Hey Marxy Boy

"Hey Marxy boy, come on back!"
The movement aint movin' fast enough.
"We have quiet riots and tired whiners and silly little children talkin' big talk"
Dancing propaganda mannequins prancing
'round the campfire dissing daddy warbucks
"Come on back, paper writer and big man fighters"
Small shops on the chopping block so chop the wires
Get the fire growing in their bellies
past their monuments and governments
and industry of agony
Get news higher, right on past the town crier
who died on a bench from the cold just waiting for an opportunity to arise
So let's grab our Trumps and burn 'em
on the stake while we replay all the mistakes that they made
"You know the change is beggin for speakers, for provers"
No weak hearts
Come criticize all our damn owners, own them up
Stock holders with bulging wallets should grow up
Ecstasy of the rich life is treating them well
The high life of the American dream makes them
piss and puke on the street
from their thousand dollar red wine
Well before you tell the hooker, "get a job you filthy slob"
remember doors don't open so easily on the other side
A sidewalk high may be all that she can be
No place past her cheap motels
and just a dollar means something to a broken dreamer with a dream

The Fire

When mommy was pregnant

our building caught fire

choking her up on the 16^th floor

Daddy wasn’t home

I was just a fetus

Safe and sound in her round belly

but I’m sure the stairs jiggled me

An out of service elevator

Sissy was not yet two,

a slow walker,

so mother used her hip

A wobbling, heavy, tumbler

One hand holding the fish bowl

the other my sister,

the rabbit hopping slowly behind

Sissy crying, her perspiring

Sixteen floors later

safe and sound on the outside

comes comfort at the bottom

We lost the rabbit

winter

They prospered

I took a train to the place

where I sinned my worst sins.

Back when God climbed in my belly

and made me sick with guilt

and mommy and daddy

screamed the bible in our ears

then spanked away our spirits.

Still, the old house stands

among the others quietly.

The shed still stacked with firewood

and the grass grey and wispy.

Mommy and daddy prospered,

moved on to bigger houses

and far off cruises.

Left me with the sins I told them

in a fit of illness one evening.

Eight years old,

shuddering with tears,

unaware that young girls

often falter on the path to womanhood.

Sex is not what I once thought it was.

To her maker

You have bleached her skin,

rose her from the dead,

peeled away her decay

with your two hands.

You grated away all her cracks and lumps

then polished her to a shadow.

A new shape,

a rubbery clean slab of a thing.

Flawlessly renewed to young

the winter coloured fake.

To touch her is to touch a doll,

a cool stone mantle.

Too new a thing.

Too bright to stay near.

A taut stretched disguise,

each cheek a smooth white egg

and not a hint of blood underneath.

That dug up, stone of a woman

so far from fragile, a maze of fingertips,

all solid throughout.

Truro, Nova Scotia

On the white porch of our old home

in this sad small town

left disastrous by hurricane

I sit on the rocking chair

we inherited from grandma

and suck on my wooden reed

My hands swiftly create

my music machine

Tears rolling down my

chubby child cheeks

because daddy hit me

and music is dramatic

and I know mommy is

plotting her escape out the window

But her pregnant belly imprisons her

and my music makes her sadder

I want mommy to feel it,

how my cheek stings,

and to see the way music proves me

and how the old porch

creaks underneath

while daddy rests solemnly in her lap

Young brother masturbates

When brother first found himself
a tug, a short nub of flesh
at once noticed

The skin a wrinkled pink tail
his chest still a bare board
a pin south his tummy

In his bed, hiding on his side
all under the covers,
his pants in a bundle
at the bottom of the mattress

With his prayer hands
rubbing and pulling
the anxious creature

He, who's hands flop to his sides
at any night sounds

His head hung guiltily
as mother washes him

A small rise

New found pleasures
too hard to understand
yet thoroughly they shame him

Raspberries

It’s rowed, aisled

in most places clean cut

we pick in the wild

raspberries grown freely

covered in frosted-over dew

They bleed all over our hands as they melt

and smell sweeter than ripe melon

We make baskets of our shirts

young and flat-chested,

nearly boys

our knees bruised and scabby

our hair a flop on top

Sister runs to the cliff

a flash of yellow hair and sunburnt cheeks

Waves bash angrily

wetting our bare chests

we stuff our mouths

full of berries

and jump

Thank you

Thank you for anti depressants
Thank you for Anne Sexton, Ted Hughes, and Sylvia Plath
Thank you for red wine
Thank you for Indian food and Pad Thai
Thank you for making love, and kissing my spine
Thank you for the times when mommy and daddy are so kind
Thank you for Buddhism, and Christianity
Thank you for Socrates and his witty dialogues
Thank you for cigarettes when I'm happy, sad, lonely, angry, and bored
Thank you for showing me the importance of a dollar
Thank you for the Occupy movement
Thank you for the Montreal Canadiens. Even though they keep getting too many men penalties, and not trying
Thank you for Leonard Cohen and Closing Time
Thank you for my ex boyfriend Sean Flanagan who taught me a lot about film
Thank you for Bill MacGillivray and his talent for teaching the most important lessons
Thank you for stained glass windows
Thank you for Orange juice
Thank you for sapphires and the word 'organic'
Thank you for helping me understand aesthetics
Thank you for my body
Thank you for all my injuries and scars
Thank you for my pain tolerance
Thank you for my sisters who are some of the greatest girls/women in the entire world
Thank you for letting me have hundreds of friends and not a friend in the world
Thank you for the people who harassed me, threatened me, and hurt me
Thank you for fire and the way it soothes me
Thank you for hot showers and for cold showers
Thank you for Doctor Littlejohn and his brilliant methods
Thank you for letting me have this experience
Thank you for dressing how I want and not caring
Thank you for Europe and the chance of going someday
Thank you for the economic crisis
Thank you for all my regrets and the guilt they caused me
Thank you for letting me lose my friends and learn to move on
Thank you for sweaters, boots, peeing, and heartbreak
Thank you for all the horrible people in the world for having so much character
Thank you for vision and for blindness
Thank you for blood, jumping, trains, and the river in front of my house
Thank you for God and how I fear him
Thank you.

