Life’s Lessons

FUCK she calling herself?
a spiritual gangster

yeah – like how some girls wear the word pink
across their butt
bitch across the front of their sweaters
And this is suppose to impress me?
i guess
she wants in the club boss
Tell her to go home to mama
Before i take her myself
And beat the hell outta them both
aw come on boss
give her a chance
Are you questioning my orders?
no ma’am – boss
Then take her home yourself
And get the name of her mama
The spiritual gangster know
I’m not coming to visit her
I will be over to say hello
To the family
awwwwwwwwww boss –
yes ma’am


Longing for yester years

she keeps part of herself
necklace form
fig leaf chain
leaf for each year in the garden
around her neck
above the dress at functions
removed before bedtime
this fine bedroom

Your Valentine

her eyes are open now that
birth no longer deforms her.
Valentine sits in her fathers’ prison
brushing hands across her
opening her mind to wonders of the world
the salvation of forever now.
they read together
and long division no longer fools the
tradesman hiding inside her thoughts.
she grows dim of the passing days
knowing that his crime will soon be his head.
she pleads with her father to increase his guilt
and prays with the father to learn of love
through forgiveness.
has defied Rome and in doing so
created Rome.
future Saint
Valentine walks to the gallows
towards the slayer handle
but leaves a note for
the fathers

‘do not cry for today i will meet our heavenly father’…..

Signed –

Your (Father) Valentine

Eve’s Apples

They’re all bunched up in her hands
invisible to the naked eye as she wishes for more
and Adam doesn’t understand
swinging through the trees as Tarzan
wondering if someday movies will be made of him
not knowing what movies are or who Tarzan is.
but Eve
is unhappy with her apples
and with nothing to compare them to
she wonders about farmers markets
could she find more there?
would the food be as fresh as they claim
from the actual farms they claim to work?
she shakes her head in complaint
it’s only her and Adam on this lonely planet.
….somewhere a trumpet sounds
an elephant moves through the forest
a deer sips from a pond
fig leaves fall to the ground……

DOST son in Us

a Sunday cold a’top the hill
wishing i could sleep perhaps
never move until my next shift begins
we have our duties
both to ourselves
in Him Command
it’s not gender neutral love
but everlasting –
so why are we saying
just us
when we really just mean me?
love myself even tho
i hate myself
in the end
i guess i’ll sleep
and sleep
until the end
a work day new
and command myself
let me sleep
let me sleep



(heading to)
over great waves in the sky
a beach ball in the Kingston crowd
shape of the killer whale – chanting

Canadian expectation
towards an empty stage
as the the plane travels for Vancouver
scans the ocean shore – hoping

but the same can be said here in
North Bay – where people comment on the
common (elusive to me) moose
eating road salt along the 11 highway

i do not expect to see killer whales
rubbing their bellies on the ocean shoreline floor
(as common) as an indoor dog
rubbing itself across living room carpet

yet the cheering in my mind
will be aimed at the empty stage
as the right wing tips down and exposes the water
shuffles towards the microphone tower

drops below the clouds
guided by a voice to the runway
while on the shoulders above luggage
wild dogs lick and snap at themselves
fighting the touchdown lineup to the


pulling off socks she curses Adam
calling him a ‘Fritz Kärfve’
and is disgusted by tan lines
after a day at the beach trying to conform to loneliness.
adam says nothing putting the snorkel in the closet
listens to her as any good husband should
wondering how to make a compromise and end the
shouting – one sided

“would an hour in the backyard garden do?
sunbathe and I will stand guard by the gate.”

the sock hurtles venom
sopping hits the side of the door
rattles the snorkel
and before Adam can sigh
pinch his sinuses or look up from exhaustion
Eve once again swears ‘FRITZ!’
-storming out of the room.

Fritz Kärfve was a Swedish painter(1880 – 1967)

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