My feet are flat, my eyes are bad

It hurts for me to run

"you've checked out fine" the doctor said

"You're in the Army, son!"

It makes no sense

They can't be right

I've even brought a note

"Stop staring son, and shut your mouth"

"'before I cut your throat"!

"But, Captain....sir"

"I'm all 4F"

"There's no way you'll want me"

"Put your arm down, boy, stop salutin'"

"I'm a Sargeant, don't you see?"

"I'm an NCO, a working man"

"Not a pencil pushing geek"

"I own your life, you're mine now boy"

"You long haired, hippy freak"

"I've got ten weeks, to shape you up"

"I'll teach you how to fight"

"Now grab your gear and follow close"

"And don't lose my tail lights"

"Welcome to the forces folks,"

"Now repeat after me"

"I joined up of my own free will"

"I'm here voluntarily"

"Select your bunk and grab some sleep"

"Your new life starts at dawn

"Forget about the world you know"

"Now, all of that is gone."

I hit the bunk and closed my eyes

And was just falling asleep

When in the room I heard a noise

"Wake up, you  long haired creeps!"

I jumped on up, as did we all

Saluting was our mission

"Drop your arms you maggots..now"

and assume the position"

"Push-ups lads, that's how you'll grow

"to respect just why you're here"

"Right now, though I don't smell courage boys"

"Right now, I just smell fear"

It took us almost half the day

To do ten that were right

If this alone would do me in

I'd be dead before tonight.

a variety of hues
all blue
the lure of the azure
my cerulean addiction
these indigo afflictions
the stabbing pain of sapphire
caught in those eyes, a quagmire
the temptation, to think, through
then you
a variety of hues
all blue

Today I saw a man
He was sitting by the road
I couldn't see his face
But, his feelings...well, they showed

All of his belongings
Were beside him in a cart
I wanted to approach
But, my feet just wouldn't start

Today I saw a man
Picking butts up from the street
I crossed the road to pass him
And our paths, they didn't meet

He was searching in the gutter
For tobacco for a smoke
I didn't venture near him
Just in case he spoke

Today I saw a man
Sleeping in the park
It was early in the morning
It wasn't even dark

He was covered with a jacket
With a paper by his head
He slept just like a child
He looked like he was dead

Today I saw a man
In fatigues and baseball cap
Saluting at the cenotaph
I felt my heart fall to my lap

He saluted ramrod perfect
As just a soldier can
today, I learned a lesson
Today...I saw a Man

Going on a road trip
Something for my soul
It's gonna take a while
But, it's gonna make me whole

I'm going to cross the country
But, I'll start on both the coasts
I've been in too many bottles
Have to exorcise some ghosts

Mile Marker Three Three Three Nine
That's where the dream did end
Mile Marker Three Three Three Nine
That's where I'll start to mend

Greyhound bus out of the east
From the Maritimes my son
I'll venture through Quebec as well
This is journey number one

I'll stop and meet the people
Get their stories, of the man
I'll find the ones who met him
Try to learn just what I can

Adversity, I've had my share
Always tried self medication
Now, I need to find myself
This will take some dedication

I'll head on through Ontario
On the Trans Canada Highway route
And I'll try lose my demons
Give my devils all the boot

Brick by brick I'll bring down the walls
That over years I've built
Bricks made up of hate and rage
by love, and fear and guilt

From the west, I'll make my way
Do the highway he could not
Through the rocky mountains
Every mile is hard fought

I'll learn about the person
Who he was and who I am
I'll come through the fire stronger
I'll be a much better man

I will bus across the prairies
Through the Manitoba cold
I will focus on my endgame
I'll learn from what I'm told

Two journeys I will travel
Neither one from coast to coast
But, both are to be ended
by that famous mile post

Maybe I can find the answer
Join myself, go through the door
As he joined a nation
So many years before

Mile Marker Three Three Three Nine
That's where my journey ends
Mile Marker Three Three Three Nine
That's where I'll start to mend

