Flowers grow tired in the morning,
as people disrupt their sleep with car horns
blaring the industrial alarm clock to mountains and
whispering gods who smooth the leaves with their voices.

The architecture students have created a rat maze lecture hall
for students to stress in when fog rolls through the campus.

Now is the time for sentiments, anyone who has told you different
is too dull to carry any or too cold to care.
People pray for commodity.

Why have the Dutch left Asia? (less than 24 hours)
The absurdity of things is a white white sun worshiping itself
indefinitely.
Poems are autobiographies as autobiographies are poems.

Philosophers do not accommodate false prophets.
Philistines stray from therapy in paintings.
The depressed don't wake to traffic jazz but rather the silence of sleeping birds.
The sociopath will not make love without a motive.
Pacifists will not even battle their own sadness.

Autumn arrives with a few wraps on the door of an old folks home
(again)
Priests have daydreams and then suffer from a terrible insomnia.
A cigarette can last as long as the lungs that feed them.

Hospitals contain their own life cycle, I was born in 1996 and a few floors below my infancy
corpses lay in the cool sterility of a morgue.
People I would never met
(Except for 19 years later as I pass them in my local cemetery)

Projectors contain all the information needed for countless hives of youth to swarm around another thing to bury under the weight of narcissistic culture,
who's reliance on materialism is a growing fruit gone rotten.

The diverse architecture of Tokyo is really quite fascinating
(a city I would pay to get lost in)
Taiwan has existed as a single airport that reeks of tiger perfume
and sells cheap coffee in February.
(our reality is our perception of it)
Vancouver's train system is a rattling electric crib.

.......People count sheep, sheep count factories (?)

Psychic tea readers have fallen to the poor habit of leaving one's china out in the open for anyone to stumble across and become the next doomsday microphone.

Here comes the martyr on a carved wagon of moonlight.
Observing the bathroom flamingo called youth
perching upon a grenade.

A ruby suitcase emits egotism to a wicked one
who rests upon it like a vault of accomplishment.
Small snowdrops freckle a crows beak in December.
Autumn calls for keepsakes like a doll's dress
(A repressed memory)
Gifted to you by the Serendipitous Psychologist
who holds a Venetian mask to Her eye

(The forest retaining it's Summer form behind bare branched truth)

Jesus Christ is a child spotting the
street corner behind you
on the public transit.
He can create gold out of anything!
Including a shy abuse feeding off the heart of those we pass by.

Nothing is really estranged except for our perceptions.

A Monk inflates a BLACK BALLOON to float around
in an apartment with aged paint and
THIRTY TALL MIRRORS circling each side of the DOORFRAME.
Nobody knows why,
but he does this every day at 6 even when he's feeling
under the weather.

Laundromats are the most romantic place to meet somebody who shares the same infliction as you.

The drunk on the corner of Government St was here yesterday
and has vanished
(Their place to be is a match-strike away in any direction they hear it first)

I like to imagine the woman who lives across the hall from me has named her favorite potted plant or painting or
associated an object with a positive memory
(Perhaps a time she was in love)

The M O O N appeared the hue of harvest
yesterday, and I'm still burning.

Hummingbirds give advice to those who are open to listen.

Allen Ginsberg ate at my favorite restaurant,
one day I'll be placed where he sat,
writing poems and continuing a
legacy of sorts.
For those who are crazy enough to write their monsters down
so anyone can see.

Nothing but a straw man is itching the flesh of every false King and Politician.
I need a pungent flower to make them sneeze out the ******* of this
Nation
(We have amputated enough as is)

Another rural goddess steps off the bus and
some nights after an encounter like that
I watch the circus, wrapped in blankets,
laughing at the hypnotists until they laugh at me.
Arriving back home bewildered and confused.

Don't listen to ME, I haven't slept in WEEKS!
I suppose in some ways that makes me happier and more miserable
than you all.

Why can't people dream as vividly as dogs?

There's a degeneration of Society
occurring in front of the yacht clubs
here West Island
commute home again (again)
Straight men crave the
wedding dress seduction mechanism (Lingerie will do as well)
Funny we buy these expensive clothes just to take them off
on the nights we're not loveless.
Expense is all commodity anyways...
Charity bins full of grief in a loading truck for those who've been
consistently smiling.

