October 31, 2012

#1240 grey cup '12

i have two theories to share
one, that no few teens can make it through their teens without music
two, that the quality of the music they find (or that finds them) impacts the adults they become
for this reason i am dismayed at how hard genuine music is to find
at how pervasive the formulaic, manufactured, catchy music is
and how rare the real, genuine, imperfect music is
i hope justin's mother warns him to kiss heavy butt when he meets lightfoot

October 30, 2012

#1239 next stop

stop the world, i want to get off
the speed and spinning make me sick
to jump would be death
so just stop
just for a second
just enough time to hop off and breathe
to relax without the guilt of everything piling up into the clouds
just stop the world

October 29, 2012

#1238 on a dark november night...

i saw the hulking stray dog from a distance
i walked toward him to see if he had a collar
that's when i replied to a text i'd received earlier
i pressed send
i looked up
which thought my head held first?
that the dog was running at me
or that the dog wasn't a dog, but a bear

October 28, 2012

#1237 10

i am 10
my dad is my hero
i still see the majour leagues as a possibility
the liquor store still holds a sense of sanctity
i look up to my first male teacher
but my friends' opinions begin to matter more
my driver's license is a distant dream
like graduation and retirement
a day is still an event

October 27, 2012

#1237 trans-canada trance

the last ten miles disappeared
lost in a finger-snap mixture between awake and asleep
i press a button, sliding a window down
pulling in october night air
tonight the moon speaks to me
not a whisper, nor a shout
a plain voice two friends alone on a canadian highway
one sitting self-righteous in the sky
the other deciding whether he's driving away, or driving to
and whether one can happen without the other

October 26, 2012

#1236 one M&M a day

we who communicate with five different people in five ways at once
we who text and drive and chat and listen to music
we who clean and talk on the phone and watch tv
we
teach 5 year-olds to multi-task
we teach by example and by explicit instruction
and they love the busy-nessas much as we do
but when do we learn to uni-task
when to we teach how to sit and do nothing
and enjoy our one task
when do we teach to non-task
to sit and do nothing and enjoy the nothing

October 25, 2012

#1235 vivid and viable

teaching without learning is like talking without sound
without learning, there is no teaching
just lips flapping
if the outcomes on report cards confuse teachers
what purpose do they serve
aside from filling paper
and faking prestige

students learn from 9 until 3, monday to friday
we owe them meaningful material
purposeful projects
let us choose the essential
let us breathe life from our lips into that which we consider essential

let us teach


October 24, 2012

#1234 going gray

he dances alone with a bottle
in a widowed house in the evening light that slips between the blinds
smiling and crying are sisters
he won't finish the bottle
not even quarter
just likes the glass, the comfort, in his hand
stupor and sober are brothers
love and pain are an old married couple

October 22, 2012

#1233 tears of pain

preparing supper and tears pour down her face
she continues preparing, and the tears continue pouring
she says nothing just keeps crying
the steady thunk of her knife blade on the wooden cutting board
this happens every time
she chops onions

October 21, 2012

#1232 armageddon outside a chain store

a parking lot of panic surrounds a boy
humming a tune they all know
or knew, once
a parking lot of panic on a sunny day
filled with lightning
and cracks
the past and the present meet and they're off to visit the future
emories of lifting legs and giggling to escape the vacuum saves no one today

October 19, 2012

#1231 let me in...

don't take my beard
it distinguishes me from 90% of the population
without it, i'd look like a dog with fleas
don't take my beard
it provides a false sense of manhood on the days i need it
without it, i'd have to shave more often
don't take my beard
it's part of who i am
without it, my chin would feel cold


October 18, 2012

#1230 thoughts on bullying

a conference full of well-paid authorities
a symposium on bullying
they invent ideas that have all been invented before
watch videos that make them cry
experience a heart-twisting testimonial
but what if the cost of the day
was steered into healthy options requested by kids
lunch-time clubs
sports teams
breakfast clubs
rewarding volunteer coaches
putting time and money into the good
rather than how to bully the bullies out of bullying

