PICKING HIS ASS AND SINGING THE BLUES

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 picking his ass and singing the blues

My internal clock is all screwed up. Can’t keep my eyes open at 2 o’clock in the afternoon and can’t close them at 2 in the morning. On top of that my birthday month is poised ominously on the time horizon. My seventy fifth year is now almost completely in the rear view mirror.

In retrospect not a bad year, with the high light being my visit with my daughter and son in law and the grandkids MAYA and SASHA for seven days in December in the wonderful city of Montreal.

I have scanned forty five Blues negatives and am pleased with the results. Have to quell the temptation of fooling around too much with Photo Shop and getting side tracked with design fusses.

Most of the old blues guys are dead and gone and I had better get a wiggle on with this book before I join them.

JWL

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03:43 hrs

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03:43 hrs. in the a.m.

 

Latin-Reggae on the sound track

head phones on

as a favor to my neighbors

in a night of constant sirens

even one for our building

lights flashing for an hour

and then the ambulance

rushed off sirens screaming

and another night of fitful sleeping

tried to meditate

apparently its good for the memory

couldn’t get off

probably too much coffee

and dream inducing thought just before sleep

wouldn’t work either

then lay on the left side

only induced burps

and the the bowel made its call

so here I am

shaved showered and sitting

in my gaunch

inspiration

was washed off with the overnight perpetration

Brubeck on the sound track

from the Lincoln Center

while the inner man pleads for a coffee

god I’m weak

I give in and indulge myself

and a new version of the Brubeck classic

Blue Rondo ala Turk

although the new sax player is no Paul Desmond

now some

Ransey Lewis

Cool on cool

cuase I’m no fool

and the cooffe is hot hot hot

am having one of those

right side left side things

when the poem wants out

but the words are mis spelled

and the lefrt side is nag nag ang

trying to have his moment

become a

drag drag drag

JWL

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THE RAZORS EDGE OF CHAOS

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THE RAZORS EDGE OF CHAOS

in the quiet of a muzaked room

the back beat of traqffic stop and go

women passing arms folded

over an arrogant look

and loud checkered jackets

with spectators kiniting sweaters

for recipients unknown

who gets married on a Monday

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small white dogs

mooching  pats

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as its owner

feeds her nicotine habit

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and seemingly talks to her pocket

as if the other person on the phine

could see her waving her arms

through the haze of blue smoke aqnd tobacco stink

it seems like the Ministry of Silly Walks

has let their students out

either that

or there is someone down the block

kicking everyone in the shins as they pass

two hooded passersby

looking sinister enough to get shot

hands jammed into pockets

containing

what

on the

razors edge of chaos

JWL

CLUTTER, CLUTTER, MUTTER, MUTTER.

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SourceURL:file://localhost/Users/MontyPython/Desktop/CLUTTER.doc

CLUTTER

the hunt for lost negatives

not really lost just misplaced

three thousand pages

distilled to two hundred twenty five pages

approx. seven thousand eighty five negatives

for one project

now must select one hundred negs

on  my light tables

for publication

plus one hundred

 pages of text

also cleaned the chain and derailleur

on the bike

for my annual battle of the flub

while half assed watching

the Canucks

get into their golfing gear

sigh

JWL

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AMBIENT SOUND

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AMBIENT SOUND

 

the passing crowd

with bags, pack and suitcases

bye says the iPad woman

her daughter and two grand daughters

visit soon from AUS

and I wonder

what the Queen of my Heart

and The Prince of my Dreams

are doing right now

they would be in the last period

before school is let out

the TV says that Montreal is sunny today

the working guys sit outside

and drink their coffee

I love this time of year

even old curmudgeons thoughts

turn to love

would take, will take

no I’ll pass on that

I don’t know where or when

but sweet Jesus

here it comes again

sneezes that frees my nose

from the junk in the air

another cuppa

you betcha

inflation creeps

and the penny disappears

and in the land of plenty

the fifty dollar bill

becomes the new twenty

and we all pay the HST

and soon there will be a fee

to breath and eat and drink and pee

but all the well dressed ignore the beggar

even though they too

are only one devalued pay cheque

from the pavement

and by mid-month they wonder

where their money went

and now buy worthless lotto tickets

so at least they can dream

then plug in and look around

and try not to be dazzled

by the

ambient sound.

JWL

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