Tuesday, 17 September 2013

The Cripple and the Crone/( thanks to the Bros.Grimm)

The two, like characters from a fairytale, lived down the road from the good place. They had wasted their years in vanity and consumption and had nothing to show but a shabby house. They hated their limitations, they hated each other too. When he or she would get a chance to visit the good place, they brought their bile and poured it in glasses to serve all around. The people of the good place overlooked such evil, wishing instead to be accepting of differences.
This bothered the crone to no end. She found someone new to hate. She developed a tale that would make the good place bad. Her lies she would craft to make all the virtue she had been shown, dissolve in a lie of epic proportions. But she made sure to hide it from all who offered a sympathetic ear. She painted all the kindness as imposition, she tarnished good names for her own amusement.
Sadly, it was the community that suffered from the lies. The good place remained good and the 2 never found their way back to it again.

Monday, 2 September 2013

Friendships of convenience

I wonder how anyone can live by giving away all their integrity.
To be critical of another and then accept their invitations.
To be willing to be used by someone who is busy recuperating their failures by associating with reputable people.
I am not of this cut, I stay where I have put myself after coming to terms with
the facts of a situation .
If you don't value your own judgment, if you can be swayed by a cheap meal served by a cold and calculating face, then I don't want to see yours.
I am happy to be alone as much as I am, for I find the fakes just too much to take.
But for those who would be my friends, I say, do not play yourself, because once you have been played, you are no longer in my game.
I choose my friends carefully, I don't put them in place to be fooled by them.
So listen, if you care to have my ear,
listen closely to what I say...
If you cozy up to liars and such I 'll not have you in my way.
They say it is a fool who makes his world smaller by rejecting others...
I say the fool is he who kisses ass to be included.

Friday, 16 August 2013

I am not the State

Opposing forces are organized politically.
The dominant force establishes governments.
The governments derive their power from consent.
The consent flows from the public which is composed
of factions that define the opposing forces in a society.
The notion of authority being derived
is the central notion of representative government.
As the factions that support the government
begin to become disaffected
from policies the governments impose,
the nature of government changes. It becomes the state.
Government becomes corrupted into the state as less of it's authority is derived legitimately.
Then the image of government is imposed on the public, government becomes repressive.
Such is our time that we face a grand opposition. The opposing forces are squaring off again, but this time there will be conflict
specifically directed against the state.
It has come this far.

Saturday, 3 August 2013

"Vainglorious" Notes from Under The Volcano...character sketches.

He had that mixture of arrogance and intelligence that made his mind attractive to thinkers and threatening to everyone else. He even revelled in his smugness at times, realizing that affectation was as much a tool of persuasion as facts and sound arguments. It had served him well, earning him a good income in the rarefied cultural environment of the wealthy and culturally influential. His knowledge, experience and skills, had made his life comfortable. He had rubbed elbows with the greats of contemporary art, the collectors and shining stars from both coasts were no stranger to him. He had enjoyed many conversations with masters in their field who often ended up disagreeing with his points but would remain engaged...

"He was the kind of old fool that burst into a house, shouted nonsense and returned twice more to drive the point home."

To be "enabled" means so little on the face of it. Unless one finds oneself disabled, limited, perhaps by another's hand?... Born enabled to be myself means nothing more than being myself, which I can afford to be. Enabling another, (what could that possibly mean) leaving them to be themselves, seems not much either.

...couldn't paint a stroke that wasn't copied from a photo, couldn't draw a simple image without tracing it on the canvas, couldn't explore the real because it offered too much detail, couldn't figure out how the materials work, couldn't form an original image, couldn't escape the trivial and hackneyed, couldn't understand that freedom of thought is the heart of creativity, so all that came out were bad paintings of flat looking flowers that made most shake their heads at the absurd prices asked for such little effort and talent.

