Thursday, September 30, 2010

its so weird being a human

its so weird being a human. i can never get used to this body, or the strange way of seeing everything as if it were a painting. walking paintings, all over, but wild animals, pure spirit in the eyes all yes and solar prominences, death like a sick tree, branches waving across the moon's soft skin, saw my friend dressed up and ready for war, how brave, to walk into pieces of metal at high velocities for the sake of other animals, but i'm glad i'm not him, my war is under streetlights like a coward almost anyone can get me.

but what should you be here for anyway? i'd be ashamed to vanish into a disgusting paradise of placid air, frail as i am. what were you born for anyway? to be a thing? to be a dream that ends with a shrug? to give a cigarette to my possible killer, to be so much blood and brains on the street running into the gutter, at least i could say, when the world was burning down, i dragged people from the fire. and when the fire offered me television as antidote, i said stick it up your ass.

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

drops of glass

big cities, humming towers, little squares of light in razors of silver, quiet downtowns in the night, young kids getting wasted in many ways crossing the streetcars' scars that run down the abandoned street, the damage retreats indoors as the corporate tyrants swallow up the main streets, where all the light is. they go back in the dark and die or disappear or become new sewn together souls. like a shattered mirror grown back like a cut tree. like a wasp drowning in a cup of coca-cola. the glass melts when it is bombed and deflowered with fire.

corporate tyrants (eyes roll) (then-sigh) they gave up giving up a long time ago.

the trajectory is this: from nature, which is the life of staying ahead of starvation, if you see a seagull its the same now. watch it fight for food. that was you, a million years ago. then cities, then torches in the night, then spears, then big men, then iron, steel, gunpowder, gasoline, uranium, allkinds. then there's you, flicking light switches while electricity hums, while special planes fly overhead like graceful hammers. then one day space, when they leave you behind in big ships. and the sun burns.

children born haunted by their ancestors, because they have no names. error we call insanity. wayward slaves, all they need is wine and television (eyes roll) i forgot you knew that and were over it, or something. the wires that run along your veins, they are natural. the reality of screens.

maybe just maybe we could run and make some kind of fort in the woods, and have little laboratories run by panhandlers and wanderers, and they could teach us how to make elegant power plants in the shapes of jackpines,

you know, if communism was good for anything, it made a lot of lone soldiers. maybe that's what we miss most about it now. it made doctors and piano players into guardians of us all.

Friday, May 28, 2010

good lepers

how many dances does it take to dance upon the head of an angel and get away with it. so many scars i lost count off the skin of careful bones . and so many lacerations, and this many incisions, and that many amputations, until there was a corset only of stars upon a bare soul with eyes looking back at me or thee.

how much body walks across a black stage and calls itself real? how much stage does a soul need before it decays into uranium? how much magic before you see the animal in a god, or human in a stone lying upon the gravel driveway?

how much disease is just another kind of lifeform? or how much porn creates a heaven? or how many poets do you need to get eaten by crack or joysticks before that drunken angel appears on the radar a thousand miles above the city, igniting so many marquee stains along the sky.

take this buzzblade and cut down the sound which mixes concrete along the summertime, but maybe you think youre better off being less star and more tv. they all pretty (comma) anyway right? indeed, it is hard for thee to kick against the pricks, a madman once said.

no no leper art thou. you consider or eat the little ones, tis all justified. so long as youre fat or skinny or whatever

since when

Sunday, April 04, 2010

why i will never be a politician

because i would rather be a supernova.

but not be a ragged tombstone, but not be a fairy queen crucified upon her own smirks of doom. because this earth we stand on is reverberating with death in life. every step you take is a blasphemy. and because of that i would rather hold death's sunlight in my hand and say upon you, go be a shooting star, go be a suicide. erupt.


i see the managers and we need them like we need garbagemen. and if you thought the last war was fought welcome to the 21st century, a million dead foreigners won't convince you then nothing will, fling your arms wide and eat a nuclear halo, i've seen them all and their toxic peace, fuck them, give me cutters, give me drug addicts, give me animals, give me satan like a shadow on the cross. you have this many days, this many, this many, so many burned afternoons, then you slave will die too, yes you, like a slaugherhouse dancing on a dime, like a cow writing her last sonnet on the cell wall, like a mouthful of bullets, ask me why i don't want to save the world again, ask me why they put knives against girls necks, just for kicks, ask me why, ask me why i prefer drowning to standing up there and lying for the future, ask a million housewives why being a whore is better, why god is such a pervert, why forests hopefully will eat us all oneday,

and christ smokes crack under the bridge, but he was never together to begin with. but the devout think he will be elected president. one day.

