after one last summer of cottages, palm-beers floating on the lake,
faceplanting into the waves while trying to kneeboard,
badly-planned but perfectly-timed trips to toronto for shows
(getting kurt viled)
the family casa (host of
many ragers and teenage kicks) was sold and georgian bay was no longer home.
my parents bought a new truck and moved what was
once 15 quesnelle drive
down to cape breton island, three quarter million in pocket
and i,
i had a resurgence of old feelings towards a girl i won't name
brought on by our rekindled friendship after the death
of my best friend, (nothin' helped me get thru those months
quite like that smile)
and after an embarrassing night spent having various altercations
(fisticuffs)
with a young birch tree behind my pal's place
i hopped in my '03 volvo and sped west like that old man once told
dean to do.
dust flying thru the open windows and my split knuckles
smilin' at the fat old sun.

that summer the bookstore,
where i bought so many weathered novels, died and
the man who was its overseer, with whom i spent so many evenings philosophizing over cups of joe in the closed-up shop ,
sort of faded away; i'd see him thursdays at the study sipping whatever he drank there in the corner and always felt too bad
about the closing of cottage books, ashamed in a word, to
ever go over and buy the guy a beer.
still don't know why.
guess i'm a bit of a *****.

that drive out west was good. made 10 mixes in addition to CDs
i already had and slept on the highway side and stopped
where ever the hell i wanted to stop. smoked cigars while blazing over the pavement with my life in the backseat at 120 km/h
not knowing how to feel,
but doing alright.

Boats of green, jets of red
A cry for help from the oppressed dread
Abodes of old, but now torn down
Unfurl the white or face the crown.

The mossy bricks and the gravel black
Wooden pyres and bodies stacked.
Battles and wars, left and right
Millions die when hundreds fight.

Homeless, vagrant, dignities defiled
Childhoods lost and old age viled.
Breads of honesty covered in mould
The plight of the plebeians hidden manifold.

A ruthless purge or an exodus to the unknown,
Parochial choice the guiltless bemoan.
Encumbered voices laden with rue
Dead men may tell no tales but the persecuted do.

I am daydreaming,
My dream is a like flash light,
Filled with eternity and peaches of the fresh night.
I've spent hella lot of time thinking of the good will,
Nothing can be moved in my still inner fight.
I can be a lot of me, choose which you wanna face t'night,
Let me tell you secrets forever forgotten in my life.
Chained, spilled, viled, don't go too far with words,
I don't know which pass to turn,
I am still thoughtlessly daydreaming.


My dreams are gonna stay with me, let me shed a sweet light,
Right upon them so I can tell which one is my fave.
I am having a dizzy head, my heart is aching with screamy pain,
I will fight my way, I will maintain the same.
I am willing to get everything, lest I know how can I do,
The moment that will hit me hard, I will ****** it from hands of fate.