Archive for the ‘poverty’ Category

Untitled (waking thoughts)

Posted: January 5, 2016 in loneliness, poverty, work
Tags: , ,

I can’t even fathom retirement
I know I will work until my bones show
Until I wear cynicism like a rain coat
And people’s “good morning”s hit my chest
And slide to the ground a puddle of acid rain

“How are the wife and Kids?”
A phrase I may read in a book or see
In a film

Spilled Milk or Rain

Posted: January 13, 2014 in economic, modern life, poverty

I never feel the tension
People mention their pension plan
For the future like some Jetsons

Life in the sky
With some wife and a pie
Robot maid with red eyes
And a dog than can smile

Ask you how your day was
With the boss tossing sockets
In a box while the wife dries your socks

Kids in the games TV
All the same at least
You got you got the bank money
For your last days

Never had to worry
Never have scurry lines
Of the working life get blurry
Those people slicing up their turkeys

I try not to shove
Feeling like a bug
Pulling a plug
Sipping the mug
It won’t ever say world’s best dad

I try not to care
Doing my share
Pulling out my hair
Making things fair
Looking after other people’s brats

Always riding on the bus
Four o’ clock rush
Single mothers in the front
Nodding and chatting up a storm

Such and such while waiting for my stop
Last drop of the coffee stomach rot
Salivating like Pavlov’s robotic dogs

Write another sonnet
Try to keep it honest
But it’s this love twisted consciousness
Killing white powder tonic

So I try to think
Scrawling out the ink
Letter to my shrink
Everything’s got me standing on the brink

I might never marry
What do I care she’s
A god damn harpie
Better off without me
Drive each other mad

The minute I complain
I know it’s all the same
There ain’t no one to blame
For spilled milk or rain
So take what you get
And give what you got
And when it all stops
Try to laugh

Here I hope that I can say
When I’m all grey
Walking mall hallways
That I lived it up everyday

Didn’t waste no time
Pantomiming nickel and dime shining
Trying to find every single one that was mine

Rather give it up for free
Living loving Huckabees
Hugging trees
And doing artistic deeds of charity

 

Winnipeg has me
A bermuda triangle
of ghost flood visions
of apocalypse

Crazy dialogue
outside HSC
a man who won’t shake my hand
because a secret gang opens up
demon portals

And I realize
I am crazy too
just as addled
by drugs sleep dep

And I don’t visit the horrors
I may have sown

I smoke a dark cigarette
somber
cross traffic
as a son of nephilim

Does the universe
condone my disturbings?

Am I dark for a reason?
a secret reason
of fate

Does freewill exist
as more than a delusion
a facade?

The crazy man
may have been a ghost
a traveller caught

Winnipeg may be a ghost city
existing underwater
bubbles of speech

Aquatic souls
trapped by ignorance
an overcast sky
hiding the surface world

We can’t know
some information is sacred
occult

The stone temples
architectual shackles
shades
blinders

Our vision
is a PCP tunnel
the happy ones
only smile in public

The river reminds us
but also is the river Lethe
opiates and amnesiates

Drugs flood the streets
detox forbidden
sleep postponed

Our maps drawn
by drunk wardens

And my legs tire
from swimming its depths

The slow release
resurfacing through art
the act of speaking on stage
is breathing finally

But simultaneously
it is a reinforcement of madness
one’s words immediately discredited

The demon spirits laugh
a cacophony heard
howling the wind tunnel
of Portage and Main

And eventually
we all ramble
the common language
of the damned minds

Anchored to walking circles
dust coated skeleton dogs
lapping the alcohol from the palms
the nicotine from the concrete cracks

I have sought rumors
of hells exit
far away down the avenue
and two days of prairies

But does it lay west
or east? north?
this dark center holds no concept
of direction or escape

The Gift of Freedom #1:
Of never having been incarcerated
for the numerous crimes of my youth-

The Gift of Life : #2:
of never having succumb
to the diseases that have surely
brushed my essence.

Gift #3 (or Reason):
For only briefly entertaining
the madness that comes
from the unchosen unprofession
of poetic engineering.

The Gift that is Number #4:
[Fearless Fear]
which also contains:
the gifts of speech-
not sleeping
and staring the carriages of death
in the eyes unflinching.

And Finally (the fifth) Gift:
Membership for five lifetimes
into the Imagum.
Where I bear my hands
to the winds and give life
to sentences of frozen ink
that vampires of the future
unborn
may lavish over or ignore
as is their specific will.

Pauper Poet

Posted: May 13, 2013 in muse, poetry, poverty
Tags: , ,

Who needs money?

As long as I have two dollars to buy a dollar store notebook and some pens,

I’m happy.

Having a computer, a place to sleep every night,

A shelf full of boardgames, and HBO is just icing on the cake.

Being able to write poetry on the bus- priceless.

Being able to write in an empty classroom while the kids are in gym- priceless.

Being able to write poetry from the roof of a 32 story building- priceless.

Being able to write poetry when I can’t sleep at night- priceless.

I’ve been writing since I learned how.

I’ll never run out of things to write about.

How could I not be happy?

Even when I’m depressed I know its just inspiration.

Even when my heart is broken,

And I have to give up something I love,

I know its just inspiration.

If my life becomes less comfortable,

I’ll be more inspired.

I’ll burn through three lives worth of inspiration,

And still be writing.

Maybe it’s the ink in my blood.

The world looks like a blank spiral bound notebook,

When I wake up,

And I write myself into every situation,

I think might turn my muse on.

Because when she is naked,

Silken white lines of beauty,

Flow from her like laughter from a tab of acid.

That ant whisper sound of the pen sprawling across the page,

Is the music for the microcosm.

The universe in my head lays draped over this world,

And its excess hangs off the planet,

Like an astral tablecloth.

Nothing can stop a passion to create,

Not lack of money, or skill, or even time.

Passion takes a man to the edge of reason,

And he jumps,

Knowing the waves below offer the warm sustenance of life,

Art, and everything worth falling for…

tamer

Posted: September 3, 2011 in economic, modern life, poverty

when did you think it was cool

wearing a black tie to school

now you teach businessmen

how to fuck the system

harder than their wives

sacrificing lives

harder than their whores

sacrificing whores

and the opiate tames the winds

of the peoples uprising

lost matyrs don’t die right

for the mob the fight

and the underground market

flooded by sparks

of nose candy and guns

no more fortunate ones

the elite self-sterilize

fuck the system harder than your wives

Street Strewn Vagrance

Posted: July 20, 2011 in poverty, urban

On the street a vagrant holds a cup towards me

I tell him I’m fresh out of coffee.

Two bums sit against a building

hiding from the sun

but the shade gets shorter

even now its at their very feet.

On the street a vagrant asks me for change

I tell him I haven’t changed in years.