I stole their rocket

I went and stole their rocket

I went up past the high gold Buddhist temples

Past the pressed metal factories

Over the gunshot brotherhood

And even beyond Mr. Moon

Just sweeping off his edges,

Peeking down his holes and cracks

And it’s so cold up there

In their thin space lantern

Fragile as an empty shell

But I left all the little ones behind

To keep on, on their own

I left them dangling on the cliffs

And all the worlds behind me

Were tight clenched fists

See, each planet I passed was tinier than tiny

Smaller than you thought they could be

Just hand held little gumballs

Some spinning, others still

Though they all seemed to ignore me

Things up there are pure and silent

No mommies yelling or babies crying

And all the catholic priests end up there

They just float by,

Waving their frail old man fists crossly

I despaired at the thought of the cliff hangers

And doctors and dancers

I left behind on my itty bitty homeland

Just dangling, waiting for answers

And incapable of receiving them

For they would never see the sea of space,

The liquid blackness that swallows anger and sadness

And the emptiness, the pointlessness of routine and religion

Which shows itself clearly up there

All truths as plain as the stars 

The Manic Dancer

A burst of static-down to the neon basement

A manic dancer-cancer pandemic

All set in panic- and twirling on the table tops

Whiskey on the rocks; I’ll do the talking Doc

The dancer’s can’t dance ‘cause I’m full of answers

And the waters not wet and the wet isn’t water

She’s blue eyed and bald, a skinny armed smoker

30 for lapping and 50 for whoring

Well the dancers have cancers and the flappers turned lappers

Just dance on your hard-ons and work through the night

Through the night, and the chemo, the fight and the static

The blue lights and panic, the turpentine bowl

The cherry topped crop top, the 90 pound morsel,

 The half lash black eyelash, the swollen blue eyeball

She’s half full of sex drive, the other half poison

She can’t feel the scalpel ‘cause her skin is frozen

The money don’t add up, the cash drop dropped her off

She’s dying for freedom from cum on the walls

Well cancer cost money and honey you got none

So unscrew the corkscrew and lay down and laugh

Ten bucks in your panties won’t buy you an eight ball

So you have no prospect of life past this drywall

and scream

How sweet it is to make love and scream

In your arms I am a restless wave

A throbbing shudder

A dancing siren wavering on a rooftop

Grasping eternity through you

Buddhism

Buddha I want to achieve you
Stretched out on the hard wood floor
Ears full of ambiance
Utter peace and calmness
The breeze blowing past my neck through the window
I feel your love for all things

I am ready to let go. I am fine.
Love is what I seek. Love and happiness and that will come with acceptance. All things are in a constant state of flux. The change is relaxing and constant. We all wither but in time truth will come. Breath.

Buddha I will achieve the peace
I will seek truth and knowledge and happiness
I will suffer and move on
The dark wraps me in warmth
I feel love for all things

Our Rebellious Man-made Wasteland

We are hiding away in the walk in closet

Taking turns watching the door knob

In our hundred year old house

One lamp, not much else

And once the bulb is hot

We burn coloured plastic

Watching the bubbles of thick melting goo and

Smelling up the wood

Sometimes catching fire

And making crispy edged holes

In our rebellious man-made wasteland

We are careful to watch the knob

For any signs of turning

A trip to the psych ward

What's beyond the orange chair, beyond the glossy hall?

And is the shadow really there or purple on the wall?

Are the lined up all in line or are they all apart?

Is this a whistle in your chest or is it still a heart?

The sleeping girl in 55 has problems in her head

Are we the ones who are alive or are we all the dead?

Your painted pictures fill the walls an imprint of your soul

Is it true insanity or just loss of control?

With walls of blue, and floors of blue what color is this room?

Do you define it by the bed or handle of the broom?

Does one mistake make who you are, is it your only trait?

Is craziness our shining star? Was it by chance or fate?

And so we call the blind man blind, not spirited with glee

His downfall, his entirety is that he cannot see

So all of us are crazy men inside the crazy place

we aren't defined by talents, or by choices, or our faith

The blue man's blue, the dead man's dead, the sea is full of fish

And every whisper is the wind, and every dream a wish

And though my shadow on the wall seems purple and 2D

behind it is a crazy girl who seems a lot like me

The frail aren't strong, the old aren't young, the blind man cannot look

Do you read the inside or the cover of the book?

The new side of the coin

Deactivated my facebook and twitter. Gonna try to take a vow of silence and not speak to anyone just to test my spirituality. I think its something I have to prepare for though. Also I think I'll take out some books on Buddhism and quit smoking pot. I have sociology in an hour and I just really do not want to go at all but I sorta have to.

Constant afternoons

If I were bound to travel round the world

And follow forth the sun in perfect time

Would not I be in constant afternoons?

Would not I come to mountains bound to climb?

If sunset starts at sundown in the place

And wanderers doth follow close behind

Will sunset last eternally to them

Or will the night forever cross their mind?

Would sun stop be a golden happy heart?

Or would'st thou yearn for yellow burning noon?

And should a straggler dare to stop and wait

t'would overcome with terror at the moon