The Blood On Your Feet

April 30, 2012

The Blood On Your Feet

My motorcycle leaned against a Dutch Elm. I could see him across the park. With his camera. I was leaning against the trunk. James Dean in your mouth. And all the shadows were leaning away. Like Puritans. Who wanted nothing to do with us.

You said you couldn’t live without money. On your cigarette break. And I was a born. Pauper. Maybe if I had been a better lover. Or liar. You couldn’t make up your. Mind. There was me. And the architect. And the drunk down at the Islington Hotel.

Why was I so crazy about you. You were skinny. Not that pretty. Was it the holes in your hands. Or the blood on your feet.

“People train the mind in such a way that they experience part of their mind as the presence of God.” *

I hear voices. We all hear voices. Sometimes its that song you can’t get out of your head. Sometimes you are preparing to say goodbye to your lover. Or speak to your doctor. Apparently Evangelicals can train themselves not to recognize that voice speaking to them and mistake it for God. Or Charleton Heston. Like a painter can see more colours than the commoner because he is always dealing with colour, it is thought that if you pray enough, you can train part of your brain to answer. Back. But in another voice. Like a ventriloquist. I was raised a Roman Catholic. I’m sure that there is a heresy attached to this belief. Somebody is going to burn.

*When God Talks Back, Understanding the American Evangelical Relationship with God, by T. M. Luhrmann


April 29, 2012

It was my wife’s birthday this weekend. So I have to say that she is a great girl. The flower girl in my…

Happy Birthday Honey

The girl in my heart

April 29, 2012


My kids are so old. They could be in these poems. Seems like the definition of human is written. With forks in your loins. The condition of the world. Has sucked off my soul. And you’ve got to get over the feeling. That this has been said. Before. I leave. That the girl in my heart. Is the one. Over there. Her head on my shoulder. Her hand in my pocket.

Eating a Mars Bar

April 28, 2012

Eating a Mars Bar

Eating a Mars Bar. While its down there. In T.O. I told her. A Mick Jagger sex tip. She tried it with her next boyfriend. Everything I did for her. She could have given me something more than a smile. And then she got pregnant. And I was in Seattle. When I met her daughter. Who was a nurse. A little portly. An obvious weakness. For chocolate.

Yakety Yak

April 28, 2012

power of h Weblog

Strange how everyone has something stuck in their ear, listening to their favourite tunes. And all these folks texting to each other. Emails. Tweets. And yet. I get the impression, listening to the American news programs, that people have lost the ability to listen. To each other. Or themselves.

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The Hero of Her Dream

April 28, 2012

She Could See Him

When the sun rose. Said the girl. To her lover. Your finger inside me. Makes me glow.

His hand pulling away. Like a letter from an envelope.

Not a day. Goes by. That I don’t think of you. She said and he. Smiled. He wished. That he could remember her name.

With the moon. So hollow. The sun’s breath. Touches you like he was your God. And you pray that this moment. Might last. Until the dusk. And he. Smiles. Wishes. That she could see him. And not the hero of her dream.

Ants In My Shower

April 27, 2012

Ants In My Shower

There were ants in my shower. Her in my bed. And the letter on the bedside. From my aunt Eunice. Happy Birthday. She’d gotten it all wrong. I didn’t want her there. I should have said something. Before she cried herself to sleep. Twelve months later.

There are cowards. And there are lovers. Who aren’t. Passing themselves off for their own conveniences. Her skin was so rough. I got a rash on my face. From her thighs. And there were pimples on her shoulder.

I didn’t like her smile. So I settled for the look. Of the top of her head. Her hair wasn’t blonde. But I couldn’t find the name. Of any other color.

This world. Or the next

April 26, 2012

Nothing Ever Made Sense

You’ve got a hole. Around my finger. Married for 3 decades. With a bullet. Between my eyes. And what I never realized. Is what we gave up. For happiness. Everything went by. Like the cross-town bus. And if I had a gun. I’d put my tongue in the barrel.

I had no ambition. You settled for less. Our kids slept on the corner. Of your wedding dress. We’re not important. To this world. Or the next. And I don’t give a damn. I got what I never deserved. The girl.

He showed up

April 25, 2012

We All Showed Up At His Funeral

He smiled. Like a character from a cover. Of a pulp magazine. He asked his mother for a hooker on his 21st birthday. And I don’t think I ever saw him comb. His hair. Everyone in place. And no one would have looked more out of place. With an eye patch. On each eye.

We thought he was dead. Killed by a tumor. Behind his left ear. We all showed up at his funeral. Or intended to. And then he showed up at a birthday. I gave for my wife. And I swore I wouldn’t touch another drop. I couldn’t help wonder. How much else I had gotten wrong.

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