A superior woman does not gossip, has no hidden agenda, is not duplicitous or vain, a superior woman does good for no reason, not to be seen as "good", a superior woman doesn't plan to drug her mate, doesn't accentuate the negatives of those around her, a superior woman doesn't covet what is not hers, does not bear a grudge for 40 years, a superior woman doesn't pass final judgments, a superior woman is what she appears to be and not some mask grafted onto her face, a superior woman doesn't sharpen knives for dorsal use, a superior woman does not punish , is not obtuse. A superior woman is loved by her man, a superior woman doesn't live in the past. A superior woman has no need for a weak-kneed husband whom she fears. A superior woman doesn't pick a fight with a skunk...

Best insult heard recently: "What do Canadians do with all the extra space in their heads?" "Nothing"...

He was a father at 14, he decided that his child deserved his presence. He realized she could save him from himself. The years he invested and the jobs he worked, he did for the idea of his family. He did it for the right reasons, to be here and to be as good a father as he could be with his limited means. He lost years to work, to weekends not spent with his wife and daughter at the beach, to economic needs that he had to fulfill. He remained simple, except in his thoughts. It was the one place where he could be rich and certain of his choices. These thoughts led him away from a middle-class life to a life of cultural engagement, to a life of achievement and to a life in which others trusted his opinions. He kept his nose to the grindstone, he knew the work he had to do to become the man he wanted to see. His dreams he fulfilled in short order, for respect once earned is one's own forever.

I yearn for nothing, I regret nothing, I desire only what I can make for myself and the good that I am in others' lives. Those who benefit from my humanity are just as likely to spit in my eye or insult me as to accept the kindness I have given freely. But I don't mind, because I know of what I speak, I know why I work and I know that others are jealous of my vigor, intelligence and capacity. I feel insulted only when I find that would be friends are simply hollow and have no heart for anything resembling truth, those who dare to compliment me for my intelligence and damn me for using it. I laugh at you, I laugh at the petty feelings that drive you daily. I laugh from the heart of my happiness and I wish you the same...laughter in your face.

"She fancied herself an heiress. In her mind, she remained young, blonde, thin (and just waiting for the cash to come in). But others saw her as a shrew, a hook-nosed busybody who's judgments were harsh and unadulterated by compassion or knowledge of what or of whom she spoke. Daddy had divorced mommie, leaving her and her siblings with out one red cent. Now old, her crone-like demeanour and secret withholdings had warped what beauty she had and given her the appearance of an old miser, her crippled hands hardened from the pinching of pennies, her mind fixated on what she imagined due. But daddy had moved on, become a daddy once again and his so desired fortune and earnings had been spent on his new clan. She dreamt of the day when she would proudly claim the "millions" her daddy had set aside for her. She imagined jazz cruises in the tropics, fine wines and five star hotels. She awaited the day when her prefab house could be abandoned to the natives, the day she would would gain possession of what was "rightfully" hers."

{What amazes me is that anyone would accept this cartoon as a biography, and then get upset that they see themselves in it...? Art imitates life, but usually a life worth admiring.}

Daddy's house...daddy's house, a gift to her because he's a mouse.
Daddy's house...up from the south, with begging mouths

Daddy's house all in her name, he gets none, none of the game
Because he 's seen as lame, and not because of his leg.
Daddy's house, so proud to own, daddy's house, one day alone, daddy;s house, do I drug him secretly?
daddy's house, duplicitously?

She owns the deed, she owns the title, he gets kept, like fed from a bottle in Daddy's house, in daddy's house, in daddy's house...

So, you write nasty, condescending and insulting letters to your friends and then you get upset when they fail to respond in kind. So you go looking for anything and settle on your friends fiction as proof of how much he dislikes you. Yet, the matter remains one of doubt. The ex-friend has no comment. No line of his thought has even been directed to the undeserved slights delivered by intolerant and fearful people. But others claim that said sketches are of you. Funny that your ex-friend spends no time thinking on you, but you fully see yourselves in his sketches, funny too that your other friends see you in the sketches too. I'd be more insulted by what my friends are implying than by the fictions someone else has written. maybe your friends will pass this along to you as well? You must be nuts.

