Sunday, May 30, 2010


sitting around after hours at the Harlem Nocturne
drinking the best bootleg whiskey we could buy
mixed with the aural flow of the blues
and the emotion filled voice of Blind Willie Johnson
his exquisite slide guitar moaning like a wounded animal
the soul of a man transcending darkness into light
screaming and crying without weeping
making sure the lights keep shining
with Blind Lemon Jefferson's high voice
and black snake moan at odds with the music
in the dark
but always able to see
the poor epileptic fellow in the corner
and the peach orchid mama at the front table
eyes closed
keeping time in the tin cup blues
waiting for the second coming
of Blind Willie and Blind Lemon
where love is dark and blind
we sit

Friday, May 28, 2010


for Writers Island....prompt is imaginary friend


lost in his only at bat with the Browns
and his last vaudeville act
Eddie the midget sat tall in Vesuvio's cafe
a shirtless narcoleptic
drinking strong espresso to stay awake
writing poetry about ringing alarm clocks
fortunes lost by falling asleep
and a fixed roulette wheel that stopped spinning
before nodding off in beatnik splendor
unable to listen to my confessions
or hear my poem for a friend

Thursday, May 27, 2010


two places I spent last Thursday


perched on the highest pile above the vistas of waste
waiting to scavenge their next meal
the gulls hang out like teenagers at the mall
waiting to dip down like addicts
among the flies and wasted treasures
of burnt out stoves and thawed out freezers
heaps of angry eggshells wrapped in cellophane
reflecting the unnecesary piles of shit
smelling the odorless spillage of filth
glaring at the hidden forklift
and the wasted hillside beyond the dump
a gentlemanly gardener
not an old man but a young gardener
goes home to his garden
to listen to the creeping virginias and weeping willow
part scientist
part artist
part poet
part philosopher
part ploughman
modifying the climate around his home
being still but still moving
like the water flowing over the rocks
using flowers and plants to paint
with the sky as the canvas
planting only annuals
scavenging an avalanche of lifetime notes
a good plot for the mind

Thursday, May 20, 2010



blinded by the light I couldn't see
looking into the dark side of my mind
I finally saw myself
not for what I was or who I will be
but what I am
a boring subnormal scarecrow
locked in a room
with hang-ups on forged dreams
helpless and deserted in a broken wheelchair
travelling slow nowhere heading somewhere
feeling the pressures of too many drugs
and the godless nurse who lost the key
empty from forgotten prescriptions
and lies from the carnival of doctors
who tried to invent me then re invent me
attempting to fix all or nothing
or allow me to escape from this insane asylum
and see the pigeons shit on their heads
always watching me drenching my mind
as I searched for the right channel
that had baroque music with cartoons
or where lovers faded into dust and ashes
frozen by their difficulties they couldn't melt
while I wait in this stalled wheelchair
for the second coming of someone
or the nurse with the key

Sunday, May 16, 2010


POW #2...


we stood at the Fraserview cemetry
on the hill overlooking the River
below the city dump and the running rodents
above the B.C. penitentiary and the restless cons
beyond Woodlands institution and the beautiful misfits
sad and weeping
we sang her favorite hymns
showing how to go over the hillside steep
with the rugged cross and rugged way
to feed the hungry to heal their hearts
the convicts, misfits and rats
my mothers funeral 1947

Thursday, May 13, 2010


we write poems #1 prompt is boxes

bamboo box

the words were waiting in the bamboo box
emerging from the ashes of a body of work
unable to escape from the darkness
in storage and lonely
waiting for another poets revolution
remaining silent from the beat of deafness
listening to the unheard words
of the noisy nesting junco
searching for the lost forgotten syllables
and the poets who lost their speech
drunk and unable to write
trying to escape from the darkness
dancing to another dressed up poem
waiting patiently
in the box

Saturday, May 8, 2010


Writers Island #2..prompt is Stowaway.....this is a draft


it was the poem I needed to complete my beat collection
it was everything I wanted, my only affection
finer than Corso or Creeley in black and broken glasses
I snuck in to hear the reading
a beat poet school for bohemian stars stowaway

I demanded their attention on the star ship of bewitchment
with help from Burroughs and his magical enhancement
I was around to save the night, with a touch of whiskey
from New York, Frisco, LA
a beat poet school for bohemian stars stowaway

beneath the mask and cracked makeup and runny ice cream
where the beat poets meet jazz and the dancing queen
putting faith in hidden stars, blind pigs and whiskey bars
old jazz clubs to ryhthm guitars
a beat poet school for bohemian stars stowaway

Tuesday, May 4, 2010


found this note in a bottle on a Havana beach

....this is a draft...


I lie here on my bunk sailing my beloved Santana
contemplating if I should finish this scotch
Lauren is sitting on the deck smoking rolled cigs
we have just finished Key Largo and heading to Havana
Key Largo wasn't much of a film
but god dam better than To Have And Not Have
that piece of shit you wrote
a bunch of long sentences about dumb characters
you must have needed money
spitting words on the Prado
or some empty bait bucket
drunk on your boat with no vision
fishing for words
plagiarizing your agnostic god
falling to the coral below the sea
pouring another mojito
letting your emotional life
be run by rum and empty words
drifting on your fish boat without your mind
well the sun is rising Ernie
this bloody bottle is empty
and the world is still three drinks behind us
drinking ourselves to extinction
heres lookin at ya
see you in Havana