Monday, March 29, 2010

blue volcano

at the edge of the lake, shipwrecked stars wash up onto shore in the still night;: listen to all that water, glowing dimly somewhat where two hundred spins of the sun ago came eagle wingéd ships of the human catastrophe . or did i mean future . somewhere where the water hits the horizon, birds talk of captured childhoods, and tracer bullets alight and conquer the sky. the warm nights. so many people without tales now, so many old men without ancestors and so no grandchildren, that would bother to bear their names into the white wall of tomorrow. so many heavens where the water hits the horizon, waterlogged oathes, princes in the bath, naked and grinning, antibodies for dirt or vaccines for honor, bleach for justice, its so peaceful here, its so quiet. there's only a tiny hell beyond the street lamps' scream, but the king should never reach for the drowning man, not even if his eyes are two stars.

never would she object to torture, not in a river made of razors, never in a sky kingdom coming next week or next century, i can never recall the difference. i wouldn't have minded giving her a flower though, just for her troubles at her wedding to her funeral. if they could they'd make it illegal to talk back to god, and you thought those days were behind us, but never underestimate the axe's taste for the tree, nor how much ruin a robin can sing in. there's always someone worth more than you on a free market, and certainly better planets, but maybe none sweeter. and there's always a blue volcano erupting in her hearts, like human sacrifice, like heartbeats turning into pulses of lightning, like fevered lava running across the downtown, usually around 2 am,

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

sometimes i want to know

i have felt very close to dying for the last couple of months, it has to do with smoking, every time i would take a nice drag off a smoke this terrible buzzing noise would start in my head, a strange pressure behind my ears. sometimes the buzz and the pressure would build slowly, over hours, until i would get a moment or so of dislocation, as if my mind and body were decoupling and i would snap awake as if by some resolve of concentrating i could keep myself from a stroke or an aneurysm. maybe this is crazy or not, but it is true i live with these private sensations. i feel alone with the presence of death but a good kind of alone. i know i am loved, even if those that love me are too wrapped up in their own lives to help or listen. i know how it is to be human - it is not easy, and they would help if they knew how if they weren't burdened by so much torment and illusion. i can't decide whether i blame god or civilization for the fact that people must suffer in tormented illusion. but like i said, i'm alone with death - and that's a good thing.

the funny thing is, ask anyone in jail. they live with death every second of their lives. they live in the presence of horror all the time, are they better people for it? many of them would claim that they are, but they're liars - they might be tougher, but that doesn't mean they were better. the world is full of bullied cowards worth their weight in gold. anyway, certainly they weren't smarter or more talented, or moral for being so close to death. if anything, prisoners look like they're rotting on the inside.

so even the threat of death cannot conjure up the Great Transformation - from idiot to shining angel. all being afraid of dying has done for me is made me quit smoking - the thing i felt threaten my life. this is no more than survival. it was strange to walk around feeling like at any moment death would start pushing on my brain. on really hot july days i would walk around montreal alone, the sun so hot it dripped light too tense to even consider whether it was my last afternoon or not.

in fact, one time it was so bad on the bus i really thought something terrible was on the verge of happening. all i wanted was to be out of the bus. my biggest fear was to have some major meltdown in front of a lot of strangers. like a wounded animal, i wanted only a hole in the earth to lay my head down. if i had to die, i wanted to do so alone.

i don't know why, there are a lot of times when i don't want to be alone. i guess i feel safer alone. i look at people in a really harsh section of toronto, like parliament and queen, and i can't believe two things: how people can endure so much, and how fucked up they are.

now i can understand needing the warm awakedness of a human being. the silence of the real world can be terrifying. no wonder humans think that god exists through humans, to us only humans ever give a hint of god, are the only creatures who answer.

on the other hand, the natural world speaks too, just differently. sometimes the silence of nature is a cold, hard silence, but sometimes it is a language itself. silence is a language that can be learned, for that i think i would want to be around trees, if anything. the 21st century, though, the dusky skyscrapers, there is the mystery of where all this is headed, all the bullshit and murder and strangeness we've gone through and here i will be hanging, maybe vanishing. being alone is not so terrible, or maybe it is, but you do get to confront god-in-life one last time, you get to strain a look, one last chance to ask and listen to the air - what are you? what is this? where am i going? is life good, or is it just there? answer me. answer me. answer me. because most of the human questions seem so ridiculous and arrogant, and especially now, when the world is such a stark division between the fat and the starving. in this age of streetlights and nuclear weapons, sometimes i want to know -