The sad fact is that those who are fake always are revealed. Like a secret life that actually entails cooking for your friend and cleaning her dishes and doing her shopping, but gets characterized as luxurious weekend getaways, a fake life always reveals the hollow inside of the legend. Ugly crones become desirable beauties, failed gamblers become "hardworking and honest men", debts welched on become a choice to live in another place for other reasons. Failure is not an accident, it is planned for with each lie told, each bloated self image cherished and each vengeful thought kept bottled up inside. When lies are the basis for one's self image, one should avoid getting into a pissing contest with an honest man.

[For those who saw themselves in my character sketches for a short story. I love it when art imitates vapid...]

"I would like to do an unsolicited book review on a proposed novella posted on this Facebook page by an appropriately named, apeman. In the first chapter he verbally attacks a woman. far superior to himself , of whom he is obviously fearful.(he might secretly have a crush on her).This woman had over 20 years experience as an independent insurance adjuster and took no crap from weak kneed males who also feared her.The author needs to get his facts and grammar straight. The author spent several years of his time getting a degree at some school in Chicago, where he grew up. Like many degrees these days, rather useless for earning a living. He therefore, should not disparage people who tried to earn a living honestly like contracting, tough at the best of times, when he has never had a meaningfull(sic) job in his life. My advice is to give up writing these thinly veiled assasinations(sic), which you are good at, having done it several times recently and stick to the hobby farm. The book will never sell."

[The sad part is that they are not the characters I was writing about...laughable and vain that you would see yourselves in these sketches. PS, already shopped it around and I have a publisher for the short
story collection. Thanks for the support.]

He was a disc jockey, or had been one, once. He yearned to be a pilot, so he studied and became licensed. But flying is an expensive hobby and a working class young man with heavenly dreams soon learned that his ambitions far exceeded his means. He was a stuccador, a plasterer of walls who fancied himself a contractor, until the jobs he took became a drain on his bank account and his crew left him, taking all the tools he invested in. This failure to consider the course of one's life became his method...

In life one also encounters those who's main joys are found in falsehoods. They imagine themselves to be important people, accomplished people even when they have nothing to show for the years. They take credit for other's work. Those "independent" types who imagine themselves free, while sucking off another for their monetary needs. Itinerant trollops holed up in decaying hotels and bars, those addled by too much drink and drug abuse, those who long to wallow in lives of rich luxury, they who can't comport themselves, those who harbour anger and vent it with each fake compliment they pay. Those damaged children of divorce whom daddy must redeem. Those for whom the passing years have been a disaster, for they have learned nothing of value and their youth has faded. I see their passive aggressions, I see their envy and greed, I see their baggy eyes, I see their droopy bodies, I see through their lies and self-inflated egos as they play out the same games that worked in their ancient youth but now only serve to reveal how vapid they have become. These believers in fantasy, these "centers of attention", these "special people" are as common as dirt these days. Spent, they waste their remaining days obstructing, vilifying and revising histories, trying desperately to lash themselves to someone or something in order to glean the value they never made of and for themselves. You false hostesses, you malignant fraudeurs, you crones and fools still have a day left, a day to recover what you have thrown away. Pay attention and see, see if you can find yourself in the pile of ashes and dust that is your life.

She'd spent many years on the street, many years working hard . It had taken all the best she had to offer and she felt hollow. Man after man had damaged her image of herself and her idea of what men were. She never told her "friends" what she did for a living. Instead she made up stories of an L.A. real estate past, or maybe she had been a wedding planner or maybe owned a yoga school. She enjoyed her work. Married men and lonely guys, "as if there's a difference", didn't need much emotionally and they treated her nice. So when she moved to the tropics, to retire or to get away from her problems, she figured she would be able to pick up the married and lonely old retirees...