October 17, 2012

#1229 bite your knuckles, son

when life is a jerk and jerks tears from wherever tears come from
when your favourite tv character gets cancer and the expensive music is designed to make you cry
when ones that matter to you need you to be the kitchen table that holds them together
bite your knuckles
bite your knuckles
cry later, or not at all
the knuckles will get marks
but what will the tears bring
are you ready for the alternative

October 15, 2012

#1228 Tips for poets: (or, a list of 24 excellent suggestions that are guaranteed to make your dream of becoming a poet, become a reality)


1 Commit. A poem a year. A poem a day. Commit to poetry. One good poem every two weeks, equals one book every two years.

2 Read. Read great stuff to get motivated or intimidated. Read awful stuff to get angry or inspired. Think you can do better...

3 Share. With friends, audiences, workshops, poets, publications.
Shove yourself against the elastic band rope that defines your comfort zone. The band will stretch.

4 Rewrite. What do lame poems and great poems have in common? Both can be improved.

5 Avoid clichés.
Avoid them, like the plague.

6 Play. Experiment. Not every poem will be your best poem. Embrace the achievement of creating crappy poems.

7 Always having a submission in the mail prevents rejection letters from meaning so much. Keeping one poem in the mail, means a potential "Yes" is always on the way.

8 Missed shots are to basketball players as rejection slips are to poets. If you’re not missing shots, you’re not shooting enough. A slump of missed shots beats a slump of no shots.

9 Beware procrastination. If you must succumb, trick procrastination into helping you. Procrastinate writing, by submitting; procrastinate submitting, by writing.

10 Physicality helps poetry. I don’t know why. Walking, juggling, stretching. See tip number nine, re: procrastination).

11 Find a critique group who is encouraging and honest. There will be times when you leave your group because you’re doing more meeting than writing. Stay in touch. These groups are hard to find.

12 Learn to critique others well. Critiquing others helps more than you'd guess.

13 Adverbs.
I don’t really like them. They are very avoidable.
I don't like them. They are avoidable.
Adverbs are red flags that read "Lack of Trust". Either you don’t trust your skill, or you don’t trust your reader’s intelligence. Your reader knows that when the main character skips, he/she skips happily. So skip "happily". Adjectives are sneaky little buggers too.

14 Writer’s block... Writer's block. Meals don’t get cooked by staring at the fridge. Bad poems are easier to start than great ones. Bad poems are easier to improve than non-existent ones. Start cooking.

15 Poetry comes from going outdoors, talking with friends, reading, and listening to music. But beware (again see tip number nine). If you’re asking yourself if something’s a procrastination trap, assume it is.

16 Babies learn to talk through imitating. Learning a language takes effort. Finding your voice, happens.
Imitate your favourite authors. Work hard. Finding your voice, happens.

17 You are a poet. Own it. Call yourself a poet. If you feel phony, say it more. If you can’t, then call yourself an aspiring poet. If you write poetry, you are a poet. Headlock your fear, and give it a noogie from me.

18 Write poems. Singers sing, painters paint, writers write. Poets write poems.

19 Tempted to go on the internet? Imagine how many poems you could write if you spent all your internet time, writing poetry. Picture your own shelf in the library, your own section in the bookstore. Internet off. Write on.

20 Share your poetry when you’re ready for someone to dislike it. Doesn’t mean they will, doesn't mean you want them to, doesn’t mean they won’t hurt you, just means you’re ready to share. Time always wins.

21 Keep a notebook (or whatever) by your bed. If you use it, bonus, a lot of earth-changingly wonderful ideas come just before sleep, and from dreams (a few are even usable the next morning).
If you don’t use the notebook, you still have one by your bed, and that makes calling yourself a poet, a wee bit easier.

22 If your title doesn’t have an item your reader can eat, smell, touch, hear, see, or feel, then your poem better be bubbling over with them. Cold french fries, fresh dogshit, broken wedding rings, rain bouncing off asphalt, sexy black dresses, wiggly leeches… these are the images which change your reader. Readers might “get” your poem, they might not. But if you make them experience these sensations, by the end of your poem, your reader will be changed.

23 Titles name your poem. Great titles improve and deepen your poem; they become an inseparable part of your poem.

24 Spelling and proofreading and penmanship and intelligence, do not a poet make. Sacrifice and effort and sharing and rewriting: that's the stuff of poets.