Monday, February 22, 2010

vincent (the scumbags of dawn)

outside the bar, where old men meet, in freezing cold february, out in other countries called power lines and nighttime, the few, the driftwood of the rebels left against the shining steel giant octopus, called her highrise or ambulance, call her a ragged childhood stumbling along the dumpster back alleys with knifewounds in the belly, shards of mirror of common conversation about movie plots, song titles, insect trivia, see how the blood hardened on his knuckles until they were purple stones dominating a landscape of garbage stinking skin, leaves his apartment door open in a crack den, offers lasagne for guests, panhandles for hockey games, catch her in your arms: democracy before she dies, line up dressed up in black and throw newspaper boxes through bank windows, be a human being - which is only an animal that thinks too much , like wild horses at the edge of the mountains, running like flowing water the colts the mares the stallions like undulating stars, fight back, you cowards? fight for who and why? for each other, you cowards! who else? why else? the mohawks point their guns for the month of strawberries, the panhandler reveals a gun for the homeless, the horse kicks for hatred of the reins, they don't publish the names of those that died for their friends on the news because the news needs you to die for the news, and the news is a jealous god. how many suicides died for want of love because there was no one there to teach them to love to give it?

give more, give more, let them eat your heart out, you are a mountain, go be an ocean, go be a sun, go be an orphan like a giant with three hearts and seventeen uteruses, a daughter of an angel and a devil, go be a monkey, they kill some for talking, they kill some for walking, they kill some just for standing still.

go be the wind, go be the tiger that makes the wind, go be the fire that lights the dawn of new unborn days, there is no politics but the one that says you are my sister, brother,

Wednesday, February 03, 2010

me the machine

when i hit 140 km/hr then i and the highway were become one thing - me become a wheel, a ton of steel tiger, aquiline, roaring, become a long black vein twisting through the wild earth, this is the future come alive, me the machine, crazy freedom or just crazy power, "if a deer bolts in front of me (in front of me?) don't stop, speed up because if you try to stop you'll lose control and destroy yourself (yourself?) in the process. the deer is going to die by the skull of this metal monster with cold arclight eyes, so hit it hard and without hesitation. kill it fast or it will be you in pieces." in the night the rigs and cars flow and intertwine gliding reel and coil like elegant sharks with burning red eyes, so smooth and vicious dancing its the road and me/its the road: me/its me i am the road

and this is a truer gospel for now the gospel of saint engine thou shalt obey the machine thou shalt have no other gods but me though you may say in words that you believe in other gods but it is the machine you will love kill and die for, and if the machine should strike you on the right cheek then offer it your left also