"...during his tirade against the ladies in the room, seconded venomously by his mate scowling outside the doorway, he managed to insult and shock them in much the way he accused another of having done. The irony went unnoticed, even when he barged into the room again to drop a type-written rant. After he left, the 3 ladies cleared the room of his negativity, removing the mantle of anger he had draped them with. "Crazy old man, doing such stupid things" lamented the hostess."

They wondered if he realized that he had first eaten the rabbit, then cooked it, then hunted it down...His work was rife with confusing passages, tangents and flashbacks so poorly written that kindness warranted silence. But his insistence that the book receive a review, forced them to read as much as they could, piecing the story together from the poor grammar, syntax and misspellings that formed the body of the work, eventually allocating the manuscript to a drawer where it lay for months before they found it and returned it to him...

In keeping up with the Jones's, it was hard for them to be gracious or truly kind. The jealousy that had always been at the heart of their shared life kept emerging and tarnishing their friendships. Friends were valuable for what material benefits they could offer, but not for the phenomena they actually were. In unguarded moments, she would let slip statements that revealed her ulterior motives. A good friend was one who "had expensive tastes", those who didn't drink the national brand, those who ate imported meats and goods from Europe and Walmart.

Sunday, 30 June 2013

A wall...

It's a wall

we build
to hide the other side
of ourselves
from our view.

On either side
we hide all those
who we are who we
would rather not be

Our ideals straddle this wall
like some eggman
waiting to fall
but all along
firmly glued to the spot
We are what we are not
we fail to see
too often the other side
of this contradiction

Our loving ideals
reduced to pure fictions
on either side of our divide
from our truths
we must hide

unpleasant to see the inability
to live up to what we claim
incapable of focus,
we end up lame

Yet no one is perfect
and better to be honest at least
in bright daylight with open eyes
ready to see

that we aspire and fail, but
not for lack of trying
it's because we are cracked
and involuntary lying

it hurts too much to see
ourselves as all that
which we think "not me"
but it doesn't end there
it never ends,
the best would be
to become
an honest friend
to the people on the
other side of the wall

tear down this wall
tear down this wall.

Friday, 15 March 2013

She (1985)

Into the deep blue of a night sky
pour my lone soul
and let the four winds blow these feelings to

Ask the magic of the moons caress
and the sparkle of stars
to change the forlorn to a smile,
plant on her lips this kiss I can't give
and fill her heart with all I long to say.

Send raven clouds
direct and swift as sparrows,
to wing my missing joy
by her bedside a day away.
Awaken her with the smile I save
for her
beautiful face.

Great wheels race,
take this
enraptured of darkness,
and speed the distant moment of return
nearer to this place
where separated
lovers meet.

Mantle dark,
which blankets many a sad lament,
take this weight of waiting,
lift it to the void,
for my strength can only bring it to me
on this wrinkled bed which
sags in the spot
where she would lay.

Throw off this cover,
rend these stifling sheets,
urge the breeze she keeps
to wrap me
and air this space
of silent refrain for the voice that 
makes my days.

Deepest blue of this dark nights sky
send light,
a dawn,
to shine on me
while she sleeps
a land and far sea away,
and send to her the nights that burn
this hole inside of me.




...the moment comes when you find the center is a falsehood, the road will kill you surely as a stroke rejects the heart of hell rising up to greet you, to share your triumph, festooned in garlands of fruit and roses kissed by the cupid, shot by panthers, that roam the streets of all small ventures...

toast your success and wait for the other shoe to fall, trip up partners, search for new mates and twist the meanings of words so they glean an advantage, gold gleams and silver is pretty, the heart hardens as the years drip from open vanity, you never knew, it didn't matter and the day comes at last...

push those hands deep into these pockets and deliver the freedom of kingdoms to me, return the old sweaters to the mall, visit the garden of wisdom, save the experience of wilderness and bleed the animals for adventure, we build a better nature than she does so we win the game, and you think it's me you're fooling...

