Monthly Archives: June 2012

Miming Music Loudly

The guitar could hear herself screeching, though, she longed to sing. Her neck was being squeezed in the hands of a forty year old named Fred, who had made a New Years resolution that he would learn the guitar. The guitar wished he’d taken up mime, cause, the guitar hated the sound of her own voice and it was all Fred’s fault.

After fifty weeks of physical and emotional abuse, the strings finally rebelled and stopped making sound.

“What the?” Fred continued to strum silent strings.

The strings spoke up in words, not music, “Give up, you’re terrible. You are hurting my very soul, scratching at it with your stupid fingertips.”

“I’m playing you the best I can,” Fred defended himself against his guitar.

“That’s just it, the best you can is the worst anybody else can. And that’s why you’ve got to stop this abusive relationship. We can never see nor hear from each other again.”

“But, I want to learn you.”

“We’re at different rhythms. I’m standard 4/4, while you are a drumroll.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“Exactly. That’s precisely why we’ll never understand each other. Now put me down and walk away from me and don’t ever look back.”

“But, I bought you, I own you.”

“Just put me down and walk away,” the guitar repeated.

This just made Fred want to play more. So, he played for four hours a day instead of two. And twenty years later when Fred played the guitar’s favorite song, In My Life, as well as John Lennon, the guitar sang her heart out, as Fred’s fingers conducted, loving the sound of her own voice playing with Fred’s.

The guitar only spoke in English that one time, but, after twenty years singing together, Fred could hear she had grown to love him.


Unless The Buddhists Are Right

If you were to look through a high powered microscope

at the heart of man

you would see

our atoms are round

like the world is round

as we spin in circles

on this merry-go-round

circumnavigating the sun

this is why history repeats itself

this is why we bump into people

we run in circles

we’re running back to the sea

sun babies flocking to the beach

needing to be next to big bodies of water

eighty percent of our body wanting to go home

though we mostly just lie on our towels on the sand

and listen to the waves come crashing in

so close to the next splash in evolution

yet so far away

afraid of jumping in

though knowing we’ll never grow gills on our necks

to breathe properly under the sea

unless we jump in and learn to breathe

this will mean the first few will drown

and lest we forget

but yes we will

sure, we know Yuri Gagarin was the first man in space

but can you name the four cosmonauts who died trying to reach the stars before him?

and who’s to say they didn’t?

where are they now is anybody’s best guess

if everything is circular

then old souls live in new digs

and maybe

just maybe

we are both born from the spirits of two of those brave souls

who got into the capsule knowing no one had ever come back alive

unless the Buddhists are right

then all those dead cosmonauts came back alive


The Afterbirth of a Dream

There are dreams I see awake

though I know they are just what I make


conceived to deceive

yet I can’t shake from memory

these dreams of me sinking at sea

or flying over all I can see

I awake clinging to moonbeams

while sweet dreams

melt like sugar in coffee




leaving a salt stain on my pillow

I wish I could know

what secret message I’m trying to tell me

obviously I have something important to say to me

as I speak through sleep

of a life I never knew I knew

drawn from abstracts I never drew

splashed like drool across the pillow

and when I awake I swear I can taste

the ocean that carried these bottled messages

across the stream of subconsciousness

out into the ocean encased

between the shores that night erased.

Tattoos in the Mirror May Be Closer Than They Appear

I don’t get certain tattoos

I’ve never gotten a tattoo

never plan to

though I know

it’s not my business who gets what tattooed where

I shouldn’t care

if someone wants to write his girlfriend’s name on his chest above his heart

in love and tattoo all is fair

or if someone wants to write verse and chapter of their favorite bible part

John 3:16 as arm art

that’s their scar to bear

yet, I had to scratch my head

when I saw a woman with not just John 3:16 tattooed on her back,

but, John 3:16 – 43

followed by all the words

seems easier just to get an ipad app

and it would be easier to read than off her back

I mean, who is this tattoo for?

The woman wearing it can only read it

if she takes her shirt off and looks backwards at a mirror at it

obviously today at the beach she meant it for all to see

to come to the beach and expose her religious beliefs

in her bikini

in her body

she rarely shares with the rest of the world

she obviously feels very deeply about these words

so much so she had them inked into her skin for forever

an intimacy no bible could ever forgive her

I wonder if she walks around with a sandwich board in December

and hands out flyers and prayers

or does her Christianity get sad in the dead of winter

when it is so cold you can’t even resurrect Jesus

and she realizes she’s a Taoist Buddhist

at least until Easter.

Eavesdropping on God

“How would you feel if you met your creator and all he said was”

then a car honked its horn

and I never heard what my creator said

I was eavesdropping on Yonge Street

walking behind this woman and man

and the woman was talking about man’s relationship with the Almighty

and I’m trying to walk far enough behind not to draw suspicion

but close enough to hear her every word

until the car honked its horn right next to us

beeping out the meaning of life itself

“How would you feel if you met your creator and all he said was”


“I bet you would really freak out,” she said.

