To Begin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.