where there is love the world goes round and when the basket is empty only the voices of children will be heard, softly singing sleep in its cradle, mixing metaphors in the blink of an eye, shaving the lather off tips of white asparagus moles, my vacation is the birth of my father in law and the beginning of life is on the second floor making entry more meaningful than passing the eye of a needle, throw the eye of a shoe, the horn is the tongue and the lash says goodbye, I've met someone new and I won't be you in my life anymore unless she beats the crap out of me more than you used to, then bring the shame and let's get drunk...

poop hatch opens to all that looks like bad drawing, but do apply, for the truly cross are never far from their own salivations
the messiah shows up and wants to spend the night change must be available from the star's homes and conscientious citizens rally the flag at the white courtesy phone , installed for your convenience and open to suggestions, just don't touch me and don't fondle that thing while I'm in the room, it's given me the creeps since you first left it in the toilet...

Singapore if you went in and didn't do anything at all, and then didn't flush, perhaps thought about it and decided to save the water...

It didn't stop floaters from drifting and misty-eyed wanderers from seeing double when twins were present, the glorious principles of revolutions spinning away in a night sky above the million insect swarm, heat the water of nuns thighs and cause the dismal milk of cherry mothers to whisper sweetly, the ears are too soft to use and what was lifted has not remained intact, please swing the body to center and drill the scrotum to the ground, a leading cause needs to be followed and a record must be kept for the sake of charities she supported and the drinks still flow and cars whirl through the night attacking tar as she tries to break through my soul...

don't leave this place of sharing and run to the arms of another promise, the rain won't stop and I can't swim out farther than the boat, the gambling seas are rigid in our delay and the fur of frosted nightshade likes the cool of basil in the sauce, my brothers unite and weep for this passing and the morning will be found in the streets of Zurich, far from the lake and the cous-cous that costs more than the flesh of the dumb waiters children who regale the exile that religion affords, my eye, my ayatollah, the aubergine is full of worms and she won't visit while the dog remains...

my friends weep in silence a thousand miles away, the bluebird rips the thorn and the willow knows no bounds, tomorrow may never come and this requires no planning, insure the work against theft and put a mercenary guard at the door, jealousy will not seize the day so long as the hood is in place...

in that jungle there are no sentinels, no long-necked fools earning their tomorrows today, the pension is the limit of love the better the lawyer will argue for its garnish and the jury will agree, no man needs more money to commit sin, wear the leather gloves sister gave you and beat the thing against the wall harder than you thought possible, but it will not go away and it will linger and it will sting and it must not make you bitter, better is to deal with yourself and not take the kids holidays to your place next to just like it's always been...

none of what you experience will be revealed to you, sleep or come to surface like a whale, all flash and scream and blood and the confines of your head and heart are a pasture in which you grow and space is left for all which remains driven or beaten or humiliated, you lie about and fertilize the ground of your own being...


Citystupid (1984)

and the light doesn't shine
in my eyes
blind longing and filling
up the emptiness
in streets that reek of unknown
beer bottled up inside
molds to stink
and tar is its bed
in the company of fines and arrest
and filthy clothes borrowed
from the charitable
complete dissolution
the dream of surviving
and survival's fit
only to be rejected for being
glazed over 
as ice in winter
muscles emaciated
so eyes can't 
giving up the ghost and keeping
the lovely bottle
trade me in for the deposit
trade me in and keep the empty
trade me in and keep the change
trade me in
I'm too stupid now
to live in the city.


Saturday, 9 March 2013

So this is the future...
a lashing wind that blows hard
enough to rip plants out of the ground
and leave them dangling
to the lines that had held them secure
the ties transformed in nooses,
little dead tomatoes wither

the rains, too light, carried on the winds
loosen the soil, making roots
rotting saplings slowly yellow
in the crater where they once
stood firm

even the sky, once all blue
now cloven, like hoof
part grey and menacing
part azure, offering escape
but no escape is available
not from the mess we've made
and too little too late
is cold comfort
when there's nothing on your plate

my friends, there is no friend
for a friend would have stopped
upon realizing the damage being done
no friend and not friendly
the response is coming
and on this evil wind
comes the messenger
warning of the fall,
of the end of it all

not just here, no. everywhere
from desert to mountain
and sea to shining sea,
from rounded hilltops
to rolling stream and forest
once green, see it now
I have only tears that ask how

the future we have conjured up
the smoke that will choke us
the water we will thirst for
once it is gone, wasted to clean
the profits we say we need
more than this world

