twisting straight necks
and encouraging the slaughter of innocents
envy is more definition than description
of how silk is supposed to move
in the proper proportions of wind and walk

continuing the series of things culled from my old notebooks are these four old poems from 2002

Knowing the Score

Cynic poets
are becoming the common breed
and few of us care to bother
with the stupid flowers anymore
of course…
a lot more people wanted
to read about the flowers
than
dust
greed
and pragmatism
so chalk one up for the stupid flowers

Coffee Tab

Looking back on it
I think it was the eyes
peering at me over
the impossibly large cup
that hit me first
so in a way it’s not my fault
and I can’t take all the blame or praise for
whatever happens to us
We both own this thing
and we’re splitting the cheque evenly
but I’ll cover the tip of course
and cover the next round
if you want to stay

Native Son
I saw two women sitting
on a downtown bus sharing
a can of cheap beer while children
presumably theirs
looked on
I had to wonder what the
message these used dowagers
were trying to give
to children who speak
as if they learned the words
from the ramblings of their mothers
after drinking from the keg of truth
I had to wonder
just what a future was in store
for children who’s parents spent
their lives chasing cheap blue cans of lager
with drunk-stupid slogans etched upon them
and no other ambitions but scratch tickets and bingo

I don’t think that I completely blame heredity anymore

Trouble at the Mill

The assembly line went wrong somewhere
seriously wrong
terribly wrong
and nobody noticed
widgets and cogs
that make up humanity
were coming up malformed
more often then not bent in ways that few could understand
defects in packaging made it apparent to all
the machine needed servicing
but QA was in a meeting
and the workers were asleep
so the flawed product hit the street
and joined humanity in larger and numbers
were fruitful and multiplied
nobody noticed

A new shift joined the mill
as the old one died on the job
or were given their gold watches
and with warped eyes twisted
found the machine
and found it good
so work continued
soon in three shifts
and everyone prospered
Every so often a part came out true
and if QA was awake
it was duly stamped “defect”
taken outside
shot
and burned
nobody noticed

What follows are three poems from my notebook dating from early 2002.

Roast Beef

Gave them a day
they took a year
and not without my notice
the sad part of the act is
you have to stick your foot in
to the trap and hop once twice thrice
for it to snap
just to see if the trappers
give a damn

They say that a animal will chew off a leg to get out of a trap while a human will wait and endure to get revenge on the trapper but my shoulder is beginning to look mighty tasty right now

Once
Twice
Thrice
Dinnertime

Sensorium

A cube missing two sides
tones inducing nothing but boredom
and eventually sleep
as if the theory went that
anything else would promote violence
Art is outlawed
only vague inspirational photos
everyone knows are fake
Climb every mountain?
If people climbed mountains
they wouldn’t be here

The sounds are muted
anything in a real human voice
would cause ears to bleed
music would make the five o’clock news
reporting the coming arrests

I am sure that the fires of sex
would shock this place off the map
Laughter would at least burst all the pipes

Quibble

You go on for hours
assuming that I care one whit about
the supposedly pressing matters
you are only vaguely aware of
until I ask you about them
content that you are the authority
on everything that you have never thought about
Somehow I am supposed to be enriched
by this wisdom
Halcyon ecstasy will not come from this drivel
only the conviction that
talking to those like you
is only a waste of thought on both parts