We should re-name
The AMA:
*American Music Awards For Canada.

The city buskers don't speak til six;
After they've stored the aluminum paint,
Their instruments packed,
The clever boxes stacked,
The clink of coins counted.
Now ready for a pint, a blink and stretch.
Flame spitters, robots, Victorian mannequins,
Chimney sweeps, a Little Bo Peep,
All muted on the street.

On the steps I asked,
Which one are you?
I stand on my head in a bucket, he said.
Yeah, said I, I know what you mean.
I did the same for thirty years.

(A perfect metaphor, thought I).

No, really, I continued, What's your gig?
I stand on my head in a bucket, he said.
He wasn't being poetic.
Here's a man who stands on his head in a bucket, I said,
More than once.
So many do this on their feet,
Hearing the echo of their own voice,
Shutting off our daily travails
In an insular pail,
Seeing one's reflection distorted,
With little involvement.
He said he learned his trade
Watching the pigs on his father's farm,
And perfected his talent
Watching CNN.

Cold as the morning
cold as my blue heart
we don't have
to hold something
to feel its absence
to know its significance
we are drawn for reasons
beyond our limited sense
of time and space.

Each moment is
a turning point
we get to choose
whether to anchor in
isolation's safe harbor
or tell stagnant fear
to *******
we'd rather live
exposed and free

fill every cell
until brimming over
with all the love
that is destined
to flow our way
even the kind
that defies description
will forever be
the singularity.

We are alive
the ink is still drying
on this page
there are choruses
yet to be sung
love is
open
come in
out of the cold.

In union
expectations are high
Mine were so high for you
and I still want
a kind of perfection
in imperfectness

Now after so many years
I long for the melting
of your ice walls
Such a long tunnel ---
But hey,
bring on the torches.

Let the waters start to drip
and run
Let my slake my thirst
for what is not
Let me be a vessel
for those sacred waters
to fill me up
Let my desert
be plunged
into an ocean
of endless
glory
What we always wanted, no?
Now I must face my journey
on this tundra
an icy desert,
at home with you,
yet alone

Apparently
the lines are down
and communication is ******
No way to get through
and I find myself here
sitting so deeply stuck
I only wish
To somehow create
a telephone line
straight to your heart
to tune it up
and tune it in
to fix it
make it
spew sparks
I want to ensure
that the lines will work
No matter how, no matter when
In all weather conditions
Or natural disasters
Floods or tornados
Wild winds that whip
Will not stop us
I want us to have
easy access
to those thoughts and words
that seem to fly
with witchlike magic
into our brains
into our minds
and directly into my lines
making me so high
What shame to be cut off
when the router has already found you
Your satellite
is floating around the planet
of my heart
and I am sending signals...
even if they are made from smoke
I care not
As long as they reach you
in the right place
at the right time
As long as you know
that somehow---
You're divinely
mine