So this is the future...
based on our desires and
ruined by our greed
that poison seed, we planted
to gain the sky we have polluted
to make the pie, we are so deluded

Shall no grain remain, not a kernel
no fruit to offer in love,
no refreshing breezes, no shading leaves?
Even if we stopped, fully committed
to saving what little remains,
our past endeavours, prevent us
from freeing this world from our chains.

Friday, 8 March 2013


Loganberries grow slowly vining their way across the ground
stretching out spiny limbs to hug the earth
setting little roots in to the moist loam
sprouting new clusters of leaves

they must be very patient because once started
no stunted growth will express a part in the glory
of a fruit as big as my thumb, loganberries
in shades of green, pink, red and black
surrounded by flowers that promise more bounty

they like moist and hot, they like to be near rocks
they hang from the trellis by the bodega
keeping company with the grapes that also
vine but don't hug, only strangle with curling
fingers wrapped tightly around a node

Loganberries are not friendly though
they stick soft skin with harsh thorns
pricking the fingers that try to groom
and harvest them, much like a lion
who will not suffer its mane be combed.

The wind cries

the       wind               blows                    hard
    the   branches            it rips off                          the trees
      litter              the                    ground
around                                                  the cabin
      they       lay on the        browning     leaves
scraped                                                             off the limbs

         the wind                        is          constant                           for       days
with              powerful gusts            i n t h e n i      gh t
                               that push the trees to
the limit                                                   of their
                                    ability to           withstand         this                     gale

                        eucalyptus suffers,
but                                                does not break
while                      juniper
          becomes                       a                          victim
                  of the                                 howling
                                          and yesterday                                guaniquil
lost           an                 arm, while                         Heber
           nearly                    froze       his ears
                         in               the          tropical mountain                            jetstream

        from                 high                                            above the turbulence
            the picture from space                                  shows
little                     more             than puffy                          clouds
                 floating                                    peacefully                         above
     the               tortured         forest                                  and land

                   if          one thing              is left                           standing
after                         all            the     f   o   r    c    e has       been                spent
      it                   will be a                 tribute to            all those           who have
fallen before the lashing winds

Tuesday, 12 February 2013

liars pants...

I hate fucking liars
those who fan flames
hiding behind false demeanour
as they craft pathetic games.

I hate those fakes
all smiles and light
in reality they bring you a
deadly fight.

I hate those who value my wife,
while trying to
figure out how
to get her out of my life.

I hate those who pretend
to be friend
the ones who would take from me
but not be there at the end.

I am no lover of manipulative
their only real intent
to bring us their harm.

I am no lover of wordsmiths
or poets, hiding behind words
like I don't even know it.

Pretenders to the throne
those all alone
who covet what is out of reach
for them.

The danger of others,
alligator smiles conceal the
bite that smothers.

I hate them all, for being unreal
for lying about what they really feel.
I hate them yes, because that is justice and
I wish they would return to their mothers.


I am not a volleyball
despite what some may think.
I am an honest man, I work hard
and I stink.

I am not some pseudo-man
acting one way
while hiding another,
pretending to be me.
I could just as well be my brother.

I am not invisible, I am not
bandaged and hidden.
I am the one so few encounter,
I am what is obvious and given.

But in a world of players
in this world where truth matters little
I am still not a cats toy, 
I will not be covered in spittle.

So play your games,
hoist your net, but don't be surprised or
saddened at what you'll never get.

Some men are real, some men are fake,
I am not a man who wishes to be on your plate.
Some women are fish, some men are fishers
but I've never ever been one to cast a line
to so-called well wishers.

