Mainland Poetry and Spoken Word

The Boneyard

2012-03-15T22:56:00.001-07:00

Welcome to the Boneyard. Burial of nearly established yearnings and righteous demands.

Where change never progresses beyond the spreading awareness stage - and this awareness is so often constructed on a foundation of half-truths and poorly researched information. We live in a shopping mall of false revolution - clad in our Che Guevara t-shirts, playing My Little Kony down by the Guantanamo Bay, hoping we don't drop the SOPA and feeling a level of self-satisfaction that would suggest our Facebook Status actually fixes a fucking thing. All we do is find new ways to Occupy our time.

While the Vatican CEO stands in a Jesus Christ Pose holding Mother Earth bent over an oil barrel. Tell me that we're on the right track. When we strip our ideas of their armour and shackle them to a table, running water over their bodies and up their nostrils, hearing them choke and spit, damaged enough to lose their effectiveness, but alive enough that we can parade their condition around for all to see, to solidify our positions as free thinkers and world shakers, and ensure the world we're not just looking for a cure to our waterboredom.

Welcome to the Boneyard. Built over negative energy yearly, and rapidly deteriorating.

Living in search of elusive lucidity, creative clarity, and metaphors mixed with cannibal seasonings - Where family money allows full use of cheap scotch and cherry-flavoured Rohypnol with not a whisper uttered - and yet a man forced into the streets for over a decade is arrested for masturbating in the privacy of his own home. Where the roads are repaired before they're finished. Where children hold signs reading "God hates Fags" before they're old enough to truly understand the ideas behind any of those 3 words.

Where we shake hands and pat backs, showing gratitude for platitudes, growing gardens of funeral flowers to convince ourselves we're not just waiting to die. Where each tick of the clock burrows beneath our existent shell as we cry cyst and pay to have the time removed. Where doubt gestates at twice the rate of a new idea, and we still find time to gloat about that project we're considering.

Welcome to the Boneyard. Betrayal or neglect. Elsewise, you're a rare dish.

Bargaining over nothing except yachts and renewable dictators.

Binging on narcissistic empathy, animal rationality, death.

Building our numbers each year among ransomed destitution.

Welcome to the Boneyard.

Welcome Home.

Love Letter

2012-02-01T02:17:00.000-08:00

This is a love letter
To a beauty so deep it makes the ocean look amateur
To a pair of eyes so indescribable in colour I have named them Aurora and Borealis

I would liken you to a rainbow, but that underestimates the contrast between you and the world surrounding so, if you must be called a rainbow, then you are the rainbow that appears in the face of an oil spill.

You are the feeling of night-flying a kite, and when I can't see you, I know your presence by the gentle tugs you provide on my strings

This is a love letter
To every bruise earned by running too fast to answer a ringing phone.
To every tie that's just a bit crooked, every flower that's just a bit wilted, and every guitar that's just a bit out of tune.
To a mind so brilliant and a voice so enchanting that when you gifted me a decision over the behaviours of your tongue, all I could ask of you was to keep talking.

Were I to compare you to a summer's day - it would be the day we declared meteorology impossible; a day where the sun shone brightly on a blanket of snow-covered flowers beneath a canopy of red and yellow leaves being softly struck by a timid rainfall - the best parts of all seasons and still a day unapproachable in its individuality.

I stand clueless as to how you've so completely entranced me; and asking you would be like asking a magician to reveal their tricks only to find out that their magic is real. And if you ask me why I hesitate to see you remove your clothing, it's just because every colour is so much more vibrant when you wear it.

I can't say that you've numbed any of my pain, or that you stand as a beacon in a darkened existence. I can't say that you're what's right in a world gone wrong, and I can't say that you've healed a single wound of mine because you have taken over the part of my brain that can see those things, and with you, as far as I know, they don't exist anymore.

It feels like I stumbled backwards through a karmic baptism while the judge was asleep at the wheel, because I sure as hell haven't earned this privilege, and what man could?

Still.
This is a love letter
To ink and paper declarations with little literate alliterations
To the tiny imperfections that appear when you smile that way
To you, for smiling that way because you want to show them off
I love you

And I wish I could capture you accurately - have a reservoir of language so guided and precise to present a linguistic watercolour in the air before me, forever shifting and changing because still life is your own antithesis.

I want to tell you that you are the double-speed recital of unmitigated embellishment from an egotistically wordy cerebellum bridled simply by a vocabulary incapable of achieving description tantamount to what you mean to me.

That I am forever in automation, scribbling madly each inspiration you pass my way, and always speaking more profoundly with the specific smiles only you can coerce from my lips.

That we are the very image of what happens when a dreamer meets a dream.

And that this..

Well...this is a love letter.

Hearts & Crafts

2012-01-22T23:34:00.000-08:00

I want to tell Carly that this poem is for her. Hey Carly! This poem's for you! Thank you for the craft supplies!

I want to wear a suit of bubble wrap, so if I get hit by a car, I'll still be badly hurt, but I'll have something to do while I wait for the ambulance.

I want to smear my chest in glitter, so I can run out of the woods, flailing and shrieking that I was shit on by a unicorn.

I want me and my art to be stuck together like two bits of wood acting as the bread of a PVA sandwich. I want to treat my art like a lover. Play back and forth, always offering, never asking, knowing when to fuck and when to make love.

I want my poetry to read like footsteps on a path of drying cement, so everybody can know where I've been, and where I am, and when they reach me, I can tell them where I'm going.

