TOO TIRED FOR POETRY
at least other peoples poems, especially the good ones pulling at the sleeves of my mind demanding in the shrill shrieks of spoiled small children their claim on my attention.
Writing semi up hill lying on my back on my rack the journal spine digging into my chest, my stomach rumbles and expels a fart and I turn to a new page, another one without lines to keep me straight.
There is the hiss of occasional cars passing now absent the drunks and whores and loud motorcycles of the night before and awaiting the arrival of hordes of so irritated commuters flooding in to take their place on the treadmill of work.
Writing while lying on your back is a challenge, crossing your legs a to stop them from going to sleep. The unoccupied page flutters in the breeze from the obligatory summer fan. Now bending my right leg my rumbling stomach releases another fart.
I think the answer lays somewhere in the large half printed half written prose while I wrinkle my nose at another dropping of a rose.
My writing doesn’t go straight and always seems to seek the top of the page at the end of a line. Very slight at the top of the page but more pronounced at the bottom of the page,
My morning coffee rumbles through my alimentary tract and although mis-spelled is an audible fact.
The slant is about ¼ of an inch and irritates my order seeking left side while my right side says in New York Mafioso style, “Forget about it.”
BRICK EM DANO
taking the A train
but only in my brain
with all those dead men playing
that scintillating piano
and I’ve found a word
that rhymes with guano
as Johnny Hodges flies
cause the music never dies
breakfast with good friends
laughter all around
and a friend says he likes
the way I look
something I’ll have to put in my book
and that lonely guitar riff
flexible tuneful and never stiff
sly photos of a person sleeping on the street
rolling stones singing
someone to love
and the tune gets to my feet
and takes up the beat
in the crowds roar
there is a greedy greedy greedy
for more more more
so all gather around the piano
and don’t step in the guano
or I’ll yell
before their heads are out of the trough
brick em dano
Interesting month end;
Have most of my tasks completed, visited with ROB “C” in North Vancouver yesterday and saw his opulent suite just at the edge of the North Van Seabus station and handy to all the amenities of the Quay with a beautiful view of Vancouver.
We had an espresso and then went out his front door to the Caribbean festival which was playing this weekend with rides for the kids and stage shows for the adults. Unfortunately the sun was too much for this old soldier so when I lost Rob in the crowd and couldn’t find him I caught the ferry back to Vancouver.
My problems with Shaw webmail continue my visit to their service center solved nothing I still can’t access my in box. This all happened when Firefox updated their app although the same problem exists on Safari. I have three operating OS, Tiger, Snow Leopard, and Windows seven and the same problem exists on all the browsers. My main man Mark at LD says in that case the problem is an ISP glitch that Shaw hasn’t bothered to attend to.
My Monday is chock a block with the GCS brekkie and lunch with Ron “H” so won’t be able to get to Shaw until the afternoon, I’ll take my laptop with me and this time make sure the problem is corrected.
My sleep patterns are still up and down, yesterday I was pretty bagged and put my head down and had one of those never quite asleep nights and then got up at 01:00 hrs and 4sd, and loaded the printer program onto my new laptop and started to load what I thought was Microsoft Office 2010 only to discover that it was an app that explained and gave tutorials for the app. the packaging was very misleading I’ll put up a jpg and see what you all think.
sitting here feeling like a fool
losing the words
after an inspired title
in the afternoon cool
trying not to spill my iced coffee
in the cacophony of earphones
white noise conversations
and the street
Midweek and nothing is happening everything on hold until the Eagle shits. The pantry is almost bare and the buck twenty five in my pocket ain’t gonna take you anywhere.
Sitting in my gaunch awaiting the good luck predicted by the “stars” with my phone charged up and my lap top the same, cameras in the bag and the clouds hiding the predicted sun, having finished a microwaved coffee without any cream the sharp taste balanced by Glen Gould playing The Goldberg variations, soothing music from the grave
Time to put on my trousers to take the chill blowing up my kilt off my goose bumped thighs, also an antacid to quell the heartburn from the coffee. There that’s better, and with a favored maroon zippered long sleeved to take the chill off my shoulders.
Haven’t heard from son Ian for two months but am not going to be the first to break the ice, he must have better things to do than keep up with a two way conversation with his old Dad. He gets my blog updates so he should know what I’m up to.
My unshaven face itches and my back need a good scratch with my shower brush and my stomach is rumbling like there will soon be action on the thunder bowl. I know. too much information, that’s one of the downsides of getting old is the amount of attention basic bodily functions take in your day and like a three year old, you are proud of a day when you remember where you live and haven’t pissed your pants
OTHER POETS LINES
Leonard on the sound track
Joanie in the parking lot
Irving dead and gone
trashed by his kids
Paul in the bubble and going to Graceland
some are taking Berlin
some are living in the canyon
listening for Billy’s marching feet
all echoing in memory
with songs that tug at the heart strings
while my own is out there
without comment or applause
and like my pictures of old blues guys
and through a Tuesday of anticipation
waiting for a distant Friday
while this blank white page teases me
for more easily forgotten words
fresh from an overnight bed
glad my eyes opened
and found an empty page
and a pen
so at least running ahead of my history
I can start again
and work with magic of the times
reading, listening, remembering
knocking on heavens door
other poets lines
WORDS ARE LOST
lost in a kaleidoscope of colour
flashing like crystals in the light
twisting in a hurricane of thought
some sticking but most not
head for the cellar
said the weather fella
its going to hail its going to rain
and your house blow away and not come back again
the words fluttering like leaves
in an fall wind
sometimes on the tongue
but gone before said or tasted
somewhere in the clutter of memory
only to come to mind
in the midst of another chatter
when it really doesn’t matter
lines that only come to mind
when pen and paper are not at hand
and in the storm turned and tossed
the words are lost