I hate how I always need validation
> Like the implication of insecurities are the only assurity that I'll never be alone
>
> Sometimes self love stops at *******
>
> Like the only time I love myself is when I can make myself feel the drastic *******, sensation
> Like the only vacation is ejactulation
> Otherwise the frustration is unbearable
>
> I try to remind myself that true wealth and real health is all about self help, but still I cry out that I am lonely
>
> Sometimes I wonder if being under the covers and under another is the only time I will ever feel whole,
> But deep down I know
> That filling a hole will never fill the hole left by feeling inferior
>
> Sometimes I find security in insecurities
> Sometimes feeling lonesome is the only way I can be alone, and still feel my home is not abandonment
>
> For once I feel the need to not need to succeed in the Greed of another's arms
> Cause being charmed should leave me alarmed but sadly even when I'm harmed I feel more loved than not bein used
>
> Not being bruised or subdued by being seduced, when I know deep down the only truth is that I don't love myself enough
>
> I find it tough to find self worth without some kind of self hurt or without being heard that I am loved
> Or that I'm needed
> But being needed is equivalent to be self defeated, to being depleted, and so I'm scared that I need it just to feel wanted
>
> To feel valued, or feel I am not cursed to be submerged on earth, with no worth, unless I feel first a loving embrace
>
> So I tell myself not to chase a fate without faith and instead of hating my own face, see how great I am and can be
> Without a strangers company, but it's strange to me as I am estranged from self love
>
> So leave the words above and beyond for those who feel they don't belong and let them know that they too can be strong
>
> Strong enough to see that you are enough for u
> And that I too have accrued the same attitude and crude mood of feeling desperation but refuse
>
> Refuse to being locked in a dungeon mocked by my own destruction
> And hope u release yourself as I do from it's abduction
>
> Released from the disease of the need to feel wanted or being left haunted by self hatred
> So I stand here naked, and sedated by leaving castrated the inflated loneliness narrated by my own self consciousness
> And leave only the promise of feeling self love that's honest even if it's only prompted from within
>
> And will no longer entertain the pain of feeling strain from stains left from
> A mundane train of thought
> Exhausted from feeling not good enough ...
>
>

Brigid was born on a flax mill farm,
Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan,
At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road,
The last child of the Sheridans.
The sluice still runs near the water wheel,
With thistles thriving on rusted steel.

Little's known of Nellie's early years;
Da died before she knew grieving tears,
They'd turn her eyes in later years.

She's eleven posing with her class,
This photo shows an Irish lass.
Her look is distant,
Her face is blurred,
But recognizable
In an instant.

She was schooled six years
To last a life,
Some math, the Irish,
To read and write.

Her Mammy grew ill,
She lost a leg,
And bit by bit,
By age sixteen,
Nellie buried her first dead.
Too young to be alone,
Sisters and brother had left the home.
The cloistered convent took her in,
She taught urchins and orphans
About God and Grace and sin.
There were no vows for Nellie then.

At nineteen she met a Creamery man,
Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan;
He delivered dairy from his lorry,
Married Nellie,
Relieved their worry.

War flared, men were few,
There was work in Coventry.
Ireland's thistles were left to bloom.

Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy,
Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin followed,
When war floundered to its end,
They shipped back to Monaghan,
And brought the mill to life again.

The thistles and weeds
That surrounded the mill,
Were scythed and scattered
By Daddy's zeal.
He built himself
A generator,
Providing power
To lights and wheel.

Sean was born,
Gerald soon followed;
Then Michael died.
A nine year old,
His Daddy's angel.
Is this what turns
A father strange?

Francie arrived,
Then Eucheria,
But ten months later
Bold death took her.
Grief knows no borders
For brothers and sisters.

We left for Canada.

Mammy brought six kids along,
Leaving her dead behind,
Buried with Ireland.

Daddy was waiting for family,
Six months before Mammy got free
From death's inhumanity.
Her tears and griefs weren't yet over,
She birthed another son and daughter;
Jimmy and Marlene left us too,
Death is sure,
Death is cruel.

Grandchildren came, she was Granny,
Bridget, Nellie, but still our Mammy.
She lived this life eduring pain
That mothers bear,
Mothers sustain.
And yet, in times of personal strain,
I'll sometimes whisper her one name,
Mammy.

I do not believe I could ever love anyone enough to make them my home. My home will always be red dirt and oak trees under the best sunsets in the entire sky with potato patches and country dirt roads, fumbling through sticky tourists on steamy days and letting the salt water feed my skin on the beach I spent all my summers at. My home will always be raspberry cordial and late nights in lovers lane with Canada days in crowded parks and childhood pictures with cannons, my home will always be drunken sidewalks and midnight Chinese, dancing in my drive way and smoking on my back porch. I could never make home in a person enough to follow them away from the place I love...

