Timothy Yan, that was his name
I miss him, still, 71 years later
I don't know if he's alive now
Nor, really did I know then in 1942
We were kids, he was 11 and now
would be 82 or 83
I don't know if he'd remember me
But, I remember him
and will forever
He was Canadian
He was my best friend
His family was Japanese
We'd come from Ontario, Burlington
Work brought dad west
So, we settled in a suburb of Vancouver
Tim's family had been here for a few years
There weren't a lot of Japanese in Canada
He was the first one I saw
We didn't have any in Burlington
So as I know
We lived on the same street
Went to the same school
He was Canadian
We played baseball, road hockey
football, we were brothers
blood brothers, we were a team
We moved west in 1938
I met him that fall in school
We were instant friends
The day I saw that St. Louis Cardinal hat
stuck in his pocket, all rolled up
He'd be Stan The Man, I'd be Red Russer
He was Syl Apps, I was Sam LoPresti
I was Turk Broda, he was anyone he wanted to be
We were both Joe Di Maggio
We were brothers
I remember the noise first
Great big Army trucks,
Olive green
All up the street
Not just at the Yan place
The Yokishuris, Wans, and Timmy's Aunt too
Soldiers, loading the trucks
We weren't allowed out to see
Notices had been posted though the door
We could only watch and wonder
They were being moved
They scared the powers that be
Little Japanese families
Many born here
Scared the powers of  King in Ottawa
And they had to be moved
Inland, to the Okanagan Valley
To Camps, in Canada, their country, Camps
Canada was at war
With it's own people
With 11 year old Timothy Yan
Ever since Pearl Harbour
Ottawa got scared
Japanese fishermen in the west
Japanese fighter planes from the east
There had to be spies in British Columbia
Tim Yan was apparently one of them
They were told their property was safe
All their goods in storage
They were lied to
A month after they left
The auctioneers came in
Everything was sold
Everything...
I hope he kept that hat
Dad bought what he could
So did other neighbours
I still have the boxes
Never opened
Waiting for the Yans,
I miss Joe DiMaggio
I didn't understand it then
And I don't now
My teachers couldn't explain it
My minister said it was the best
That didn' t help either
What best?
Who decided what was best?
Best for who?
It wasn't best for me, or Tim
Nobody asked us
He was just gone
I spent years looking for him
He never came back after the war
They were moved further east
They were sent to Japan
He was from Canada
Why would they send him to Japan
He was gonna be the first Japanese big leaguer
I hope he made it
I grew up and became a lawyer
A citizenship lawyer
This was not going to happen on my watch
To anyone again
Not while I was around
I miss him
He went to war
And never fired a shot
He went to war
And never knew why...

Some say it should go burn in hell
That the money leaves a really bad smell
  But hit and giggle
  Or **** and piddle
It's here to stay the IPL.

From countries far and wide
Come players with heaps of pride
  But if they fail
  You'll hear them wail
For there is not anywhere to hide

The cheques books come out
The auctioneers will shout
  Some Players get bought
  Some others get naught
The IPL now has such clout

The turn-styles are all in clamour
The Batsmen are using the hammer
  They go for the big six
  Bowlers try their new tricks
So cricket is married to glamour

Should cricket become this glam
When the ball is met with a blam
  hit way in the air
  didn't see you there
Sorry about that Maam!