I step off the 4 and into the immediate glorified adult night entity.
Sinister middle-aged animals scatter beneath a common moonlight
and to tenements, motels, upward skinny crackwood staircases
to some unknown neon-advertised Leviathan of
skin and sorrow.
ELECTRICITY burns in those bones.
The bones of the Brittle
The Bottled
The Erratic
The Bearded
and Retreated.

I'm here hands tight on a suitcase of whatever you'd like for ANYONE
who will do some good instead of
lightning another fire!
So many now keep to debt on a clothes hanger or
a bedside cabinet.
We're experiencing a surplus of it!
Deficit Surplus,
what a cruel contrary contagion
(Where's the pesticide for THAT insect??)

Don't take this all as universal truth,
rather, it's my own universal truth...

The best way to keep an enemy close is by continuing to think about them.
I'm rambling on and on
and living in a pendulum
of old things and new.
Goodnight.

The prettiest butterflies
                                          tend to be those who wash their
                                          c o l o r f u l    wings to   p a p e r
(ANGELS  PAINTING  TRAIN  CARTS)

I
find
everything
every
day
to
be
so
tired, tired, tired.
                              Children are decaying faster than those who raised
                                                                                                             them.

Love
        in
            a
              dark
                      room
                                set to
                                         ambiance and
                                                                  laughing
is an overture to some future fascist

(Or a whole generation of fascists)

I follow poppy flowers down avenues gray and pestilent.
I pass the radiant windows of Avalon while crows perch the ticket stands.
Sidewalk lifeless as frowning clowns droop on their way to another wake.
Fluorescent signs hang from concord wires.
I tire of the tired,
I drain from the drained.
I am the modern death.

School children are made from the same cosmic juice blend as me.
They are the modern death.
Politicians wear my infamous black garb.
The modern death is them, just as well.
Senegal actresses patter on their patchwork paste texture makeup and rose circles, hiding tears illuminated with the truth of tragedy.
There is no doubt they are the modern death.
Faerie potpourri in desolate East Hastings and clairvoyant row enticed by false visions of hallucinated men crouched beneath rotten cement canopies while locusts click and clatter midst their sorrow.
They are buzzing incantations of the modern death.
Tibet is falling hold to corruption while the boyish monks calm in their meditations, are interrupted by agony wept Bhikkus bent in ****** transgressions, even Buddha is the modern death!
China is a communist factory housing too many chimneys clogged with silent sufferings.
Communities hiding in thin dust masks bearing the insignia of the modern death, only seen underneath ultraviolet light.
My role has been diminished in recent generations, I'm growing old and flogged with decay,
same as you, modern death.

We're here for a final round of drinks
cool on our chasm lungs breathing big bang radiation for many years
while the batteries in our clocks begin to fail us and the Hospital calls occur in succession once we get too sick to see the harsh planet we'll all have the privilege of dying in.
I'm the modern death watching pale static reruns of the nature channel in a finely decorated room in some death camp retirement home
waiting on the last day, inevitable.
There's no place here for the modern death,
not anymore.

This is what the poets were talking about!
all the bodies are already skeletons.

On a throne of spraypaint driftwood
                   I watch the sailboats glide,
A painted aluminum ocean
                                               With Sunsnow reflections dashing
                                                         ­                      across the waves.
Lovers in their old age cause friction
                                         in the pebbles
                                       as they walk,
unlike many things, I refuse to believe
                                                         ­                       romance is dying.
People like them help solidify my hopes.
Gulls                           approach the tide wavering in the wind.
                              Another September has come.
                            What should come with it?

Old friends have found their place
in Vancouver.
                                                      ­          Some shall return here,
In attempt to                                                 escape desperate situations.
                      (The recurring waves are calming)
               Smoke and vapor
                     cloak the mountains softly still.
I'm unsure of where things are going,
what a change of pace!

Nine months
                     since that night in a hillside cabin
                                         where dreams foretold
wound up in chaos.
                  (More to change is on it's way)
                                              But for now, I'm content with seeing the cities
                    continue g r o w i n g.


.........The seasons sway with the breeze.