Rites of Passage
Oct 28 2008


I am still waiting to come of age.

I learned to drive
a big Buick land yacht
4-door hard-top
parallel parking with my white-knuckle dad —
teeth clenched,
his brake-foot
mashed against the firewall.
Road test
set for the day I turned 16.

And soon after that, the age of majority —
learning to drink,
old enough to vote
go off to war.
Then marriage house and kids
in no particular order.

So a middle-aged man
in his prime, looking back
wonders just when it happened
or if.
Because I still feel unready, unsure.
Too immature to be this grizzled, this grey,
for cops to call me “Sir”,
to be older
than Prime Ministers.

My coming-of-age story
needs a ruthless edit
a heart-warming ending,
my life, sent-off to re-write —
less bad first novel
more “Catcher in the Rye”.

Unless they were all impostors,
those men I remember
in suits and ties,
who seemed to know exactly how the world works
— mixing drinks,
fixing cars,
kissing faithful wives goodnight.

Fixed
Oct 27 2008


We will finish our lives
you and I
with utter blank finality —
a heavy door swinging shut,
all the light cut-off.
There will be no children
to say prayers for us,
no grandchildren to repeat
our well-embellished stories
our outrageous lies.

The arcane business of birth
will remain a mystery to us both,
your hair stringy with sweat
your legs helpless
your body
torn in two with the hurt.
And me
watching impotently as the head appears —
as the small round pupil of hair, matted black
suddenly widens with surprise,
launched
into slippery howling life.

No, we shall remain dead-ends
biological failures
culled from the herd.
And so we must live out our lives
as if posterity depends on us —
writing feverishly,
embracing causes,
contriving our own
intentional family of friends.
And holding each other
like the last 2 left on earth
in some scorched post-apocalypse.

Where we will count on some other island of love
to carry the burden,
bearing the future
of daughters and sons.

Living Rough
Oct 26 2008


A poet travels light.
He walks on gravel shoulders
veering heedless into traffic,
distracted
by the unbidden words
rattling around inside.

He lives rough,
memorizing lines
fiercely revising.
And needs just a few blank pages
a well-chewed pencil,
nibbled down to the nub.

He loses touch
immersed
in his solo journey,
sending unmarked postcards home.

He leaves himself wide open,
receptive
to smothered sounds and concealed motion.
Then zeros-in with white-hot intensity
on found poems
and suspended moments,
closely observing his idiosyncratic world
— the cosmos
in every grain of sand.

Cars flash past in a blast of air,
horns honking
and cold hard lights,
brushing him back as he walks;
oblivious to traffic
taking his time.
And living rough
he has all the time in the world
— his one and only extravagance.

This was inspired by the official book launch of Charlie Wilkins' new memoir: "In The Land of Long Fingernails -- A Gravedigger's Memoir". My thanks to Charlie, and to Penguin Canada.


A Gravedigger's Even Bigger Lift-Off
Oct 19 2008


I hear they’re launching books today.
And we’ve come to see the author off,
crammed into his white pneumatic suit —
even if his chair-bound paunch
and ample bum
take a little extra shove.
Then the visor clangs shut
and it’s thumbs-up, grinning,
ready for lift-off.

He will rocket up on a trail of fame
and adulation.
Or he might flame-out and come crashing back,
to critical disdain
and remainder bins.
But what the heck,
he’ll dig right in and take the risk.

And his crack team of loyal readers
will see him through,
buying books
for christenings and birthdays and funerals,
and burying the bad reviews.

Making Steam
Oct 21 2008


The furnace rumbled to life today
chugging away in the engine room,
its comforting vibration
moving through the house.
The windows are battened down
for the season;
and as dusk plunges into darkness
they glow like a ship at sea.

I feel pleased with myself,
the place snug
self-contained
ready to ride out the cold —
waves of snow
breaking over the front porch;
and smoke
rising from the single stack;
and my house
steaming steadily off
into winter.

