Monthly Archives: November 2010

Thoughts at the Family Christmas Party

If normal is relative

there is no normal

if I’m a relative to you

I’m not normal,

relative you,

normally my relative,

no stranger to genuine sarcasm

mocking mockingbirds,

or disingenius genius genes without pockets,

genes expanding like the jeans of Uncle Norm as he packs more

buttertarts into the blackhole he calls his mouth;

his girth expanding like the universe itself,

recreating new norms and molecules called Uncle Norm,

rippling fat at the bend in the nexus of the solar plexus.

But, fat is thin if you’re a Rubens.

You shoulda been born 400 years ago, chubs,

you’d be relatively beautiful.

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Shadow Puppets

One star above all other stars

though no higher nor lower the other stars.

The sun loves this earth

cause it is closer than all other stars.

We worship this intimacy in picnics and bikinis

and kisses at sunset

till night gives light to a universe of celestial bodies mingling among the heavens.

Still, the sun haunts us in her absence

as shadows dance macabre dreams

that will seem so serene in the morning.

Song On Mute

All the words I’ve ever said are all the words I’ll ever say

they come from all the books I ever read, but, the order I’ll rearrange,

like the dictionary contains every thought ever made on each page

it’s simply when they’re said how they’re said that separates the fools from the sage.

And I believe that karma spins around

I believe that the words mean more when they’re sound.

Like taking an abstract painting and giving it meaning beyond the art

for its own sake we choose to make right from wrong from the heart

but only the fool tries to find reason there when love lights the way

and not even the sage can find the right words to say.

Words are seeds grown in the sun and grown in the rain

when set to music, when they’re sung, they’re flown off the page.

Words are price tags giving value to my music,

but when it comes to singing about love these words are worthless.

And I believe that karma spins around

I believe words mean more when they’re sound.

And for me to sing I love you won’t mean anything

until I hear it sung back to me.

Cause I believe karma spins around

and I believe words mean more when they’re sound.

Oh, Canada

Canada is my home and native land

where ‘eh’s a question, not a vowel.

Where we pray in prairies that are grand

with Winnipeg where wicked wind will howl.

Hockey’s our national passion

we like to watch it for the fights.

Staying warm is our best fashion

cause, summer’s a luxury, not a right.

This land is home to 34 million persons

90% live within 100 miles of the border

and the remaining 10%

have all moved to Florida.

And into war we so rarely delve

we don’t spend so much on ships and tanks

we did win the War of 1812

but don’t tell the Yanks.

William Lyon MacKenzie King was a mad hatter

for 22 years he held the P.M.’s post.

Nuts, when he decided a national matter

he would first have a meeting with his dead dog’s ghost.

The P.M. gets elected with 38% of votes

and our senate is not elected, they are appointed.

We have a Queen, she’s born to be on the twenty dollar notes

we’re lead by these strangers and we wonder why we’re disappointed

by a government most of us didn’t vote for

by a government run by corporate puppets

who speak for the rich when we want to help the poor

it’s like surfing for porn and getting the Muppets.

But, we have got free health care and look, we are so proud

why don’t the USA, it makes you wonder, but,

here, rich or poor, sick or shot, all of us are allowed

take a number, they’ll get to you when your number’s up.

Oh, Canada, you’re a great place to live, wonderful to die

and at least dying’s free and easier than comedy

patriotism’s following orders blind, not asking why

keeping the electorate from voting is the key.

Dead Dog Years

When my dog dies I’ll fly to Europe

cried the psychopath to his dog, Fred.

Measuring time in dead dog years

neutering the present from the past.

Like reading a diary entry of a bad dream had years before;

finally seeing what’s beneath

seeing the monsters for what they’re for.

When my fish dies I’ll try sushi,

never tried raw fish before.

Who needs to fly to Japan to see kabuki,

got a dog to care for.

And my little dog I’ll pick up your shit cause you pick up my life;

my little dog I love you more than my ex-wife.

And my little dog it won’t hurt a bit when it’s your time to die

cause, my little dog, to Europe I’ll fly.

Pointillism

Black crow perched atop a church cross

looking down on the ground, what does he see?

Do you think he sees the difference between

the church and the Buddhist cemetery?

And the higher he flies the more he sees

that the ground doesn’t see the difference between

religion, rooftops or countries.

But I was born with blue eyes but they turned green

and they can see the difference between a Christian and a Buddhist cemetery.

My eyes never weep over a black crow who falls from a tree.

And the higher he flies, the more he sees

that the ground doesn’t see the difference between

religion, roof tops or cemeteries.

Left Tea Leaves

Imagination mixed with memory is this toxic tonic to stir up all our soured moments

fingering through photos

and soon I forget what came first, the memory or the sentimentality

dog-eared pictures proving I was here and I am there

simultaneously

both in and out of our universe

between the love and the hate of not being loved.

You get that? I don’t.

Insanity is repeating the same mistakes,

but here we go

rolling down hill like Jack and Jill

after reading their own nursery rhyme;

“Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water.”

“Oooh, I like the sound of this,” Jill said, tucking her crown into the crook of Jack’s arm as

he read.

And I can’t let you go, though, you let me go years ago.

Your memory is stronger than me.

Still, imagination is brilliant; I know, cause I make it.

A nightcap of sentimentality;

a tea made with the leaves of the leavings you left

to seep as rain water through the fall leaves

through the gutters of my mind.