Friday, January 22, 2010

when i came back from saturn

when i came back from saturn i went to the nearest bar and traded several emeralds for a decent beer, sick as a leper. i could barely falump into a barstool before i remember looking at a photograph on the wall of a life i didn't have, and drank my drank to forget what i love to remember.
and came in, dressed all in black, three cigarettes between his fingers as usual, he sat beside me, dear old grandad, younger than me,
remarkable, he said.
do i know you?
i looked at him long, he gave me a friendly smile,
we meet often you and me. once in a bathroom you almost did yourself in on some kind of (he wrinkled his nose) whatever that was, or then there was the traintracks, and of course, the bottom of a canyon when you were just a boy and i almost caught you in my bag with a scorpion.
all kinds of little silver streams of cold sweat crawled on me,
shit,
oh don't worry, i'm just visiting. sometimes you look lonely,
and he produced a penny which he spun on the table. it turned into the moon, then into a little sun, then he slapped his hand down upon it and smiled again.
beautiful,
i like you, henry. you're getting ready to meet me. i hate it when people run, i really do. it makes everything seem... sordid.
and he opened his palm to reveal several human teeth with blood on the ends, he dropped them into his glass and drank it, become a good scotch.
i have a lot of love for humans, believe it or not, he said and lit two more cigarettes, looked philosophically at a pirate flag, and resumed,
animals die with dignity, but humans are so... nervous. they take it so personally. they have no... sense of humor about this business. it breaks my heart, it really does, because i love grace, and more than that, cruelty is sweet, for i shatter one thing to give birth to another.
and you, dear henry, you want to understand me! you're a goddam poet, henry, you're a lunatic! i love it!
i took a big drink.
so ask me anything, said he, pulled his left eye out of his head, rolled it on the ground like a marble until it turned into a great black dog and roared out of the bar and into the night. when i looked back he was sticking an olive in his eye and smiling at me like an idiot.
what happens afterward? i asked sadly. i smiled a little and traced a sparrow in the beer dregs on the table, and the little guy hopped up and flew away.
he grinned but looked serious.
here. he said, and produced a small ladies' hand mirror from his breast pocket. look into it and tell me what you see.
me.
he rolled his eyes. i frowned.
what?
are YOU looking at YOU? he asked, leaned across the bar, lit a match and tossed it into a bottle of gasoline on the bar, which exploded and set the chandeliers on fire.
i'm looking at a reflection.
yes! he shouted, oh i could kiss you! the mirror is made of a particular substance that reflects all light. so am i.
and what about everyone? what about all these fools and sweethearts i wanted to love and just watched disappear?
how big is your brain?
not big enough.
yep. remember when we used to meet when you were a kid? you were so cute, staring right at me. i stepped out of the sunset for you, i could have wrapped you up in my arms right then, but then i wouldn't get to see your scarred face, which is so delightful i could lick it. god, you mortals have no idea how rich is age, how boring it is to take little kids. all the same really,
and he put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger, let the brains hit the wall,
where was i? want to try? just kidding. i've got big plans for you, kiddo. children. GOD. All so sweet and wonderful, my sympathies really, but the old, the scarred, those with hearts so muscled with cruelty that the depths of how they can love, is well beyond understanding. they know betrayal, and failure, and futility, and they can still get up and love and fight again. to eat that death, to have that taste, you have no idea how i cry to take a soldier, or a hooker, or a prisoner. oh my, i need more eyes just to cry!
and he opened his third eye, and revealed fourth and fifth eyes upon his palms, which all ran with a couple of tears, just for effect.
big plans, huh.
he looked disoriented. he lowered his hands and nodded the waittress over.
honey, two bottles of haitian blood, s'il vous plait.
she was the color of moonlight, he put a fistful of syringes in her hand,
don't worry, he whispered, its really not as bad as all that.
yes, big plans, my dear. you, you are going to be my masterpiece. no human is going to know, its really for an audience of angels, orphans and devils i invite over on saturdays for wine and fireworks. you'll be death's sculpture.
what if i blow my brains out tonight?
how do you know thats not the sculpture?
no way.
well...
he looked slyly at me, smiled again, offered me two cigarettes. i accepted and he lit them with his tongue. we toasted the universe, and duels and strange small towns in nowhere, and rain, and lonely travels, and knives.
he gave me his phone number before he left. i call it, when i'm lonely, now and then. he makes me feel better.

Monday, January 18, 2010

let us waste today

let us waste today, so that we can be awake for the night, and meet again all our little guys up there in the sky. and we shall walk around in the darkness, and and grow tall enough to stand in space, for the stars to crown us or kiss our noses.

let's give them new names, or forget their names, or learn the names old men gave them a thousand years ago. let's send them the compliments of a hundred dead loves. for they are always there, our little stars, preaching a soundless nuclear gospel, shining close and far away, a sea of stars.

let's play in their black oceans, let all ideas die before they hit the air, let the little dots of light talk to us, for they are sending little words all the time, and in places where no one is there they sing, wandering in the trees, the spirits of living gods, the flaw in all answers.

let's get drunk and make them our fathers and mothers, dancing unknown dances that entertain their dread immortality. let's cross the graves of all known suicides and sing their names so that the stars may shine for them.

let's pretend we last forever, and will be with them, because we do, and are, and will be, moving for the love of the black ocean. the ocean that goes on forever. yes, forever, if you remember. forever is forever and forever and forever and no more no less. as it is said, the number 1 is as close to infinity as the number

1,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000


Friday, January 15, 2010

atheism on a highway

i, driving the car back to ontario around midnight, my mother talking about how religious she was as a girl. something mythical about dashboard lights and the undulating black worlds of clouds in the sky, like here we are, living in a supernatural country. she said that believed in the catholic god with all her heart, she said that she got to crown mary, a privilege of some frenzied catholic ritual on a day in may. she said, you got to crown mary if you went to mass every day at 6am, and i went to mass every day at 6am for months and it was such a big deal when i got to crown mary.

but when i grew up, i began to realize that everything i was being taught was crap. they said that everything you felt was a sin, that anger, lust, fear, you had to be ashamed of them all. and god didn't make any sense, and women weren't allowed to be priests, and just a lot of it didn't add up if you thought about it.