I want to shut my brain down for 24 hours, so that just for one day, I can craft with my heart, and heart alone. So that just for one day, I can appreciate that everything I create; every poem, song, and painting is a love letter to art itself; so that just for one day, I can live without the critical eye that looks at my own creations and says "Well that's no fucking good."

I want to know what the poets know. I want to get closer to Ginsberg, Kerouac, and Burroughs. So I think I'll treat myself to a naked lunch on the road and howl when they come to take me away, ha ha.

I want to spend a year in a strait jacket, so I can learn to write with my feet and say "Yeah, that's right world. 4 pens at once. Try to stop me now, motherfucker."

I want to think up some brilliant new expression; something to lift the chins of folks who are having a hard time with life at any given moment. Something like "If you don't trudge through the sewers, how else are you going to meet the Ninja Turtles?"

I want to treat each step like it's helping the world rotate. I want to snap so loud that I can't type when I get home. I want to care less about money and treat each purchase like it's only ten dollars (Only TEN dollars?!). I want to laugh so hard that I ejaculate confetti.

I want to deliver quiet lines during big laughs, so the audience has to buy a book to know what I said.

I want to quote The Simpsons like it's still 1998 and relevant. I want to live, Marge! Won't you let me live!

I want to get five zeroes at a slam, because it seems more difficult to achieve than five tens.

I want a world where the righteous aren't so damn righteous about it. I want a world where everything goes up to eleven. I want a world where you get strange looks for NOT singing alone in public. I want a world where I can say Snooki, and everybody else will say "who?" I want a world where everything's coming up Milhouse. I want a world where everybody has a sex tape so we can all calm the fuck down about it.

I want to leave an audience in constant suspense. I want my audience to always be unsure of what I'll say next.

I want to...

Damage

2012-01-10T20:57:00.000-08:00

We're all a little damaged.

Everyone in front of me has some kind of baggage, some kind of damage, some old scratches covered up in fresh paint. Some of you have written poems about it. Some have shared it with a close friend, and some have never let it out. Some have forgotten it entirely.

But it's there.

We all know it so constantly that we fail to notice its effects on each other, like we're painted black and blue but we're only seeing skin tones.

The time was right, I thought, to talk about mine a bit.

Diagnosis: 9 years old - Everything is making this kid cry. A fetal ball was my fighting stance. Seemed like my only goal was making my weight match my IQ. Of course, these days, that'd be a good thing.

Diagnosis: 9 years old

Diagnosis: Can't stop crying

Diagnosis: Highly intelligent

Diagnosis: Can't identify with other students

Diagnosis: Major Depressive Disorder

Lucked out being the smart one - most kids couldn't spell the name of the pills I started taking.

I couldn't tell you how long I was in therapy. I can tell you that it happened Tuesday afternoon. Every Tuesday afternoon. And I can tell you that it was getting tense, trying to convince the more skeptical of my classmates that I was at a "doctor's appointment".

These days I laugh in the face of anyone who asks me if I wish I was a child again.

We're all a little damaged.

And some of us try to wear it like cosmetics - to show the world the empty glow of our hollow-eye-shadow.

I have a simple message to deliver - to anybody who will hear it.

Stop trying to diagnose yourself to be different. Being Bi-polar is not a fashion statement. Depression is not a buzz word that means "attend to me, peers" - It's sitting awake at a computer screen at 3am holding a fucking knife to your throat, eyes burning red, shirt collar soaked in tears cried out because you force yourself to keep going. You just can't bear to give anybody another reason to be disappointed in you.

You're accessorizing yourself in the choice methods of the suicidal - and while you wail for attention to your glittering malaise - another father has hanged himself with your necklace. Another mother has cut her wrists with your cufflinks. Another scared teenager has used your shoes to step out into traffic. Another human being has swallowed 30 doses of what you're selling and has died in foaming convulsion while all eyes rest on you.

We're all a little damaged.

We've been there. We've done it. We got the t-shirt.

But none of us actually want to wear it.

Meridian

2011-10-22T17:52:00.001-07:00

I'm standing, trembling on a meridian line
gauging either hemisphere for its value unto me.
I've followed it as far along its longitude as I dare, revealing naught but further questions.
And I know that matched emerald sheen of grass equally green in all directions will be split upon my first step.
So which is it? Left or right?
Two options clear as day from night, but who could choose between any of these?
It's a sick joke my psyche plays in its ploys to convey me to a conclusion but have me feeling regret long before I choose.
Left or right?
I stiffen in terror at every swift breeze, every loose leaf - the thought that the choice could be made for me by chance motion, by the shifting of the earth - it threatens to strip away the last vestige of my humanity; all of the me that's left in this body.
The light in my eyes has long since gone dim, intelligent thought the furthest thing from my mind, staring blankly at this meridian line and realizing that it's been etched straight into my brain, a long crease straight down the middle - The left saying right, the right saying left - my best laid plans split between east and west.

I've crossed so many lines in my time that I don't even know what side I'm on anymore, or if there were sides to begin with.
I scan my memory banks and filter through what few grains my synaptic shores haven't had washed away.
The left I took at 13 when I said "I think I'm gonna live with Dad."
The right I took at 17 when I thought "Put down the knife...it's going to get better."
The left I took at 20 when I said "University isn't helping me...I need to find my own path"
The right I took at 24 when I saw a single poem on youtube and said "I need to do this...now."