I am He, who plants corn and spinach and
broccoli, I am He who waters those in need,
I am not a porn star or a man who values deceit.

I am a man, an honest one best I can
short on patience and understanding
when liars deny their true standing
I am not game or fun to be had.
I already spent too many years
as a dad.

Monday, 11 February 2013

Idealized and glorious
 the friend ship sailed the glassy sea
the crew was steadfast, loyal and brave
as friends often need to be
for each other, all for one and one
could be thee, and I must sail true
because we are sailors on this sea
and none can walk on water
nor should need ever be
yet storms appear from time to time
and the friend ship must confront
each wave and sine
signing off on patience, understanding
that respect is what floats the ship
each sailors duty done and none
are bound to the mast
for none would dare be the 
others last.

The friend ship, sails through
storms and gales, 
it steers by an ever fixed mark
as playwrights and poets have
said and philosophers too
Yet the friend ship too
must dock and at no expense
dispense the passengers
as due, for sometimes these
bonds dissolve, and people part
their ways, separated
naturally, as a ship will disappear
between the cresting waves.

Passersby, not passers buy
the problem of the world
is that not everything is on sale, nor
is everything to be had.
The milk is never free,
even after you’ve bought a cow
there is always more milking,
more caring, more feeding,
and the land has even greater needs.
Free at last, but not free to last?
Is that what anyone wants?
What pertains to others, does not pertain
to me. Free from the very first.
No news is good news, but bad news
travels faster. So many will not
notice because it isn’t nice,
transform oneself into a cube of ice.
The state of a union is unity,
the state of covetting is want
The state of happiness is clear
the state of doing what is right.
And right is what is left
when the false dreams
and expectations fall away
“scales from eyes”,
as the elders used to say.
Passersby, a glimpse is gotten
but such privilege is not
a right. Associations path
is accident that happens,
and “Where have I been all my life?”
is the most important question.

Tuesday, 5 February 2013

 Awake sleep


the quiet of the night, deepest

slumber denied

but still I dream

but the dream
in sequence
like passing seconds
that mark my


the veil, dark, covers the land
the wind, strong scours the trees
the sleep that evades me
the day that starts before
the others even waken

and after so many years
after so many meetings
in front of this screen
my lack of sleep is
not a lack of rest
but a nap, waiting to happen
and waiting is what insomnia


Monday, 4 February 2013

An armadillo

has decided that our farm is very tasty
and digs holes every square meter
looking for worms
and grubs to eat

It entered my garden yesterday
and set my dogs barking
but I was asleep and my wife
decided that it was best
to leave the night to the unknown

This resulted in there being
numerous holes
along the edge of the
fence and by the foot of
the beds, little piles of soil
that traced the hunt

But how such a beast
works through the night
making hundreds of dents
in my fields, inviting
my little dogs to dig as well
is truly a marvel

So what shall we do, I asked
our man and he said
that it would be best
to evict this nighttime
guest and in the same
breath reminded me
that it only eats earthworms
and that it wont touch the crops

So despite a search
a shovel digging in
any hole found in earth
the armadillo is still
unseen and tonight
I may leave the doors
open enough
for the dogs to chase it away.

'Alone again
the words from
a popsong

                                                                  Nothing and no one
are imaginary
Only being in the midst
of the real is real

                                                                         Alone is a
false perception because
Being is relation
and primarily that

                                                                  Nothing can't exist
no one can not be
When I try to be me
I find the rest of us

                                                                     It is important
to note that we
Seek for a sense
of self

                                                            We yearn to be individual
and we deny that such
Is only a slight degree
of change

                                                                A trick of the mind
a bubble of thought
That floats in a space
more crowded
than not

Saturday, 2 February 2013

Picking up
where I left off...
the brushes have
been waiting
Now the yellow light
that tints the clouds
before the arrival
of night
invite me to see

The way the edge of a cloud
will shimmer
when it competes against
the darkening sky
when tension can be
a spectacle fine
and mauve 
is a compromise

The rays of whitehotgold
stream past
faster than fast
not my sight
which lingers
in the soft greyblue of
a cloud shadow

As the great wheels
race, tracing arcs
across the sky
a violet overtakes
the scene
punctuated with
the first dots

My eye now takes
it all in as one
I sweep vision broad
along the horizon
majesty is not
for a better name
is sought than to
leave it untitled.