Trafficking in recollections
                                       trading
neon nights for bygone days.
From ceiling lights to humming street signs
sealed records come untied.

Another time far from perfection
                                        close enough
for mapping smiles,
covering miles and chasing laughs
               out of throats
        and into corner booths.
Grabbing coats, it's back out into night,
sleeves shining tables the moment we go,
then arms entwining. Voices warmed,
               we sang together

               "...seemed so brief
                 but it wasn't / Now
          I know I had plenty of time..." (Weakerthans)

When was it we went out walking,
bundled up through Winnipeg?
Easter Break? Or January, drifting,
                      chilled
through wind or meltwash?

Calendars defy me now, though
every night recall the time,
                           the place,
           the lights of Your Great City
           flashing off your coffee eyes
and through the heavy, falling snowflakes
on a Spring or Winter night.

I'm traffic on chilly sidewalks
                                        trading
CO2 for oxygen.
No cars disturb the late night silence,
shallow breaths or slow footsteps.

And, as I walk against the signal,
                                       late October
snow obscures
street signs, dulling laughs from doors
              of the bars
and late night coffee haunts.
Seems so far to my small West Side home.
Heels hitting pavement and face turned to stars,
arms hanging downward, my voice, drowned
               mouths words, half-quiet

               "...dusk comes on
                 and I follow / the exhaust
              from memory up to the end..." (Weakerthans)

I'm sure an abstract painter adores
the confusion of their
lovers.
Glass reflections on materials in a bedroom
E M P H A S I Z E
the EGOIST in every
sofa
and
actress
in a television set while it rains out
(creating pockets of water on the balcony)
Where is my foundation for times like these when
feet become LOUD ER in the daytime
and obstacles have grown their teeth?

Perhaps a dump truck full of nicely dressed mannequins
will finally be
ticketed
and my eyes
will see
as soft
as your
hair.

Quarry of bones in an office space
and the FORMAL TIE HAS DESTROYED ITSELF WITH
SOCIETAL EXPECTATIONS AGAIN
(LUCIDITY KEEPS INSANITY DISTRACTED)

Caffeinated Canadian Bohemian
daydream of firs showering adjacent
Manhattan batteries.
Tomorrow's rejections watch
bright and beautiful waves smile with false
inspiration
a n d a n o t h e r
concrete victim is created.

!MADNESS!
(the solar flare of the Neutral)
the ammunition in my coffee
and conversations blinking
LAUGHS          OUT
                           TO
                           THE
                           ABYSS
(gorgeous and hollow lineups in front of
a Vancouver bar 11:30pm)

Pale October energies and the
Dharma Radio
feathering my fantasies as this year reaches it's last quarter
CREATIVITY MEANDERING
NEAR NOTHING
anxiously I roll around on the mattress,
open window, listening in on the intricately staged
oblivion of trees
who've become infatuated
with coffins.

Gastown (as it appeared in my dreams)
has found it's dusk anthem!
Adriano Celantano's
"BUONA SERA SIGNORINA"
what a strange dream that was
the music was vivid to the point of
impossible recognition
and I'm awake and dizzy not from all that
but from love
(it's tilting my axis!)
Always has......

An untraceable eye
lingers in
malevolence to ALL city banks
where the late bop players
stand united and "free"
(Outside, by art on a wall with animals dancing in a hot air balloon, jealous of their own permanent state of painted euphoria)
Restaurants are consumed by silence
upon closing down,
but NOT the Fisgard streetcorner cafe
I frequent!
It's LOUD TRUTH and San Francisco weeps in
the decorated walls.....some far off dream of North Beach
Trieste evening with people who were once ALIVE!!
People that bleached
THE AMERICAN VISION
with sharpened language sleeker than
the polished jaw of Apollo.

Here I am again,
accepting the same sweeping misery
as those before me
(settled tombstones barely seen beneath a wild oak
while cars cry exhaust to beach-view apartments
and Winter's harsh wind drums against the window pane)
sure they were good people, but living plays no favorites.

I'm awake and dizzy!
forlorn with the morning.
Stars surrender to a sun
which often wonders
how we adapt to this asylum.
(Vanity makes me sleepy)

Warm in the delicate crimson light,
I lie in a temporary peace.
I am setting
as all else rises.