I sit down in the dust of indecision and exhale slowly.
I can do this.
I've seen these lines before.
They always look the same.
I rise to my feet with a deliberate balance and wipe the dirt from my legs.
Always the same left or right...
The sun and moon forever rise on this exact meridian line
A decision unreached is a life stopped from living.
deep breath in
deep breath out
I try to inspect the hemispheres, try to get some idea of
NO
A decision unreached is a life stopped from living.
I steady my nerves, shut my eyes
I cringe at the wind and think to hesitate
NO
A decision unreached is a life stopped from living.
Stop thinking, stop worrying, just move. In these moments, all we can do is act, and act now.
I steady my nerves, shut my eyes, pick a direction and prepare to jump
in 3
2
1...

The Poetry of the Moment

2011-10-18T00:48:00.000-07:00

There is a stillness and silence to the world - the calm before the storm. Fire-coloured eyes lock and advocate a mutual understanding that we would polarize our lips and have them become magnets. Fingers initiate pilgrimage, a cartographic obsession driving nothing short of complete exploration. Layers of wrappings shift to reveal further ground to cover and, with the delicate care of a librarian handling a first edition, are removed entirely.

Goosebumps are a poor description - our skin blisters without pain, hair stands electric, screaming for freedom and escape from the flesh.

Sparse clouds in the night sky serve as a wordless marquee for a VIP performance intended only for the crickets, and the moon lay static - illuminated glass on deepest black satin waiting to be cracked. Ice begging to be broken so as to include all creation in our discourse.

Such is the music of synapse - that the occupation of one mouth can trigger the other to create a lone harmony with the power of both voices.

Such is the music of synapse - to be deafened by the crush of twitching thighs, to accept in the moment that hearing will never be as important as this - and to invite a further pressure.

Such is the poetry of the moment - to have lost all definition of "I" and "You" and to accept eternal that "we" "this" "us" is all that has ever existed.

It is in these moments that we are all artists - fingernails become paintbrushes on sweat-soaked canvas - voices sing freeform to a steadily intensifying rythm and percussion - and yes, we are acting - but we are acting like ourselves at last.

In song, we meet in reverent harmonies; our voices flow and crash, intertwining and growing in tandem like accelerated vines springing forth from our very throats with a power and pace that would convince us we had altered the axis of the planet.

The world is lost to consequence - the salt sting of sweat in our eyes as distant as the voice of a sparrow calling to God through a hurricane. The burn in our muscles a cool comfort compared to the inferno we encompass as one.

Such is the music of synapse - that one face buried in the crook where neck meets shoulder is, despite the tumult and torrent of urgent motion, somehow able to make eye contact.

Such is the music of synapse - to rise and build in a simultaneous vocal performance and deliver a sudden crescendo strong enough to drown out the entirety of the world's symphonies.

Such is the poetry of the moment - To succumb to the finality of exhaustion and collapse, breathless, synchronized, depleted - and to accept the whisper of the wind as nature's applause.

Re-Think

2011-10-08T20:56:00.000-07:00

I don't come from the net.
I haven't traveled through systems, peoples, and cities.
I live in this place.
Mainframe. My home.
My format? Binome.
The overlooked backbone, little 1s and 0s.

I know you're all out there.
Out past the system, out past the user, past the net, past the web...outside somewhere completely different, and you're watching our town.

I know the cameras would have you believe the hyper-sensation that is life on Baudway.
And yeah...it's pretty nice. The circuits are clean, and the people friendly. Great place to live. Must be nice for the sprites who can afford it.

But take a trip down through the stacks of the city. Each one a level of life, and each declining in quality. The best keeps to the top so as not to ruin Phong's view from the Principal Office. But scurry down the steps and you'll find me, in my null's nest apartment just a hop, skip, and a jump drive away from Al's slow food.

Funny to think this place has only two restaurants...one at the top, one at the bottom. The closer you live to one or the other determines the likelihood that it's "more in your price range."

So yeah...it's not exactly heaven down here. We live in a constant state of fear, with viral armies going most unchallenged in my neighbourhood. So we scurry, left and right, and just try to keep away from Megabyte. But then...most of us end up working for him.

And then come the games, and I know what you see. You see Bob, big time hero, tear-fixin' virus fightin' Bob. And you see him kicking user ass again and again. He saves the day again and again. But the binomes who die? You think they're just fine? Sorry friend, but their asses get straight nullified. I hear that hellish warning come day after day - The incessant buzzing of "Incoming Game" And all I can think is "I wonder which neighbour I'm going to lose?" I can barely muster the will to reboot.

What I have to say is simple. What I have to say is "What you are experiencing is a temporary distortion of reality." Mike the TV isn't cute, alright? There's only so many times a binome can hear "ninety nine ninety nine ninety nine" Before he wanders out to Lost Angles and throws himself into the fucking sea.

Wouldn't be so entertaining, would it? To focus on the daily struggle of low-level binomes, hiding from virals, and waiting entire SECONDS for their meals.

Hell, when that web creature attacked? Why do you think it hit level 31 first? Because nobody ever bothered to LOOK down here.

One last thing...and I don't want you to pretend like this hasn't bothered you. If you've seen our lives, you've wondered if other versions of us live in other systems. You've realized that you, too, are called "the user". And you imagine that the enemies in your beloved games are your heroes; Bob, Dot, Enzo, AndrAIa. Don't worry, they're not. It's just the binomes. Those big time sprites are saved for endgame, and you never really manage to win, do you? Guardians are great at these games, but what am I supposed to do? I'm just a fucking spelling checker! Death comes only to low-level, wide-eyed, trembling little 1s and 0s.

So just remember, next time you play on your pc? The next bad guy you kill, well it just might be me.