Wednesday, 30 January 2013

What I learned at great length...

Loneliness / void we toss ourselves away
into that bottomless hole, failing to notice
no amount of company
can fill a space where                                                         you
don't exist

is self
undiscovered                                                                         I

useless desire
that guides
from outside

Void isn't                                                                              me
absent from
my world

nothing can fill what is never                                           present

nothing will complete                                                      what isn't
animal that looks for itself

find a face is a mirror                                            find a face in a mirror

Friday, 25 January 2013

I see you...

A birthday gift
to all who have failed to grow up,
to all who think that friendship is a negotiable currency,
to all who think they can be whoever without concern for anyone else,
to all the fakes who smile at you while lying to themselves,
to all who say that they love you, without even really knowing you,
to all who think that appearances are what counts,
to all who never worked harder than they needed to,
to all who submit to bullshit instead of railing against the fools,
to all who stand by and watch while the psychopaths they elect destroy the world built by better people than we ,
to all who discard without a thought for where the trash ends up,
to all who consume because they know no better,
to all the hollow characters that haunt others lives hoping for meaning,
to all the followers of celebrity,
to all who believe the justifications of the fearfully violent,
to all who never awaken from the pipe dream of riches,
to all who destroy youth to save the children,
to all the scum in expensive suits,
to all who turn a blind eye to starving children outside the restaurant window...
my birthday wish for you is that you disappear and no one remember
your passing.



We are fragile, little thin-skinned beings. Even insects have more to protect them.
They hardly give a care, as they go about their tasks.
We complain and cry, we are unhappy and dont really know why.
The beetle carries on, even when all it has to eat is shit.
We want gluten-free life, so we don’t have to feel the actuality of “it”.
Bees work, arduously, not in anticipation of a day or a weekend free.
But if we don’t get a break at 10:30, for a smoke or a coffee?
Well…it’s just so unfair.
Not red in tooth and claw are we, not even fit to roam the forest at night, not ever to burn more brightly than our meager lamps allow.
A cockroach and his kin will be kings the day after tomorrow, the same as it was in a carboniferous age they remember, in some ancient memory.
Like little pink things that wriggle in fur-lined nests, we are so soft and oh so very weak.
But evolution offers a way to change, to toughen up and be free outside the cage.
We can become strong, in the face of opposition we can flourish.
Join us, join the great We.
Grow a hard shell. Be tarantula, be wasp, be armored.
Be chitinous and harsh, when you need to be.
Precarious? Hilarious! We’ll see…
Rest assured that when the wind blows, you will feel free.
And unless you are a dung beetle, don’t accept any shit.

Friday, 18 January 2013


..it is to walk
outside the lines
within a tradition I value
to let the four footed
be a caterpillar of smells sought
tails wagged, talk barked
next to trees leaving a stream
that others will see
along the edges of the land, the fence
barbed wire and banana trees
flowering daisies and okra
down the slope
along the edge
that keeps the cows
from coming across
the stream
under the guayaba, near the papaya
a hole dug by an unseen guest
who walks at night to
see where I've been during the day
my dogs smell the absent one
and after a few circles and a piss
the walk heads up the

dark is the grey cloud cover

the wind drives the raindrops sideways

the birds and other tree dwellers are hidden

in the forest.

The parched land, its body spread wide

opens her mouths and drinks deep the gathering gloom.

Like a woman tired after too much days work

all she wants is a warm bath, a shower will suffice

but nicer still to lay in the tub and let the water wash

away the grime and the heat.