Except for those warm clear days
that come
in October.
When a window gets cracked
and the furnace subsides
and the house sits land-locked,
basking
in unaccustomed sunshine.

Out Loud
Oct 18 2008


Saying it out loud
the words are given-up to the world,
irrevocably;
hovering between us
in heavy black letters.
My voice
sounds disembodied
as if it comes from someone else —
breaking
forced,
running short of breath;
feeling hungry for air.

They say you should read your work out loud,
revealing the music
the imperfections.
But some things, I think I’ll never pronounce.
My tongue,
that used to dart and flick
and tantalize,
is numb
thickened.
My supple lips
are a thin pale line.
My mouth goes dry
and the words stick.
I hear myself stutter
then fade,
looking away
as the hot blush rises.

A man should be stronger than this,
unafraid of words
taking charge.
But this, I keep inside,
as if proclaiming it
would make it permanent,
and far too real.

I recite poems, instead.
The final word resonates,
then a pause
and it’s gone
thinner and thinner,
winging its way out into the ether.
In the back row, a muffled cough.
Some shuffling silence;
polite applause.

Matreyoshka
Oct 16 2008


She was not what I expected.
On the phone, she sounded older, jaded,
a bad dresser.

And when I met her, I still could not be sure
whether to believe
this elegant young lady,
knowing the dark secrets
the double lives
we are powerless to help —
the misleading first impressions
and the needed self-deceptions
as we re-invent ourselves.

She is not devious, but complex
much like the rest of us,
a shape-shifter
with hidden depths.
She is a chimera
a nesting doll,
surprising us all
with yet more incarnations.

Even naked
there was layer after layer,
her thick skin
her inscrutable eyes.
How she moves, so seamless
from day into night,
from darkness to light,
from fierce desire
to satisfied.
Her many friends
unknown to each other.
Her secret lovers,
or those who think they are.

I am no longer sure
which is her
and which, her secret identity.
Clumsy, mild-mannered
in those ugly glasses
she is well disguised.
So I look into her eyes,
wondering
what she sees through mine.

Going Blank
Oct 15 2008


I find myself walking
suddenly at sea,
to where, for what
forgotten.
We all have these moments,
unsure how we came to this spot
our purpose lost,
surprised to find
only ourselves.

When your brain locks up like this,
doors bolted
curtains drawn,
an impatient man would get down on his knees
feeling around for the key he dropped.
But I enjoy this moment,
neither coming nor going
suspended between two points.
Because this purgatory of not knowing
is pure,
free of all desires and needs.

My bearings lost
my vessel rudderless
stuck in the doldrums of a windless sea,
I pause . . .
hovering contentedly.
Until memory dawns
in a short sharp squall
— like a flurry of cats-paws
dancing across
the glassy surface.

Moving Violation
Oct 14 2008


A cop nabbed me for a broken headlight.
A “moving violation”, he said.
How odd, I thought.

I immediately pictured a virgin and me
in the back seat, skirt up,
picking-up speed
as the brake slips.

Or that glib white lie
we all eventually give —
“It’s not you, it’s me”
as we slink quickly off.

Or the tragic end
to Romeo and Juliet,
the forbidden love
I found so very moving.

Turns out, I got off with a warning,
and told to stick to the side streets.
So I drove
slowly, inoffensively home.

Senses
Oct 13 2008


All 5 senses
maybe 6;
the world as we know it,
our narrow spectrum of light.
So we learn how to live,
stumbling about in darkness,
startled
by sudden sounds.
And then, growing older
grow into ourselves.

Hear, listen, focus —
on the music
where you can lose yourself,
utterly immersed;
on her voice
whispering into your ear.

See, look, observe —
every shift in her face,
her serpentine limbs;
every inch of her skin
you want to go deeper.

Reach, touch, feel —
her desire
pushing back;
her warm smooth surface,
at body heat
and heating up.

Nibble, taste, savour —
this instrument
of exquisite pleasure,
your wet and greedy tongue.

