Monthly Archives: August 2018

it’s ‘Like’ it’s ‘Simple’ – a huh – ‘Ah Um’…and ‘And’

it’s like a man needing to write in the middle of listening to a vinyl record
like the Philadelphia man needing to think while others pose around his statue

i heard Miles never feared or was jealous of Clifford
but wouldn’t play the same venue on the same night
just incase the crowd had other thoughts

heard it was elvis or Jimi who couldn’t compete with Johnny or
the Beatles – but he or they sure had their own crowd

I heard Dali made fun of Warhol, inside a favourite restaurant
doubled as a bar. Told him to be more, and less cliche

it’s like a priest saying people are leaving the faith
because their faith isn’t strong enough
while the followers say ‘face up to the scandal’
it’s so much more complicated than a simple answer can give

and i thought i had stepped in it
asking if this modern day player was as good
the others before – this hay maker – making hay in the city
while the followers gathered round to find themselves in his horn….

he gave me a look
as though there were such things as stupid questions
but then gave me examples like the prophet i heard he was –
and i bought him a drink

and we just kept listenin’


Hot House Flowers

he played hot house flowers
letting the strings put himself in a trance
– wooden speakers over
wooden floors.

music worthy of the day
an artist in modern times who could
hold his own with greats such as
Clifford Brown.


today was not a day to compare
old with new
or discuss names which mattered to no one else
– himself.


he thought about Japan
keeping a close watch on eBay bid
which could
bring another rare classic his way –

he loved the idea of overseas shipping
a parcel flying over or sailing his way
from a foreign land only
his grand parents had seen.

– on the couch he read his magazine novel
short stories of murder in the first through the british eyes
of hopeful Raymond Chandlers.
while hoping he wouldn’t have to read
editorial notes – comparing American greats to
American greats.

all he wanted was a good story
cup of coffee
15 minutes of hot house flowers.

Silent Jass

the only time lyrics
of sound
would shut down the words
and voices
scenarios in his head.


only time he could not think for himself
letting everything else in
that was blocked
before the needle touched the groove.


he would wander the house
humming or whistleing
or mimicking –
sounds thought up once
the needle rose and fell asleep.


war time brick
and wooden house
that had been home to
musicians both
amateur and famous
– music made the difference
whether a home was a home of peace
or a home potential for noise
and calamity.

hot house flowers ended
and he couldn’t think of anyone to murder
no story to write.


the music which needed to be be put to paper
before he put himself to bed.
the early morning would soon end
clouds would leave
to temperature of day.


dance into the 30’s.
he was not built for the 30’s
tho his wife
insisted he was built for the ’50s
no later than the ’70s.


tidbits she taught him about himself
sliding Marsalis back between cardboard covers.
things he already knew
but she could express in words he always lost.


perhaps calm
the table turned on table
his wife stirred and rose above
wooden floors to his wooden speakers
filling house silence inward
and home. Understanding –


Hot House Flowers: An album by Wynton Marsalis that won the Grammy Award for Best Jazz Instrumental Performance, Soloist in 1985.

Clifford Brown: Clifford Brown was as jazz trumpeter. He died at the age of 25 in a car accident, leaving behind four years’ worth of recordings. Considered to one of the greatest jazz performers despite a short career.

Soul Scream

the monster within
i want your knowledge
this grinning bastard
whispering voice
in my voice

knowledge is such a great thing
how do you take it too far

(on the wall)

these ghosts of the past
posters of heroes
dead and gone to
their living
is it heaven or is it hell


give up your name
is it adam or is it eve
God has already won
and boredom or doubt
is where you lie yourself


i’m trying to get you
to tell me a

Love Poem from an angry drunk

I want u in low heels
so i can see your ass
and fuck what your sister says –
2 words…

Marilyn Monroe

and then
Joe Dimaggio
only –
i’m a real man
-not going anywhere like him.

Henry Miller?

Im barely henry chinaski
in a Purdy/ Downie world.
Just dancing around Toronto
after spending one afternoon in Vancouver –
somehow living in North Bay

and your
ass is sexy
it doesn’t need

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