To Begin

2011-06-07T19:18:00.001-07:00

I'm a stranger in a strange land
of dangers and stage hands
mystics and madmen
and I'm dancing among them

Replete in semantics
of shallow pedantics
who pose as romantics
in wallet-fold leather
their shoelaces tethering
both feet together.
And next to them, brilliance
IQs in the millions
kings of the hill, hence
comes my frustration
a core fractured nation
delaying my patience
delaying my patience
delaying my patience until
snap

I feel like opportunity's passing me by
I feel like opportunity's passing me by
And if I'd just take a moment to look at the world I'm standing it, I'd see
The opportunity's there. Just open your eyes.

Too often do we look at ourselves and see verdant cravens of
carven viridian,
envious of craftsmen,
craving affection like
vermin in crow's feed.
Vitriol spit in tremble and facade, and all directed inwards.
We feel like failures, but we haven't taken the steps to succeed.
They say art is found in an artist's blood, but that art's gonna die if you're too afraid to bleed.
So take a step back, and realize that we're all born diseased.
Life is gonna kill you, whether you advance or retreat,
and I'll be damned if I go out lying face down in the street,
so neat and tidy, afraid to die, we
exercise our right to remain silent.
But there's too much violence in our silence.
We watch it grow from a lack of "no"
to a flat out "go ahead".
"Take my life away, today if possible,
because I don't want to argue."
I'll mutter misery, utter mute vexations
to bobble-headed peers, whose fears mirror
mine. Spineless yes-men, all of us
comparing sizes in cynicism, but all of us too afraid to say "no".
Too afraid to say anything, outside the huddle.
It's a small world, after all
and someone might overhear if you decide to disagree.

Performance of "To Begin" at CFSW 2011

My Name is Music

2011-04-13T21:06:00.000-07:00

My name is music, and I'm a universal language.
I'm a bandage for wounds made of soothesounds commanded
and handed quite candidly out by romantics
and realists alike, as if both took a stand
to say "this is the one thing we share on this planet".

The places I'll take us in less than no paces
are spaces immersed in emotional phases
from craze and amazement to cracks in the pavement
your faces lack ways to display this arrangement
of raw, pure emotion, the tool of my tradesmen.

I'm a breaker of boundary, surrounded by sounds
to impound your hounding instincts
to impede a foundation, a real common ground
to step round all the sounds that you make with your mouths
in one language "gefunden", in another, just "found".

My name is music, and these are my wonders
and yet you debase them with thunderous bluster
of genre conundrum, the blunder of functionless
styles to list under. With ponderous pomp,
you shred the whole purpose of my voice asunder.

Carry the arrogance off in a barrow,
a carriage if need be, but end the foul marriage
you've made with disparaging comments
at cherished opinions of positive credit.
"That band sucks" is a point of no merit,

There are treasures unmeasured and yet-unknown pleasures
for unfettered minds unafraid to sprout feathers
and fly beyond genre and matters of whether
or not music X is the best music ever.

My name is music, and I am remarkable, if you really think about it.
So please, sit down, relax, and just enjoy me for what I am.
Not what you think I should be.

Lost in Words

2011-03-18T13:43:00.001-07:00

Have you ever been lost in words?

Phrases flow in flux around me, painting exquisite portraits of nothing.

Dancing and teasing some semblance of meaning but ultimately saying nothing like so much poetic masturbation.

The inspiration flutters and flicks at my senses, but gives me no hint as to why. I know it to be there, and I know it locked within me. An amazing muse in an amusing maze.

This, then, in theory is a thesis of the malleability in meaning and the mercurial motion of words.

Allow me to paint in phrase, and step away from the point. Allow the point to truly be the poetry, and allow me to say nothing for the next couple minutes.

Find yourself on a cracked city street, alone with thought and the wind batting at your face, forcing your eyes half shut in a wave of new perspective. Breathe deep of the oxygen laced with whatever poisons the city holds. Pay it no mind. Allow your gaze to venture skyward , catching flickers of headlight reflections on the posted orders that surround us – slow, children playing, maximum speed 40, school crossing. Let it pass without register and reach with your vision for the stars that have always made you feel so small. Stand, static, stupefied in knowing that, even obscured by smog and light pollution, the few glimpses of twinkling worlds changes everything you sense yourself to be. Exhale with a new sense of inner peace and slip your hands into your pockets, lifting a weary foot from pavement to take you on your way. Cast gazes left and right, passing forgotten creations of humanity, structures of red brick and concrete, split and crumbling, ignored in almost every sense. Take a moment to reflect on the creation before you. Every building put up by a team of human beings, each with a life, a history, some semblance of family, and an infinite span of independent thought.

Now take this feeling. This realization, and multiply it for each building you pass. Catch the faces of the late night drivers, and add them to the equation. Everything you see has nearly infinite history. That napkin discarded in the street came from a factory built and maintained by humans with stories. Everything we experience, and all that our world is connects us all in the most miniscule ways as if to say we’re all in this together. In thoughts and actions, we’re all in this together. We are infinitely huge, in our connections. We are alive on a living planet, and we are enormous. But look up again, and catch that shimmer through the clouds. Vast, and forever, declaring us Lilliputian in scale. We are paradox, and we are without a point. And yet…I’ve never felt more comfortable than I have in knowing that.

