don’t get too close

in a sort of
kiss my ass moment

dress hiked
rocking horse in background
coffee on the round table
morning in the window

returning to the bathroom after a quick smoke

in a sort of
actress in a saloon

water/oil in jar waving in front of the shadow light
caught in the brown hues and silhouette hovering over wooden floor
stand Ziegfeld still and let the cowboys
allow the soldiers – to cheer wildly

in a sort of murderous moment
putting the red dress back down
stepping over the body and leaving the house

morning has come
the coffee is becoming cold

the day isn’t getting any younger….


in the wonder of it all

violence is absolute
purpose serving solitude
beautiful in a moral stripping way
breathing chaos into a quiet mind

the expressionless kind
the job filled
duty kind

punching a clock
drinking a beer
talking nothing about the 8hr shift

while you lay there
in the apartment
semi- conscience

your belongings destroyed
your furniture searched
your body investigated with a flash light

there’s an almost medical feel to it
as though the doctor told you to cover up again

but the work day is through
two men sit on bar stools at McGafferty’s
and they wait on further orders

you lay on the floor
wonder who to call
and who not to tell

lost in the violent wonder of it all…


an old story with no back door

keep loading baby
they won’t be long settin’ fire to this cabin
we gotta keep firin’ to keep ’em from gettin’ too close

and she’s in a yellow dress
thinkn’
baby i didn’t sign on for this when i said
let’s make a life together

his teeth are baring
jaw muscles in hate firin’ live rounds
wood framin’ a busted window

she’s duckin’ at every whip-o-will sound
loading guns at each one set down
she’s wonderin’ about the drapery and importing new glass

keep loading baby
it’s the only time she hears his ‘g’
wishin’ gee – couldn’t you just farm like my pappy

but

that’s what drew her to him
the outlaw refusin’ to conform
now they’re outside of town – inside their own coffins

keep loading baby
they’re gettin’ closer baby
baby – she thinks – just surrender – i wanna go home….


Man Woman or Beast

all the cedar and vines
wrap around the rib cage in an unattended garden jungle
wasted cigarettes
hands holding
arms covering breasts
eyes shadow the smoke sitting in this flower bed shell

you-she-it

cower
next to the abandon wall
daring onlookers to find something relatable
to the rest of society

the wall is connected to a used record store
it is connected to a factory wall
an old water works mill
where a province thought as Englishmen
uniting a city
placing glamour in even the rudimentary

but today is a throw away society
where blame is tossed and responsibility shrugged
memes placed on the window screen shout back
allowing – accepting nothing which will plant and continue growth

the vines choke rather than produce wine
the cedar trees block out the sun rather than opening into a forested city of progress

and you

puffing that cigarette
curl your body and hug your self-guarded defences
holding breast and rib

society moves sidewalks onto the streets of bandwidth
with photo-captions shouting morals
water pumps becoming crank/less
and coal piling up in decay

all
waiting for a good
fire


when you find yourself reading too long and too much from a book edited after death

the kind of woman who can’t afford a rooming house
but finds herself at yours
at Uncle Buks’
either at 3 in the morning
or
3 in the afternoon

both times you’re trying to
read
write
stay sober-drunk

and everyone is pounding the walls
the ceiling
floorboards

yelling

‘CAN YOU GET ANY LOUDER IN THERE’

‘BAD ENOUGH WE GOT YOU

GET RID OF ‘ER’

but you can’t
get rid of her

she’s a bad memory
she’s locust
a pure shot of what you ({[don’t]}) need

and it’s too hot
it’s summer

it’s inhospitable
and rude

what would Chinaski say

not

WWJD

besides – you say

she’s sitting on the windowsill ledge
and the drapes are drawn
closing out the sun
the stars
and the fan is propped up trying to
suck in cool air
or suck out the heat

and she’s just sitting there
in a wife beater
tall socks
and roller girl shorts

she’s got her way of showing
without showing

everything your mind wants to feel rotten

and you stand so she can see you’re impressed
letting her know
she’s not going to be kicked out by you

you shuffle around the typewriter
and into the kitchen
you grab more ice and another glass

you don’t want to share

but you know she’ll let you bum a smoke

.
.
.

you’re back in the living room
even though you know
this ain’t
living

and she’s sitting on the couch
tapping on your typewriter

tapping on your coffee table
that empty hydro line spool with the perfect holes
for holding styrofoam cups

and she grins a cock roach smile
circling the hole
the drain

says

‘ PUT THE CUP DOWN AND POUR’

so you pour

and the night
or the day

the middle of the clock
ticks on

and life wasted
continues to amuse you in ways
that only you can appreciate

.
.
.

she leaves at a point where your
self awareness is on its hands
either 6:30
or 12:00

either
or

both hands have been round full in this rooming house
as she closes the door

her high heels clicking
down the hall

back into the wilderness of
a Bukowski strip
knowing both debauchery
and understanding beauty

in all it’s ugliness
and flower perfume forms.


welcome to ghost town

army boots or cowgirl boots
march-tramping a summer field
-sunbathing attitude

climbs in front seat of ’50 olds
crawls
adjusting mirror

body distraction

checks lipstick
confirms eyes

opens passenger door
continues climbing out front
shotty in left hand

obstructed

she crawls down to ground
door open
window rolled down

pokes head up
eyes – smile

shotty resting in frame

raise your hands
respect the situation for 30 seconds

a round of smoke blows out the window

you find yourself feet lifted
backwards flying
hard hitting the ground
looking up at the sky – fading

she stands
army boots unlaced
cowgirl boots
body sunbathing

shotty in left hand

‘welcome home baby’

population: 1


idea from a vintage postcard and a midnight radio play

quietly on the train
stopped at the station

the

wickedly wild west
before modern time

boredom

2 marshalls
with guns to the back of your
bank robbing head

still resting on the wooden seats

you turn
only to be buffalo’d across the ear

you fall into the midnight oil
picture yourself in a sombrero
slumping over the saddle after a midnight run
pushing branded cattle

wondering

if Calgary could be Texas
and Ontario
-Montana

you could cross the borders

avoid the train next time

and move the cattle harvested
to Hoard’s Station

making a tidy profit

instead
you’re carried to jail – hog tied
early morn

a lump at the base of your ear
and a ringing in your throat

police brutality

no matter the era
no matter the reason
there’s always police brutality to contend with

and in your current position and time

you still don’t understand
why…


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