Breathe, sniff, smell —
then inhale her
molecule by molecule,
until you are one.

“Pray until something happens”
Oct 13 2008


The bumper sticker said
“Pray until something happens.”

I wonder what he’s waiting for?
Or could it be anything
to rescue him
from this bleak earthbound anomie?
And then what,
when all his prayers are answered?
Will he pray for others . . .
will he pray for gratitude . . .
or will he pray to be touched
by something grander
than he is?

I imagine this cacophony of prayer
rising up to heaven,
filling the air around us —
words of thanks
and praise
and supplication.
A dense incessant litany of pleas
permeating our lives
— walking about in it,
breathing deep,
building it into our marrow.

Something always happens.
And most prayers, it seems, will go unanswered.
But they are a consolation, nevertheless,
because such is the power of faith.
At sunset, looking up
I see the red magenta sky,
and imagine the whole world
reciting
mumbling
praying hard,
either imploring their gods,
or haranguing them.
All those fervent words
ascending,
filling the air
with fire and light.

Topple
Oct 12 2008


I watch a small child
toddling down the path
holding a big black umbrella
over his head.
His chubby little legs are bowed,
and he takes tiny steps
pigeon-toed,
tipping from side-to-side
hanging-on for dear life.
And the umbrella tips as he goes,
leaning precariously
almost overwhelming him
— a great black bird of prey
hovering.

From a distance
the umbrella seems self-propelled,
like some bed-time story come to life.
But then I spot the proud little man
valiantly keeping it aloft,
showing-off
how grown-up he is.

I hope it’s calm,
or a good breeze, and he’d be off,
laughing uproariously all the way
— a boy’s whole short life
spent looking up;
now towering over
the rest of us.

A Fear of Fire
Oct 8 2008


All his life
he had a fear of fire.
Ladders in every room,
escape plans.
And galvanized buckets of water
he faithfully kept filled.

Perhaps he was scarred as a child.
His eyes, transfixed by fire,
pulled
too close to the hearth.

Or a house ablaze,
the hellish screams, the burning bodies.
And the stench
of the charred blackened remains,
still smoking the morning after.

Or a forest, going-up in flames —
tinder dry,
lighting-up the night,
bearing down as loud as a freight train.
Leaving him slack-jawed
gobsmacked,
consuming all in its path, no stragglers.



So we weren’t surprised when he died in his sleep,
as he always hoped he would.
An old man as deaf as a door-stop,
who couldn’t hear
when the alarm went-off
— overcome by smoke.

The Intoxication of Crowds
Oct 7 2008


You start to live for the applause,
a junkie for standing ovations —
wired, buzzed, hopped-up,
every night, the craving
one hit after another.

All you see is the first two rows
when the lights come up;
so you feel as much in the dark as they are,
hiding-out
behind this jangling mannequin
who pretends he’s you.
You need them,
and find them contemptible.
The predictable laughs, the easy tears,
playing another eager audience
like a virtuoso
his instrument.

It’s when the lights go down
you relapse.
It’s the days in cramped motel rooms
light leaking-in.
Where the curtains never pull tight,
and day-time TV
is your only companion.
It’s the sudden crash,
after you’ve binged on their adulation.
And the love you wish you had
they cannot give.

Introverts love a crowd like this.
Pretending to be another
when the curtain’s up,
and the giddy fearless freedom
of feeling untouchable.
Or at least until you’re discovered
— an impostor
in his rented suit.

Now, it’s the sweats and the shakes and the craving
for that main-lined love.
How you feel when the lights go up
— the sudden flush
the manic high
the blissful fix that fills you.
Like that incredible night you owned them;
that night you killed.

Fall
Oct 7 2008


I mostly say “fall”
this time of year —
when life resumes;
there is order, once more.