#1227 a lonely badge

the sheriff is a man who, every buddy know
the sheriff is a man who, never let it show
the sheriff is the willow trees, bendin goin with the breeze
the sheriff is a oak tree, standin tall as he can be
whatever it happens, always starts to rumour
whatever it fails, builds upon his tumor
a town fill with acquaintance
but he ain't got no real friends
the people are his children and the people are his wife
doin the right thing, that's his life
now gray is right and, so is every fight
left without permission, he'll get you with his right
the sheriff is a man who, every buddy know
the sheriff is a man who, never let it show
the sheriff is a man who, every buddy know
the sheriff is a man who, every buddy know

#1226 he changes his underwear

she has x-ray vision
seeing through his attempts to distract and evade
she loves him and he is in love with the superhero with the x-ray vision
but her superpower scares him
he knows
she can see the greatness buried beneath the bravado and self-mockery
somewhere in his soul, he knows the greatness is in him
but he can't see it as well
after all, he's not the one with superpowers
like most ordinary people
doubt visits him each day
sometimes overstaying, sometimes just saying Hi

October 14, 2012

#1225 why she called Gramma bitch

Grampa was the only thing right in her life
when Mum put her out on the winnipeg street one too many times
traded her to the curb for a warm man or a hit
sometimes both
Grampa mothered her
took her in
now Gloria's on the cusp of adulthood and still wishing for a mother to mother her
but she's seen enough of this planet now to know Mum is a fuck-up
one who'll never get things right
Dad left the room before Gloria left the womb
ran like ten track stars, leaving her to pack the scars
and the boys she met thought being a man was being the boss
so she took some hits herself
open-handed slaps, and words that hurt like bear traps
only two friends ever really "got" Gloria
Danny got tired of cutting his wrists and switched to swallow too many pills
Chelsea died too but not of choice, unless cancer has the freedom to choose

and Gramma
was almost 70
Gloria heard that the average person lives to 77
the word pulled tears from Gramma's eyes
but was a practice test for when Gramma dies




#1224 three hours west to heaven

i live in a valley
hidden by almighty mountains
who knew my home was alongside the running elk
home is the place you try things you think you might fail
i live in the womb between a castle and a ghostrider on a ghost horse
from a legend that is half told, long re-written on white paper
a miner's shack built in 1908... ish
after a fire that caused destruction that caused construction
give me wal-mart, but make me drive an hour
or three
give me real cheese, real chocolate, real honest bread
give me more coffee shops than fast food chains
because chains restrict and coffee spills
i'd rather spill my guts than restrict myself
rather drink with friends than chain myself
and when i need to go to the city
to see my brother, i leave here on friday
and i am a bull trout swimming the wrong direction
all the fish are coming down the 22 to the mountains
to where i live
if the wealthiest city in canda deserts on weekends to come here
what are they missing
they have everything
yet they escape to here
where we do not have everything
just everything we need
they escape to here
this valley
embraced by almighty mountains

#1223 1227 plays

you are my favourite song
stuck in my head long after you gone
your lyrics and beat meet
mix to perfect imperfection
i'm infected
i learn more about me each time i hear you
i listen on repeat and new something new each spin
like who i am is not a sin
like being white is alright
and doesn't mean i don't have my own fights
though i didn't need to fight for basic rights
you are my favourite song
so real, your lyrics feel like they grew out of me like skin
you are my favourite song
stuck in my head long after you gone

#1222 2:48am

sleep is my enemy
she kills me fresh each night
declaring my bed a war zone
armed only with imaginary sheep and real fears
i lose each battle
waking to fight again

#1221 on white paper

black ink
in a brown journal
thoughts and secrets and true lies
fill pages with scribbles
keeping sanity in mind as a goal
the ink like blood from wrists
spilling enough pain to meet another bedtime, another tomorrow
Loneliness is what she dresses in
Loneliness is what she eats
Loneliness is the only friend that really gets her
but part of her knows Loneliness is a dangerous choice for friendship

