REPTILE BLOOD

 

I do not understand things like
Money, or at least not well;
I save it, am careful
About managing my paychecks
So that I’m not broke.

But she was an expert
In such matters—
Her job required her to be.

And her excision of me,
Despite past declarations
Suggesting this an impossibility,
Was as cold
As a fleecing
Of hard cash.

It’s in the blood,
I think;
And people with
That blood
Have, and
Always will,
Run others,
Casually,
Into the ground.

It Is Good

It is good that life
Sucks so much and
That there is a noted 
Plethora of assholes.
Otherwise, I would
Be running around
Constantly angry for
No reason.  They say
The Japanese have a
Word for it.  But, me,
Not knowing Japanese,
I got no idea what it is.
And that pisses me off.



We Saw the Postman

We saw the postman there
Stretched out on the ground.  
He'd been there for a while.
We called the cops as we
Didn't dare go beyond the
Fence with the yard full of
The neighbor's wolf-dogs.
I had thought it a bad idea
To begin with, wolf-dogs and
The mail box inside the gate.
I halted the ambulance as it 
Started to pull out.  Not to say
Goodbye.  I thought that that 
Was my unemployment check
In those bloody stiff hands.

What I know of inheritance in my genealogy 

My father christened me in names 
belonging to my grandfather. 
My grandfather has a history 
where his voice is drowned in his scream from sleep each night. 
The only time he muttered his nightmare 
it was his boyhood revisiting him like a god demanding an offering from a handicapped
because he wore the garment of manhood before dawn. 
If there's one thing I know about inheritance in my genealogy 
I'll call it Grandpa’s Nightmare. 
That's why Father has on his forehead 
a mark of the father that fathered him 
whose life orbited in the same cycle as the nightmare. 

The demons that masquerade my sleep each night, 
wear these names,
clamoring for my ownership, 
& in the chase, 
I shelter in this poem, appearing before God as a prayer. 
Dear Lord, purge me. 
Possess me. 
Rekindle the flame of tenderness in me 
and drench me in light. 

Today

 
Get up, my boy, it is today!
Whatever past is gone
That was yesterday
Hours spent right or wrong

Get up, my boy, it is today!
However regretful you feel
Won’t gain you an inch more
Wasting today kills another day

Get up, my boy, it is today!
No matter what you’ve done
Something you haven’t run yet
Miles ahead waiting for you there

Get up, my boy, it is today!
Forever last it won’t
Tomorrow will be today in a wink
Seize the hour, seize the day

 

All through my life 
I've thought myself the 
Good guy, looking back
In my 50's
After a few joints ?

I've been a bit of a cunt 
At times 
I've got to be honest 

But haven't we all ?

If you say not you're 
Fucking 
Liar

Why did that feel really profound 
to me a couple of minutes ago ?

I don't think weed is good for 
Poetry.

I'll just try it a bit longer 

“Cow”

black mound be crowned, remain sound
natural goddess to be milked and fed
not slaughtered in the garden,
to be spared by the son.
telephone generations learned the game,
rewrote your solid submissive dark
curves to be held in place, processed,
frozen. lean fat, make her in my voice.

Toothbrush: Thought Police # 89


Dear Colgate 360, I want you in my mouth.
During Board meetings, Labour Management meetings 
when the interpretation of Article 34 – Sick Pay – gets sticky,
during budget presentations to the Finance Committee,
then do I want your supple, absolving bristles on my tongue.

I knead you between my lips, the plastic neutrality
of your handle a temperature just below mine. 
I lean over the sink in the women’s bathroom.
People are always asking, supplicating, extracting decisions 
– that grievance payout, that motion to rise and report, 
that 5% budget increase for another fiscal year – 
but with you in my mouth, I have a reprieve.

Dear Colgate 360, Chief Oral Officer
and Director of the Department of Hygienic Affairs,
I crave your mint aftertaste, the flavour of a directive well-received, 
of strategic alignment while churning out a policy report at 4:00 am.
You are the taste of a well-placed semi-colon,
a termination letter delivered on a Tuesday,
a conference presentation, hungover but hiding it well.

Don’t flatter yourself – I know you’re not a lone operative.
I see the support you gleen from your executive team
– Toothpaste, the Bringer of Mint; Dental Floss, the Fixer.
None of us are any more than the products of our surroundings.

And don’t think your work is over at 5:00 pm.
At the end of the night, you are my final accomplice,
scraping off the evidence of G&Ts, another blowjob, whatever.
I cradle you in front of a different sink, a different mirror 
and contemplate my distorted cheeks as I brush.

Eternal Infant

1
He stomps the earth again and again,
drowning it in the melody of his laughter.
Rules, warnings, and threats—
all fade beneath his tiny lips.

2
Even in helplessness,
he clenches his fists in courage,
rising like a sun in the Milky Way.
Wiping away boundaries, he crawls forward,
softly claiming his freedom.

3
Hiding his face behind a dark cloth,
he chants— ta.. ta.. ta.. ta..,
bewitching with playful tricks.
Then, lifting the veil with a smile,
He lets the moonlight embrace him.

4
Scooping sunshine into his palms,
He fills himself with light.
With delicate strokes,
he awakens the seven notes of melody.
For a while, he sways like a pendulum,
then pushes time aside.

5
Between his small hands,
claps are born.
From their rhythm,
a fresh voice takes breath.

6
From his music, a father is born;
from his gaze, a mother—
falling gently, like tender petals.
From his lips, bonds unravel,
thread by thread.
Between night and day,
He is the architect of love’s foundation.
He knows neither poison nor cruelty—
He is the pure churner of an ocean of milk.

7
Years pass, yet nothing fades.
His feet step into adulthood,
but his laughter still stomps the earth.
His hands bear the weight of years,
yet within them,
the same claps echo.

8
He wears a suit, speaks of deadlines,
yet still chases butterflies in his mind.
He makes decisions, signs papers,
yet his heart scribbles dreams in the clouds.
The world calls him a man,
but within him—
a child peeks through time’s cracks.

9
He is the child who never outgrew wonder,
the man who never lost innocence.
A grown-up baby,
cradled between yesterday and tomorrow.
Tear-filled eyes today,
but tomorrow's painted in dawn’s gold.

Whatever I Amount To on a Given Day
 
My thoughts keep streaming
like some Netflix series but duller,
fewer laughs, more trepidation. I am
the B-class actor in my own show.
 
I direct as well, ordering myself
through my sets: living room,
kitchen, bedroom.
But laying down my glasses
and forgetting where is not
in the script. Taking a tumble
will have to be a one-shot scene,
no retakes on that one.
 
On a day when sunlight
shines through the kitchen window,
I aim for comedy, juggle knives
for my audience of plants and cats.
The cats run; the plants stay.
I hoped for applause,
but no blood after the act is a wrap.