While “autumn” is one of those poetry words
that seems unnatural
chatting with the neighbours.
But a word that conveys the melancholy I feel
— something bittersweet,
like burnished leaves
and wood-smoke.
When the days grow short
and the light, thinner.
And the air is dry and clear,
respite from the delirium of August.

I’d rather enter into winter this way
than fall,
leaves dropping
their trees stripped bare.
Or as man once did,
falling from grace
expelled from His fabulous garden.

This autumnal season,
setting the stage
for the year’s gentle exit.
When the first snowfall
can wait.
And the light has yet to fail.
And the leaves, before they fall
in all their earthly glory.

Road Trip
Oct 5 2008


Take the side roads, they said.
. . . What’s the rush?
See the place.

But what I remember most
is cruise-control
on deserted Interstates,
middle of the night —
the ghostly green of dashboard lights,
and the plush hum
of asphalt.
I have no sensation of motion, here.
It’s the darkness that goes moving past;
while I sit
in my capsule of steel and glass,
the world unfolding around me.

A soothing drawl keeps me company,
every baseball cliché as comforting
as a seeing-eye single,
or hitting a rope
and touching ‘em all.
There’s the diamond glowing green
and the crack of bat on ball
and the umpire’s emphatic call,
punching him out, strike 3.
And this perfect game
of anticipation and tension,
and its sudden exquisite release.

The game goes on,
no clock, no pressure.
And I, too, could go on like this
forever —
no crack of dawn
with its cold flat light;
no over-pass
with brightly buzzing signs,
and fast-food stands
all alike.

I’m driving on empty
just west of nowhere
in the heart of a vast dark continent;
picturing hot dogs and beer
and the home-town crowd
on their feet
cheering.

Geography 101
Oct 6 2008


A brief primer
for the directionally challenged.

Lesson 1: Prepositions.

It’s always up north.
Climbing through knee-high drifts;
covering latitude.

And down south, y’all;
dropping vowels,
inevitably letting your standards fall
in all that heat.

And out west,
leaving the comfort of home
for the frontier,
peering-out
over the edge of a continent.

And finally, back east
where your journey started;
in some big city on a great lake
or by the sea,
on time
inside
at ease.

Or you can descend
down into the bowels of the earth,
back through time
into deeper strata,
until you emerge on the far side of the planet.
Where any direction at all
will take you home.

An Inconvenient Truth
Sept 30 2008


What to do
when the truth hurts?
When it stands eye-to-eye
takes you by the neck
and tries to shake some sense
into you
— the plain truth,
the whole truth,
nothing but the truth
so help you God.

You duck and weave, of course,
learn to slip from its grasp,
make yourself small.
Or skip the definite article altogether —
because a truth
is the convenient kind,
no modifier required.
Where you can choose
exactly which version you like.

But the brutal truth
is immovable.
It’s coarse wool against your skin,
the too-tight neck.
It’s that itchy back
no one else can scratch,
— further right, no left . . .
. . . now harder!!
It’s the zit in the middle of your forehead,
blinking-out at the world like a 1000 watt light.
Before a word’s been said,
you feel Illuminated
scrutinized
and wish you could hide
— that you were nothing more
than some insignificant lie
of omission.

Dead Man Walking
Sept 30 2008


A man stumbles,
dodging a puddle in the courtyard.
Despite a firm hand on one shoulder,
and a last meal
lying like lead in his gut,
he will keep his feet dry
his prison shoes
untouched.

This is the reflex we all share,
turning away from death
unable to contain
its mystery, its terror.
An act of defiance, perhaps
— that this hard man
still has his pride.
But more likely, denial;
still sure the governor will call
the real murderer confess
the killing machine
malfunction.

The prospect of death
concentrates the mind wonderfully.
I imagine he saw the water glint
rippling across his reflection;
and the wet cobblestones, now rust-red,
incandescent
in the long light of dawn.

For just an instant
he felt the hand tighten,
and this small sensation filled him.
An anonymous stranger
he thought,
as his body was marched-off to the gallows;
the last time he will ever be touched.