Texapportive

2011-02-15T10:04:00.000-08:00

There's a plague and decay in fullest form
raining white hot ashes on silver streets
over which we skid and slide, our blood pressure rising
neath blackened skies laced with cyanide
Our destination: Labour; and the fruits therein
a vicious craving, but a place wherein
we lose our conscious lust for life
The passions printed in paint, prose, poetry & performance
an orchestra of colour becomes a monochromatic kazoo
And we, we feeble dependants, allow this to happen
We, purveyors of creation would contain ourselves
And all for the cash to purchase the gas
to get us back to work again
These words come from an office where the only windows are on the computers
This is a grey scale nightmare
A place where imaginary friends go to die
It is the home of Sisyphus in the digital age
The tragic hero Cubicles, whose only charge is to aid
the less tech savvy in their day to day, though the unspoken truth
is a wave of abuse spit twixt split lips into the open ears of a human trying to help
Because we, we are not human beings.
We are a disembodied voice with the gall to ask you to help yourself a little bit
We are just a limb on an enormous corporate corpus,
and our primary dedication is the express ruination of all that is your life. Right?
We have watched our world go digital and silicon blue
right before our eyes, and the unbelievable ease
of living with machines has rendered us helpless.
The lack of a functioning television moves a person to tears,
and I wish above all else, that that was not an exaggeration
We are so convinced of our dependence that we would rather berate a stranger than read a book.
We have grown so accustomed to these devices that hand us everything that we cannot bear
the idea of learning anything. Not even how they work. Learning takes too long.
We refuse to acknowledge or appreciate the complexity of the system before us.
And because of this self-imposed ignorance, we grow to rabid fury when presented with a problem.
But if I must, I will seek inspiration in what this place means to do to me.
It would kill what I am. It would re-shape a form of love and words and tool it into an answering machine.
Write. Sing. Dance. Pretend. Play. Paint. Whatever it is. Whatever expression is in you, do it. And always do it.
Do not become an answering machine. Do not become a hammer.
Take what would make a tool of you, and make art of it.
Thank you for calling tech support. My name is Dan. How can we help you?
I've got a better idea.
Thank you for coming to this poetry slam. My name is Dan, and it's wonderful to be here.

Boys Will Be Boys

2010-09-27T22:45:00.001-07:00

The cries of joy ring out, it's a boy! It's a boy!
pale knuckles and sweaty palms relax, a deep sigh is released
but the immediate urgency thrust on an infant wrapped in blue goes unnoticed.
He doesn't yet know, but that little "Y" that made him a he
is going to finalize the spelling of his masculinity.
He's been cursed, as have we all, with that first identity.

He's been scrapping, scraping knees and flailing five year old fists
The kindergarten schoolyard handed him some real violence today
and in his fear and confusion, he confessed, crying to Daddy.
Daddy's what your sister calls me. It's time to call me Dad.
You've got to be a man son, and this man's son isn't gonna cry
unless he wants something to cry about.

GI Joe at eight years old and violent flicks with Dad.
He loves the guns and blood, the smell of sensationalism
The winners always win, and he's a winner.
He's kicking ass at sports and kicking ass at recess.
He's become the alpha dog, his pack circles his target
and he lets loose with fists, being painted with blood and tears
the former makes him a man, while the latter makes the opposite of his prey.

The faculty doesn't call home anymore, his detentions are not uncommon
and he wears them with a sort of pride. Besides, the man on the other end of the line
may as well be a broken record.
"Boys will be boys"
"Boys will be boys"
"Boys will be boys"

"Fourteen and no girlfriend yet? What are you, boy, a faggot?"
High school is a lesson first, his attitude and violence are
met by adult students who put him to the ground enough that he gets the hint.
But his classmates are dominated by his masculine presence, and with the hormones growing
and flying at such a furious pace, he knows the world is his. The girls are his.
Dad's right, after all, he needs a girl, lest he be a queer.
His popularity with peers, his power and prestige purport a predestined path to pussy.
He picks the hottest one, a trophy to atrophy the status of those beneath.
Nobody can touch the alpha's girl, hence, nobody can reach the alpha.

It's a four year journey of cramming lessers into lockers
A four year story in which, to many, he is the main antagonist.
He is Man among God. Excelling in all things social because every other
would-be alpha dog is tonguing his heels. A prince on the field and a jester in the class.
And of course, a king, when prom time comes.
His Dad provides the beer, which makes the night a bit of a haze.

But what he remembers, he defends.
"That faggot kid got what was coming to him. I'm just sorry the ambulance got to him in time."
"Fuck it. The janitor can clean some puke up. That's his job."

His girlfriend had passed out, but he had taken the opportunity to prove his manhood.
"Yeah, she passed out, but you saw how she was dressed. Don't tell me that slut didn't want it.
I'm pretty sure she mumbled yeah anyways. Besides, bitch was so drunk she didn't even make me wear a condom."

Her friends plead with her to do something about it. But she insists that there's a sweet side to him they can't see.
She stays by his side, and stays with his child.
And as the months pass, and her belly grows, he finds himself beginning to pray.
For what, nobody can be certain, but he is praying fervently, furiously, day and night.
The time goes by, and his prayers are answered.
Pale knuckles and sweaty palms relax, a deep sigh is released
The cries of joy ring out, it's a boy! It's a boy!

Writing About Nothing

2010-08-21T10:23:00.000-07:00

I’ve got nothing to talk about, in that I’ve got something to talk about and that something is nothing.

It’s the feeling that makes you drop the pen and pick up the remote control.

Nothing to say.

I go through the list of “socially conscious” topics. Racism, Sexism, hatred towards homosexuals. But why waste anybody’s time with what could only be speculation? I don’t have a first-hand account of any of these situations.