i couldn't stand the heat,
spent most of the time in the shade,
everyone made fun
of the guy standing by the pool
reading a book, pretending to
be a sundial;
i was called the whiskey-man;
one night i slept outside
and by the time i woke up my glass
of brandy disappeared;
mingled with the "auctioneers"
of a good time; boy one of those
kenyan girls was hot... oomph,
she looked like oiled coal, slimy bits
and raw ***...
i know i was a tourist...
played a stupid drinking game with
two english girls, snogged one
at the end of the game, wasn't invited
back to the room for a *******,
spent hours at night looking at the tide
splashing the shore, cried at the painting
so alive all the museums and galleries
became graveyards of appreciation;
it was a holiday resort, i admit,
although one bartender asked me to do
a local tour of the place, go clubbing,
supposedly a colonial ******* i was
upon first reading;
but the heat though! god almighty, couldn't
stand the temperature,
i was literally an ice-cream cone most
of the time, took to the shades,
wrote a short story for my grandfather
about an elephant dunking his trunk into
a bottle of brandy...
one day got chatting to a scottish pair
and a russian couple,
told the scottish guy about travis' 12 memories
album,
i was originally asking for a cigarette,
so we drank and chatted about mickey mouse
politics of america...
the scottish guy eventually ran off and jumped
into the kids' shallow pool veering
on blind-drunk-happy...
another time i too jumped into a pool
with my clothes on...
god-**** this heat...
ha, hmm, those kenyan macaques were funny
esp. on prompt of being fed on the balcony...
but boy that baboon was a menace,
a real anarchist, charged in like a donkey
with meningitis and stole food...
although one baboon had massive haemorrhoids...
and given his fat pinky ***... it was even funnier to watch.
oh yeah, and this guy muhammad wanted
to take me to a crocodile sanctuary of his...
i sort of refused the invitation,
and no, i didn't go on the zoological escapade
of a safari to see the Masai tribesmen...
just gave c. g. jung's modern man in search of soul
to one of the caretakers of the resort.

Everyone has a habit.
Mine is biting my nails until I start to ******* fingers.
Everyone has a habit.
Mine is falling in love to quickly, like a clumsy school girl who always falls into her crushes arms, just to be dropped
Everyone has a habit.
Mine is getting rejected like a credit card that has been maxed out.
Everyone has a habit.
Mine is always saying the wrong thing. When ever I talk to a girl I become my secret identity : loser boy! My one power is repelling women away quicker than the flash runs around a shopping mall with a Visa card .
Everyone has a habit.
Mine is brushing my hair until it almost looks like something that I could love, my hair is a chain that links me to my skin color, like a slave hooked to an auctioneers stage.  So I try to brush away my skin like  getting rid of thick curls will change my heritage.
Everyone has a habit.
I have this really ****** habit of never being happy. I always pick apart things and find some reason to hate myself. Im always to tall, to black, to stupid. I can't be happy for long because when I do I destroy myself like an evil villains plot when he presses the self destruct button because he's lost confidence in his plan.
My biggest habit is smoking cigarettes made of sadness, and allowing depression to infect the rest of my body like terminal cancer. I can't recall if I smoke  a pack a day anymore, it's a part of my everyday life. With every meal, movie or social interaction, I need a drag of sadness. There's this girl though, her smile is a nicotine patch, her voice is a message from my dr saying "we've found a cure, for your depression."
Now i can put down the pack.

The auctioneers and valuers
where checking out your dress
A black baby doll with  polka dots
That design you stole from Vivenne West
You were rocking all your assets
Looking   Really   Really  hot
The band was playing some old Beatles  tune
and you mimed along to That means a lot

You move across the Dance floor
The baby doll still holding on
your entourage in tatters
now Broke and all alone
Eyes watch your every movement
like moths drawn to the fire
Each woman bitter in her envy
Each  man swollen with desire

They all try to catch your eye
you are in the zone
Your Body swaying to the music
That Baby doll still swings along
every movement pure perfection
each pirouette  its own song
They are basking in your Beauty
every shimmy turns them on

its as if you could walk on water
and the rhythm takes you far from shore
marooned among the Broken and the shipwrecked
you hear them howl and beg for more
They cling to you like cobwebs
like limpets to a rock
The broken hearted and the lonely
Those that Love forgot

They will try to catch you in their net  my love
and drag you back to shore
Thy will bind your feet  
and hold you tight for ever more
They will treat you like a puppet
some ones  dancing Marionette
The broken hearted and the lonely
Those purveyors of regret

The auctioneers and valuers
gather slowly round
Raising up their gavels
they bring the curtain down