and now i understand you don't believe in any god, i asked.

well, i think jesus was a good man who tried to change things, but i don't think he was god,

yes well imagine what it would have been like for jesus' followers, i said. he went around saying he was god, and all these really brave and scary things, like put all your faith in god, and don't hurt anyone even if it means being harmed yourself, and believe in peace and equality and all these good things in a pretty brutal part of the world. And they all probably believed he was god, since he was so convinced. imagine how traumatic it must have been for them when one day they just grab him off the street and torture him to death in front of them. how the guy they thought was god they put a crown of thorns on him and laughed at him and no one could stop them. and then he's just gone, just like that.

you can see how they would try to make sense of it, because it would have been too terrible to imagine that he was just a sweet, half-crazy guy and they tortured and killed him. maybe that's why the story is so compelling, its about a simple a parable for life as there is, without all that magic crap in it.

yeah, my mom said and stared at the road.

i kind of believe in some kind of supreme being though, i said. do you?

well, i don't see any reason to. there's no reason to believe there's anything after death. that's something people need to believe, i think. its comforting. but why would there be a supreme being when there's all this terrible stuff in the world, all these innocent people who get harmed?

really, so you think this is it, there's nothing more than this?

well, i think life is quite amazing without making anything up about it. so... i don't know, but i just don't see any reason to believe in a god.

i think i believe in something more than this. i think i have proof. if we think of god, we think of something incredible and wonderful, something that is awake about the universe, not mechanical, even something that can love us. now, we experience what it is to love...

but thats because love evolved out of the need to raise our children, my mom said,

yes, yes, yes, but that's no matter. the fact is you have experienced love, you know what it is to love, to care for and be close to another living being. more than that, we have the experience of being aware, of being awake in the universe, no? we know what it is to be conscious of being alive, conscious of ourselves, conscious even of the dizzy grandeur of the universe, of stars and all that. now, everything you are made of is part of the universe, its part of nature, it is natural, it is inherent in the universe, nothing you have can exist outside of nature, nature prodcued your experiences of love and consciousness. so they belong to nature, therefore the universe is conscious, does love, at least as much as you do, and knowing how small you are, very very likely about a million times more than that.

my mom was thoughtful, and kind of sleepy. she said, i guess some people need comfort.

what's that?

well, i suppose people need to believe things that make them feel comforted.

you don't believe me?

well, i don't know what it means.

i don't either.

hmm.

i snuck a glance at my mom, falling asleep. i felt an overwhelming admiration for her bravery, to look into the cruel face of life and stare back at its coldness and still believe in goodness and justice and innocence. when the people in her life die, she weeps in the certitude that they are gone forever. i liked to look at the skeletons of jetblack trees against the midnight sky and they roared by along the sides of the lone highway.

Monday, January 11, 2010

loss


i might disappear tomorrow. i probably won't. and that's it.

but let's pretend like i was here, and you knew me and i knew you and pretend this big old world was making beauty while we were hurting each other. and there's only most people dancing on a fragile thread of being and doing it so beautifully you fail to notice how much time and practice it took to look natural while hanging above the biggest open mouth.

and then remember everyone dreams lots of dreams they'll never understand or remember or remember to remember. and see all of those people go under the waves of a great flood. And the water somehow laughs. And somehow there you are, dancing on a string, smiling for now,

how i wished the world was a paradise, how sad i was to know it was a nightmare. did you ever think we are the ugly monsters of the world? maybe one day there will be another species with stars in their foreheads, but they will be much kinder than we were. Maybe birds will grow legs and hands and start building beautiful places and not say necessary or unfortunate. Maybe the birds will know better how not to leave little ones by the side of the road to die alone, like i do every day. like you do, looking for your own star.

and then we'll be ashamed to know what we could have been, but thought it was better to be successful rather than good. And we built palaces on tops of foxes' houses, and shrugged. And we built cities on tops of joyous mountains, and thought ourselves geniuses, and built mines where caribou once danced and ate up coal, and i saw the snow fall by the blinking lights of the smokestacks and thought how we were left, and where is the purity in that? but they said, youre just mad. and so i said, then im mad, and they wouldn't make me king. and i said i am king of bright sunsets, come take it from me. but they couldn't, and i stand there still, with outstretched arms before the sunset, somewhere on the west coast, alive and free, the earth eating my bones on hornby island, alone but part of some strange wild animal you can't imagine,