I’m a straight, white male. That’s about as privileged as it gets. The most upsetting part of my life is that stairways make me sweat. The only prejudice I’ve ever felt was pointed at my weight, and that’s because I eat too much, which is my fuckin’ choice to make.

I grew up middle class. Wasn’t rich, wasn’t poor, Suburban bungalow with a sports car and a 4-door. And what’s more, full access to the story of how Frodo visited Mordor. My parents read to me unending ‘till I took it on myself to pull a copy of The Hobbit off the basement bookshelf.

But in the years before that novel found its way into my hands, and from a time far back as when I was unable yet to stand, I had The King, The Mice, The Cheese, Robert Munsch and Dr. Seuss. While other kids said “look, a choo-choo!” I said “Engine, cars, caboose.”

I started school with books in tow, reading Clifford to the class. Made the teachers drop their jaws and other kids would kick my ass.

Reading doesn’t make you popular.

But, so be it. After punches, stolen lunches, and a medley of attacks, I started thinking up a world I could create, and thus, relaxed. I started writing little stories, nothing quite Lothario, more like day to day adventures starring Super Mario. I made up lyrics to myself and stories, some I never shared because of how life was at school, I’ll be honest, I was scared.

I had a linguophilic attitude, with words my only friends. I figured, why the fuck say big when I can say gargantuan, gigantic, monstrous, huge, colossal, vast, enormous or prodigious, mammoth, massive, giant, towering, humongous, or tremendous.

I learned of stories, allegories, metaphors and similes. I learned of irony, hyperbole, pathetic fallacy. The structure grew into a loop of writings started and thrown out. I had a lot of writing in me, and nothing to write about. It took me years to get to this point, now I’ve got myself a voice, and if I did it all again, you know, I’d make the same damn choice to read and write and take some beatings, let the bastards wear me out. Cause now I can still write something, when I’ve got nothing to write about.

And I imagine thanks are due to those who push me to my goals, so I’ll begin with children’s writers, every one of them is owed a massive debt to helping kids begin a life of words and dreams, and to the teachers who actually care, their job is harder than it seems. George Carlin taught me how to be pissed off and keep it funny. Thanks to everyone who says “There’s more important things than money.”

Hell, thanks to everybody at the Burlington Slam, if not for it, I’d be at home each night watching Batman.

But most importantly, my parents, without whom I’d not be this man.

Thank you for introducing me to Mister Sam I Am.

Not For Kids

2010-07-27T16:43:00.002-07:00

NOTE: This is another one intended for spoken word. Some jokes only make sense when read aloud (Sawed me, for instance.) Check out Urban Dictionary for any terms with which you may not be familiar.

Once, there were three funny little gnomes named Frumpy, Blumpkin, and Felcher, and they lived deep out in the bush where nobody could find them.

The three friends had just gotten back from seeing their families for the holiday, and were eager to catch up on each others’ news.

“Frumpy” asked Blumpkin, “What did you do for your Gnomesday?”

“Well!” started Frumpy, “My parents like to keep things simple, and in the family, so we stay in as long as we can, and if somebody asks us to come somewhere, we say sorry, but we’re not coming anywhere today. We wake up, put on our special Mushroom Caps, and share our gifts with each other. I was hoping for a muff this year, so I could keep my hands warm in winter, but instead, I got wood.” And Frumpy proudly displayed his wood to his two friends.

“Gee Frumpy!” Shouted Felcher, “I sure would like to play with your wood some time!”
Frumpy giggled, “Of course Felcher! Both of you are welcome to play with my wood any time you like! I bet it’ll be loads of fun!”

Felcher beamed excitedly. “My Gnomesday was great, because it’s also my birthday! We always wake up really early so my Dad can enjoy the way the forest smells in the early day. He always says ‘Felcher, there’s nothing quite like the smell of morning wood to keep me going!’ We exchange presents and then go out to a restaurant! I got so excited for my mom’s present that I dove right into her box!”

Blumpkin laughed; “That’s because you’re so full of spunk, Felcher! So what did you get?”

Felcher gave a cocky grin; “Haven’t you noticed? It’s a new suit! I’ve been wearing my birthday suit this whole time!”

“Oh my!” exclaimed the others, “That’s very handsome!”

“I had to send my suit to a steamer in Cleveland” mumbled Blumpkin.

“So what did you eat?” Asked Frumpy.

“Well, we like traditions. My sister has always had a taco, and I’ve always had a sausage and beans. Heck, even my parents get crabs every year! And to wash it all down, we had a nice big pitcher of donkey punch!”

Blumpkin sighed. “My Gnomesday is always very busy. My parents insist I do spelling exercises before I get any gifts. Normally I only have to spell 5 or 6 words, but this year, they made me do 69! It was such a mouthful!”

Frumpy patted his friend on the back “Hey Blumpkin, spelling is important! Remember, you can’t have a smile without s&m!”

“I guess so.” Said Blumpkin. “We went out to see a neat magician later though, and I got to be his assistant! He put me in this big box, and then do you know what he did?”

The others shook their heads.

“Sawed me! He sawed me right in half and put me together again! It was great! Then I got this special skin lotion”

Felcher looked confused. “It’s lotion made of skin?”

“No, silly!” Laughed Blumpkin, “It’s –for- skin!”

Just then, it began to rain, and the three friends looked very worried.

“Oh no!” Cried Frumpy, “it’s raining! If I get wet, I’ll have to sleep wet, which means I’ll have wet dreams!”

“It gets worse!” cried Felcher, “Look! Here comes the Angry Pirate!”

The Angry Pirate with one peg leg was pegging as fast as he could, directly towards the three gnomes.

