Monthly Archives: November 2012

Tackling the Mayor’s Job

The Mayor of Toronto has been punted from his day job

(not his real job as football coach)

by a judge that said he fumbled the rules

voting on a measure he should have stayed on the sidelines

a conflict of interest

now he’s got 12 days to vacate his chair on city council

and clean out his office

as he’s turfed as Mayor

unless he throws his flag on the field

which it sounds he wants to

when most people just want him to give up the ball

so the city can get back to city business

beyond tackling our mayor

the Mayor has the makings of a Gaddafi or an Assad

not knowing when to leave office

I don’t expect Rob Ford to send the tanks into city streets, but we’ll see

still, he blames the left wing for this blitz

what left wing?

Show me the left wing

there is no left wing

there are only the lines and divisions (soon to be ex) Mayor Ford has drawn in his mind

a Mayor should see beyond such delineations to see the city as a level playing field

not in fragmented parts

and here is where Mayor Ford dropped the ball

and finds himself no longer quarterbacking the city

and hopefully the next mayor won’t see conspiracies

but the reality that we need a mayor who knows the rules

and is ready to play by them

and if he wants to move the yard sticks

he first has to know what constitutes a first down

and not blame the ref for his political agenda.

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Abstract Reality in 3D

Only six major chords make up the guitar

still, dinosaurs have fueled us from the tar

so many sounds live from afar

across the stars across the river Styx

dead Europeans sing to us through the mix

where life and death mean nothing

and new rhythms are found beyond banging stones

we can close our eyes and recognize the tones between Beethoven from The Rolling Stones

though they’re playing in the same musical playground

and red, blue, yellow make up the primary role

and still we can tell a Jackson Pollack from a Joan Miro

though we can’t say one color is more valuable than the next

unless it’s been tossed to a canvass by an artist

cause we see collectively that it is not the subject

it is the hand that wields the paintbrush that gives life blood to the paint

like it’s not the joke but the joker

not the miracle but the saint

it’s not the piece of dust but the God

that raises seeds from the sod.

Why We Die

The reason we die

is so we can live

it’s really that simple

if we never died

we’d never try

to buy tomorrow

on the credit we got today

death is scary, sure

but so is ignorance

and from depth comes height

if we see it in clear sight

like shadow puppets upon the wall

or a kite in the night

nothing would be seen

if there was no darkness at all

to highlight the light

so we’re mortal after all

like Spring needs Fall

for the chance that we can all be immortal

Shakespeare, Mozart, Chaplin, Chopin

all survived time

Bram Stoker made Dracula

as much as Dracula made Bram Stoker

one life gave life to save

and today they both live beyond the grave.

Drowning Down The Stream of Consciousness

If I type as fast as I can

I’m sure that something of some substance is eventually going to come out

as long as I don’t make the mistake of stopping to think what the hell this is about

I know all my brilliance and all my idiocy is in here somewhere

so if I write 1000 words somewho something is going to balance out

and if I can’t I got no business hovering over this keyboard

yet here I am so I think I must have something to write

even if I don’t know what it is right now

it’ll come it’ll come

and when it does I’ll let you know

until then I hope you like this opening act

playing to the tune of prelude to a kiss

trust me it sounds so much better in the Greek it was written

so does the Bible

do you know how much got lost in translation

between the first texts and the King James version

and what the hell does an English King have to do with the writing of the sacred scriptures

ergo, talk about ego

King James slaps his name on the cover, yet, he’s never mentioned in anywhere in its

pages

like when I got into a fight with a Hare Krishna over his copy of the Bhagavad Gita

he wanted to sell me

and I told him I found it odd that his guru took up more of the cover than Krishna

and he tried to explain to me that only through a spiritual adviser could I see Lord Krishna

and I tried to explain to him that I could see Krishna a lot easier

if his guru got his mug outta the way of Krishna’s face

just like this convoluted bit of writing

once I got my own ego out of the way

and let the words come out

did I know what it was about.

Wicked Killing

The writer of the book: How To Catch A Witch And Ward Off Evil Spells

is far darker than the darkness he thinks he sees

conjuring up a composition

to give light to the corners of the minds of witches and warlocks

where cobwebs catch spells and hell

and worse is how this monk

who has never kissed a girl

has written an entire treatise on how to drown them

believing he is fighting the good fight

ridding the world of an evil that doesn`t even exist

becoming the wickedness he wants to kill

leading his iniquitous inquisition

leading to burning the innocents at the stake

flagitious flames set by a devil in a monk`s robes

who prays to a lamb by sacrificing one

while five hundred years later

a city cop writes a parking ticket for a car on an empty street

while his cop car`s engine idles

sending smoke and carbon monoxide into the air.

Forever Came Yesterday

Nothing lasts forever

not even nothing

or forever

til something comes along

just ask what lit up the big bang bong

I was there

I saw

I set the match to the universe

said the god that doesn’t still exist

the two dimensional deity

the Zeus to your Yahweh

and the Ancient Greeks never knew better

when they were raised to reach Mount Olympus

this friction of the fiction of religion

still, this life force demands a death sacrifice

to prove it exists

or else we’d never seek shade from the sun

or miss its warmth

when winter wraps its cold barbwire scarf around our necks

and even light dances macabre

upon the murder of shadows

that just want to tango against the wall

nothing lasts forever

not even nothing

a world of white would blind our sight

till we could see the darkness

to know what we were missing.

Literally Poetry

I’m nostalgic for tomorrow

cause today seems old again

without the wisdom that usually comes with age

just old and worn

or is that just me?

All the beer I was pouring last night

has me drowning this morning

if a hangover isn’t the literal metaphor for the choices we make

then I’ll quit literally writing poetry

and take up mime.