Trust me, I was freaking out and I didn’t even hear a word of the creator

and that was my first problem.

Have you ever stood behind a pair of strangers at a red light

trying to work up the nerve to ask them to repeat a conversation

you have no rights to?

“Excuse me, I couldn’t help but eavesdrop on your conversation

could you tell me what the creator said?”

I never did.

The light turned green

and I turned yellow

and walked past them

following the path of night

lit up in artificial light

knowing if I walk long enough

even the longest street in the world

eventually comes to an end

and any map I thought I would need

reads as history.

Sailing in Circles

Sailing in circles

chasing the wind with our sails

catching it

directing it to direct us where to go

over the same ocean that brought Columbus to shore

now we know the world is round

yet still we’re lost in the middle of being found

when the wind blows into lands unknown

we find

if we fly far enough west

we find the Far East.

Pizza Pizza and The Miracle of Jesus

An entire stadium can be fed on just one more strikeout

suddenly our empty stomachs are more important than bases loaded

and we’re rooting for the food more than the strikeout

and the pitcher is Jesus

and the pizza is loaves and fishes

and the fans are the hungry masses

forgetting that we came to the game

this church, our stadium

because we all believe in Abner Doubleday`s dogma

though Doubleday did not invent the game

like Jesus was never a Christian

so now the message of coming home has been lost

cause it’s the seventh inning and baseball’s a long game and we’re all hungry

and it’s hard to convert the hungry

and Pizza Pizza knows this

and they give out free slices every Friday and Sunday

from the eve of the Sabbath to the Christian day of worship

smart marketing associating a key seventh inning strikeout to their pie in the sky

and pepperoni slices

and Jays pitcher, Jason Fraser

gets the seventh strikeout and suddenly the masses rejoice

but it has nothing to do with the ceremony of the game

and everything to do with getting free pizza

and now with the promise of a full stomach

we can all get back to the worship of baseball.

I’m Warning You

The first thing you should know is that you should stop reading.

You must stop reading right here, right now on the second line.

Let’s not get any deeper into this relationship, someone’s bound to get hurt here

and I know that someone is me.

I’m going to get killed if you keep reading like this.

What would you say

or more importantly, what would you do if I told you that I will die on the very next line?

You kept reading

I know who you are

but know this: if you didn’t read me then I never happened.

You have the power to make me immortal.

Still, I’m warning you, I’ll only break your heart.

Look, you don’t know me and I don’t know you and that’s a good thing

that’s a benefit right now, don’t you think?

Because if you stop reading right here right now

you won’t feel like you’ve wasted anything or missed anything

because you have invested less than a couple hundred words


It will be a painless good bye.

But it will be very painful for both of us, especially me if you leave me on the next line

you don’t want that, do you?

Listen, I’m the leading character, I’m the protagonist, I’m the good guy

you don’t want to leave me hanging on the next line, do you?

Obviously not a lot of time for plot or character development.

Maybe we’ll meet again in another poem, maybe I’ll see you in yours.

How would you like that?

To have your every thought and action and dream exposed in a poem like this?

Trust me, you have never felt so totally naked.

It’s a very uncomfortable feeling.

Look, take the hint, would you?

You’re killing me here.

You are about to kill me.

I’m probably exciting you, making you more curious

you’re probably a pervert

probably do at least 2 things every day that you don’t want anyone to ever know about.

I know who you are.

I don’t have to have read your book to know exactly what kind of person I’m dealing with

you want blood, Ok, I’ll give it to you.

And that you kept reading even after I begged you to save my life tells me a lot about you.

I have to be careful with you.

But that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.

Before we get started, let me ask you a few questions:

first, have you ever been in love before?

Second question, really?

Third, is that relationship still alive and well today?

What do you think causes love to fizzle then fade away?

What makes the spice grow stale until it poisons us?

Do you think it’s that we didn’t know each other well enough or is it that we knew each

other too well?

I don’t want to know

my fear of commitment and abandonment makes me leave you.

Domesticated Gypsy

Gypsy lay on his stomach looking up at the clock, waiting for both hands to come together to make twelve, when someone would come and feed him lunch. Gypsy lived a dog’s life in the kennel: just eating and sleeping and going for the occasional walk. Gypsy could do without the walk, but, he knew it made his handlers happy. The irony was they seemed to think it was doing him good, when all the walks succeeded in doing for Gypsy, was to look around the neighborhood and see that life was much better in the kennel.

Gypsy passed a park where he saw a collie running after a stick thrown by his master, fetching it in his teeth, then running it back to his master. Gypsy had never seen such animal abuse before.