“Oh dear!” shouted Blumpkin, “He’s here to spread his taint all over our home!”

“Or summon that awful beast with two backs again!” Added Frumpy.

“Arr! No! No! Ye’ve got it all wrong gnomes!” Laughed the Angry Pirate. “I be here to wish ye a happy Gnomesday! I brought ye umbrellas t’keep ye dry on the walk home, and I’ve a special gift for each of ye!”

The gnomes laughed as they accepted his umbrellas and he walked them the rest of the way home, pegging quickly to keep up with them. And when they got to their homes, they smiled with delight, because the Angry Pirate had given each of them a beautiful golden shower.

The end.

Nice Guys

2010-07-27T16:43:00.001-07:00

Nice Guys are dicks.
And I don’t mean nice guys, no. No. I mean Nice Guys. It’s a title.
You know the guys I mean.
Yeah…fuck those guys.
They’re dishonest, manipulative, and have a severe martyrdom complex.
And I know this, because well, I was one of 'em.
I was a Nice Guy, trapped in the friend zone lamenting how I always finished last,
not considering that maybe I finished last because I let everyone start ahead of me.

Here's an example of the Nice Guy's mind in action:

Man, I just met this girl and she’s beautiful and charming and funny and different!
AND I AM IN LOVE WITH HER NOW.
But I want her to trust me, because true love needs trust…it needs to have time to grow.
So I’ll get close to her as a friend, and hopefully one day, she’ll fall in love with me.

So The Nice Guy makes his “friend” approach, builds a friendship based on false pretenses and earns the trust that a friend would have from this girl with whom he is so very in love.

Part of the trust in trusting a friend is being able to relax
and believe that this person is not just trying to fuck you.

So the Nice Guy tries to play the “close friend” while trying not to seem sexually interested. He cuddles and gives back rubs as an excuse to get physically intimate. He says things like “You’re so hot!” and then goes “HAHAHAHAHA just kidding!”

So you plan to win the heart of this woman by saying it was a JOKE when you told her she was attractive?

You fucking clod.

All these Nice Guys have a breaking point, too. Time will manifest the revelation that they didn't "just want someone to hold them." They wanted her, they've always wanted her, and they just can't keep it quiet any longer.

Surprise! It doesn't work!

And then, because he’s a Nice Guy, he stays her “friend” and silently pines over her until his next true love comes along.

And the best part? He honestly believes that this woman he loves couldn't see through his pathetically transparent façade. Hey, nice guy, she knew what you were doing from day 1.

I know, that in your eyes, you're a hopeless romantic, constantly overlooked by women who prefer assholes. But to everybody else? You're a sad, lost puppy dog, and who doesn’t love taking care of a puppy dog? Sure, you pissed on the rug, but you can't help it, you're a puppy dog!

So you're wordlessly forgiven, and you never learn that what you did was wrong. When in truth, you should be fucking ashamed of yourself.

If there’s anybody who hears this, to whom this rings a little close to home? Take my advice. Be honest. Be yourself. If you meet someone you think is beautiful, or special. Just tell them. They’re not going to laugh at you. And if they do, why the fuck would you think them to be special?

Declare yourself. Be proud of yourself. And I don’t want to hear “I’m not what society deems attractive, so it doesn’t work for me.”

I have been in numerous relationships since I left the Nice Guys, and I am 340 pounds.

If this reaches any of you back in the Guild, I hope you heed my words.

And for the Nice Guys who don’t listen? I’ll see you at the finish line.

I’ll be the one drinking the last glass of water.

Poem Designed to Lose me Points at a Slam

2010-07-27T16:40:00.000-07:00

Note: This is a slam piece, which kind of bends and pokes fun at the rules of slam poetry. Again, meant to be read aloud, or heard.

I want you all to imagine a bassline
The kind you get with beatnik stereotypes
Walking up and down the frets to the rhythm of
Ts-ts tsss, ts-ts tsss, ts-ts tsss, ts-ts tsss.

Cause I’m not allowed to use music
But that don’t mean I won’t abuse it,
I’ve employed a subconscious variant
And if you say I used it? Prove it.
And if you like the bassline? Use it
Get your body up and move it
Turn this slam into a dance
And let the bassline get you groovin’

Ts-ts tsss, ts-ts tsss, ts-ts tsss, ts-ts tsss

It says “no props” in my instructions
Only vocal form and function
Is it accessible by all? It is?
Then use it in conjunction
With the words that come erupting
As a vocalized expulsion
But now I give my props to you
And still the penalties can’t touch me

Ts-ts tsss, ts-ts tsss, ts-ts tsss, ts-ts tsss

See rules are great for breaking
Even though I’m just bending and faking
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed
By madness, starving, hysterical, naked.

That one might get me disqualified…

Only original works, no covers
It’s just an homage for poetry lovers
Ginsberg shouldn’t inspire attack
Or should I be quoting Kerouac?

Bassline off!

It’s something I’ve heard said numerous times already
And I love the concept, and honestly don’t care if I lose points on this poem.
Because remember – there are points in poetry, but no poetry in points.

Okay Bassline On!

Ts-ts tsss, ts-ts tsss, ts-ts tsss, ts-ts tsss

I like to think of myself as clever
With a touch of ego for good measure
I’ve been called an arrogant prick
But it’s the nickname that I treasure
There’s just one rule that I can’t sever
And I’ve been writing for forever
My friends, I’m just not good enough
To get this poem to 3:11.