October 13, 2012

#1220 horizontal antecubital lines

everything about you is cliche but you
your dark baggy clothes and black make-up
your slumped shoulders and your slouched sitting
but something beyond the cliches
something that kicks the poets' asses from a century of slumber
your story is half-written
in these horizontal lines
foreshadowing a sad ending
we stick with you
hoping for a happy twist
cliche maybe
but happy

#1219 drying dishes

i hate drying dishes
but i savour the loneliness
i always washed, and she dried
but now i do both
and think of her
think of the suppers and the laughs and the desserts
my memories, like these dishes
never end
only give temporary reprieve

October 11, 2012

#1218 simmer

the best pots take time to boil
but hold heat for longer
don't believe me, try cast iron
even the name connotes a sense of lasting
but be warned
their handles hold heat too
but they're willing to give it away
to human skin

October 10, 2012

#1217 landlord say your rent is late...

i could not see the stars last night
we were covered in indistinguishable cloud
i assumed the lights were out, or gone, or dead
the stars, the moon, the sun
i sighed and stressed into bed
afraid of falling asleep and waking up to the dark morning
i watched the glow of the bedside clock
i pictured the worst tomorrow's possible

i woke up tired to a happy sun
and wished i could wish away my fretting
then i wished for a couple ore hours of darkness
in which to make up my lost time of rest to prepare for today

October 9, 2012

#1216 ...how old are you now?

today i turned 16 again
i did it once before
16 years ago
this time,
i watched the younger 16 year old me
and felt for him
he was a separate being
but i felt attached
he was like a sibling
so many things i wanted to tell him
but i know him well enough to know
he wouldn't have heard any of it

October 8, 2012

#1215 and puppy dog tails

interrupting feline yawns with fingers
and turning everyday items into weapons
sport-stat memorization
finding the accepted weak among them
arm-wrestling and pushing
jumping in all forms
as long as its higher than the other
and spending most of recess arguing over the nuances of the rules
instead of playing the game

October 7, 2012

#1214 feeling whole

i live in the middle of the mountains
if mountains were a donut i'd be the hole
but the mountains don't make me hole
they make me whole
there is no flat direction to look
mountains mountains mountains
yes i miss the ocean
and i love the mountains that block my view

October 6, 2012

#1213 no tag-backs

the sun and moon still play tag
yesterday's calendar quote still gets thrown into the recycle bin
new songs are written
new stories typed
and you're still dead
the sun and moon and calendar and singers and writers should stop
you're dead
somehow my head has adjusted to the fact i used to deny
maybe you didn't change the sun
or the moon
or the calendar
or the singers or the writers
and maybe i don't think of your smile every time i see or hear them
but you changed the way i experience them
you changed me


October 5, 2012

#1212 after

you made our bed and you lied in it
your body and hers weaving your web
your sweat evaporated and salt was all that remained
by the time i learned of your physical fib
a lie is an intention to deceive
and i knew we were bad
but you deceived me into thinking we weren't this bad
do i try to re-write this fairy tale with a spot for me
or do i lie alone
simplify by labeling you and laying the blame on your new label

October 4, 2012

#1211 it'll be real

they lied
the adults, they lied
they said i was the fastest
the strongest
the smartest...
the best.
and i was
i always won
always beat them
and loved winning
even though i won all the time
i loved winning all the time
i lost everything today
but if i win something tomorrow
i know

October 3, 2012

#1210 miss michaels' piece of wood

the pencil in my hands holds the tension that is my sanity
my neck muscles are tight and no part of me recognizes this truth
is it still exhaustion when it's everyday?
my belief that i'll fulfill my intentions goes down
as my piles of to-do lists go up

October 2, 2012

#1209 creation

the brush carries the artist
resulting in whiplash
in the end, the artist collapses, panting
and the brush is just is just a brush
the painting is good
but the ride, the ride

October 1, 2012

#1208 son rising

i remember thinking my dad's friends were gods
one put a sticker on my trike
and i polished that sticker for years
i remember watching dad work
being better than tv
and i'd wait for him to ask me to help
i remember trips to town alone together
like winning a lottery
sharing silence, just the two of us
i remember
and i hope to be as man as him