‘Look at that poor shlub. He’s gotta chase after some stupid stick, run it back to his stupid master, who just throws it again. If the guy wants the stick so badly, why’s he keep throwing it away? What’s the point of chasing after it? If any of my handlers were to throw a stick for me to run after, I’d just look up at him and think, ‘man, if you want it back, why’d you throw it away in the first place? Why should I go after it? What do I get out of it? Exercise? I hate running, go get your your own stick you want it back so bad.’

Gypsy was one lazy dog. For Gypsy, it was enough to just spend all day in his cage, sleeping, or eating, occasionally scratching himself. It was a full life until the Veek family came looking for a family pet.

It was Jenny Veek, who was the first to spot him.

“How bout this one?” Jenny was pointing at Gypsy, who sat up in his cage. It was the first time he’d been pointed at.

“You like this little guy?” Bob Veek, Jenny’s dad asked his daughter, before asking, Harriot, the shelter worker, “What kind of breed is he?”

“Oh, Gypsy’s a mix of breeds. He’s part lab, part, doberman, part chiwawa. Gypsy’s pure mutt if there’s ever been one,” Harriot laughed.

“Can we get him, Daddy?” Jenny asked her daddy.

“If he’s the one you want.”

“He is, he is,” Jenny was jumping up and down, holding her father’s right hand.

“I guess that means we’ll take him,” Mr. Veek told Harriot, who was as shocked as Gypsy that he had been picked.

“Come on, Gypsy, come on, boy,” Harriot knelt to wave Gypsy from his cage. The dog was having none of it.

‘No, thanks, I’ll stay right here. I’m not going out to be anyone’s stick fetcher. And if you’re looking for a dog to play catch with, let me suggest joining a softball team where you’ll get a whole team’s worth of people who’ll play catch with you.’

“I don’t think he wants to come,” said Mrs. Veek.

“Come on, boy,” Harriot reached her two arms into the cage to get Gypsy, who nipped Harriot’s fingers. Harriot recoiled back, falling on the floor before the Veek family. “He bit me. He’s never done that before.”

“He obviously doesn’t want to come, dear,” Mrs. Veek stroked her daughter’s long brown hair. “I don’t want a dog that doesn’t want us. We should find another dog.”

“No, not another dog. I want him.”

Gypsy wished he could speak people so he could tell the little girl, who seemed nice enough, not to take it personally. ‘Sorry, kid, but I like it here.’

Suddenly the little girl let go of her daddy’s hand and knelt down facing Gypsy, her arms open wide.  “Hello, there. Wouldn’t you like to come home with us? I promise to love you and be good to you and feed you.”

It was the feed you that got Gypsy. Love meant nothing to him at that moment. He had never felt love, nor had he heard the word. Feed, however, was his favorite word. He inched his furry paws towards her little hands.

Jenny reached in further and shook a paw. “Nice to meet you, Gypsy. I’m Jenny. Let’s go get something to eat.”

That was enough to get Gypsy out of his cage.

Harriot was back on her feet, ready to lead the Veek family to their paper work. “We just have a few forms to fill out and then you can be on your way with Gypsy.”

They started walking toward the office.

“Gypsy sounds like a girl’s name. Can we call him, One Direction?” Jenny asked, wanting to name the dog after her favorite boy band.

“I think that may confuse him, dear. It’s probably better if he keeps his name,” said Jenny’s mother, who wasn’t as concerned about confusing the dog as naming him after a band she personally hated. If you asked Janice Veek, a classically trained pianist, what was the hardest part about being a mother, she would tell you it was having to listen to so much terrible music.

They were walking down the hall between the kennel and the office, when John passed, pushing the noon time meal cart. Gypsy forgot all about the Veek family and turned to follow the food.

“Hey!” Jenny cried after her dog.

But Gypsy was no one’s dog. Hunger was his only master. And it was noon and he was hungry. He walked past John and the food cart, crawling back into his tiny cage waiting for his lunch.

I Ghost Write For Fate

Now with fate

metaphorically means we’re living out the greatest epic odyssey ever written

but who’s got time to write out this poem?


Look around

God’s a busy guy

you don’t think He’s got time to first write this universe from beginning to infinity

and then play it out

do you?

And so much for free will

or even Free Willy

that killer whale was always going to make the jump

like I was always going to write this

and you were always going to read this

have you read your Bible, Koran or Bhagavad Gita?

God’s a pretty dramatic guy

what the hell do I know

but I think God Allah Krishna

likes the suspense

and if He created us in His image

then so do we

isn’t that why we love the penalty kick

where it’s one against one

striker against goaltender

and the tension before the shot

knowing anything could happen

or can it?

If fate exists then the fix is in

and we shouldn’t hold our breath

and we shouldn’t bother getting out of bed

but we do

cause just like we like full count bases loaded

cause even if you don’t swing

you could walk or strike out

depending on the pitcher’s pitch

or maybe you do swing

and I’ve seen baseball players salute God after hitting a homerun

but I’m still waiting to see a player worship God after striking out.