My God

2010-07-27T16:39:00.000-07:00

I’d like to talk about my god
My god is the creator, curator, partaker
In life and the living. My god is the light of day
And the tranquility of night. My god is a map
Of stars and heavenly bodies. My god is a compass
To which I cling, to guide me morally north.
My god is a beacon in absolute dark.
But please, allow me this occasion
To explain just why my god is everything my god is.
See, my god has observed me, preserved my
Virtues and values. Never once have I been judged by my god.
My god sees me as me, not sinner or saint. My god will guide me,
Support me, and never extort me.
My god abhors the wars that plague our history
Laments the extents of hatred and bigotry
My god’s not about building fortune or fame
My god doesn’t even ask me to capitalize his name
My god asks no categories, no segments and sects
No acts in my god’s name, no crusades, and no deaths
My god stands beside me, no veil, no shroud
Adds chorus to my voice, and helps cry aloud
“Gather round friends, I beg to be heard
Of conditions that render this planet absurd
While I’m not here to preach, I beseech you all, please
Give a moment to reason, that it might buy you peace.
I’ll ask no donations, my god is not greedy
And churches take space that could shelter the needy
I will give you my promise – faith need not be tested
And the children of this faith can live unmolested
By those they would trust and provide with their love
Because my god’s right here.”
Love is the best way to traverse my god’s path
And it don’t fucking matter what sex organs you have
Because love is just that. Love. No restrictions
Love is far more than the need to make infants.
Love is beyond our vaginas and dicks
To my god, a faggot’s a bundle of sticks
A dyke is a levee to regulate water
Not a name that you hurl at your lesbian daughter
And god…don’t even get my god started on war
I’ll say it again, though I’ve said it before
It’s an outrage of nature, the blood of our kind
Being splashed as we’re gashed and made wastes of a mind
Which could elsewise be working to teach and subdue
That which halts the full human potential coming through.
It’s hard to ignore that we’re violent creatures
When we decorate soldiers while pissing on teachers
My god openly weeps when considering cost
Cause who the fuck ever heard of ‘justifiable loss’?
War is a crime, it don’t matter the cause
Whether soil or oil, it’s grasping at straws
Like the colour of skin, or whose religion is best
They say “God’s in our hearts!” Well, your heart’s in your chest
This is man-made destruction, corruption erupting
The seduction of scapegoating God for protection.
It has to stop.

So I ask you now, stand up and do what you can manage
That we might co-habitate on this beautiful planet
And think of my god who won’t demand reference
Through skin colour, gender, or sexual preference
My god who would never send children to war
and will shrilly condemn what our weapons are for
my god who insists that the world be fed
with shoes for each foot and roofs for each head
There’s enough who agree that something can be done
We can stand up together, grant justice a home
And we can’t be afraid to raise questions to ears
Who would otherwise hide based upon their own fear.
And I’d love to assure you my god will come through
But the truth is, these questions have to be asked by you
I’m afraid I’ve been lying. The truth, then, is this:
My perfect world’s God just doesn’t exist.

Ode to My Voice

2010-07-27T16:36:00.000-07:00

NOTE: This piece is heavily accented with a variety of different voices, so reading it will not have the same impact as hearing it.

My voice never complains.

Well, not unless I make it.

Strains and aches and injuries abound, sure

But my voice, my special friend, chums up and soldiers on

I can alter it at a whim, and it never gets frustrated by my indecision

I can crack it all nasal and irritating.

I can slip it low and sexy

Mimic Yoda’s I can with it, hmm?

I can even *cough cough* fake a coughing fit

Truth is, my voice is my own little God.

Where the rest of my body just MOANS and WHINES

Like “UUUGH, THAT SUN IS TOO BRIGHT”

Shriek my eyes and my pathetic ginger kid flesh

My voice never tells me “These shoes are too tight, I’m gonna blister up just to spite you”

The elbows are all “Psoriasis! No reason. Psoriasis!”

My stomach says so very often “My God man, I am far too fat”

To which my voice replies “Well, I’m sorry stomach, but I like hamburgers.”

And I’m pretty sure my voice has never expressed “STOP EVERYTHING. I HAVE TO POOP.”

My fingers bitch and tremble, crying “Over a decade of guitar playing has shredded us to pieces!”

That’s right, I play guitar. Pretty cool huh?

So I muse to myself “Give guitar a break, let’s learn piano”

And then the piano says “Those calloused guitar fingers are dirty and heavy. They hurt my ivory face!.”

So the piano is talking to me. And this is my brain complaining now. “DANIEL. DANIEL.” That’s the voice of my brain. “I’M GOING MAD! I’M LOSING MY…UH…ME!”

But then to hell with you, fingers and instruments. Fuck both of you because thanks to my voice I can sing!

At least, until jealous Mr. Throat comes in, hoarsening up, readying weapons, STABBING, STABBING, and trying to kill my voice.

But my wonderful, stalwart voice will stay on its feet (whose shoes are never too tight) and it will whisper through the incessant volley of problems fired out of my malcontented windpipe.

It is the survivor of all that I am. It is what remains to express me.

I am a vessel.

Fitted flesh on a case of blood and bone.

This physical specimen is, well, not reality.

In time, come and gone, from semen to rot.

It is beyond what identifies that truly defines

I could step away tonight, wander in front of a bus, and shatter every bone in my body. My voice would still try its absolute best to say “Please call an ambulance. I wish to live.”

And with everything taken from me. All things cracked and destroyed, made useless for the remainder of my life, I could still cry, because of my voice.

And so, to my voice, the most honest and real part of who I am, I say thank you.

You’re welcome.