Dying Beliefs

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Dying on a Monday
like a battery
a moth
a match
a monarchy.

Dying like
a bombing comedian
embracing the inevitable
as if it were
a plastic comb in the sink
or a large fuzzy mascot.

Dying
on the pavement waiting
for a meandering street sweeper or a
half-drunken janitor
to lethargically
collect what is left
of this detritus
this tangle of limbs
this withering ruckus.

Dying
to sing like the bird on the sill
just don’t want the reviews.

Dying to beat
the crowd
the drums
the record
the crossword.

Dying in the sun
and in the rain
and in the filth of your charade.

Dying on wholesale
at Costco
aisle 4:
the album
the musical
the sitcom of your life.

Dying beliefs
painting my clown face
with all of the things
I’ve done yesterday.

What They Do With Your Money Does Not Concern You

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Another administration carpet-bombing children
in the name of democracy
Another grinding financial forecast and
another impractical cost-saving device
Another improbable economic promise
trumpeted with prolific zeal during election year
Another half-hearted one-liner graveyard
Another insulting one-time rebate
Another legacy issue attributed to the open immigration policy
Another app for the produce section
Another uninspired song
manufactured by a team of award-winning producers
Another AI-induced psychosis
Another table full of doom scrollers
Another obvious divisive tactic applied by
another propagandist regime
Another underfunded vital community resource
signed off by another trust fund politician
Another prescription for another social malady
Another spam scam shazaam!!
Another encampment bulldozed as a solution
to growing economic disparity like placing a piece of torn tape on a rotted pipe and calling it fixed

Another way to make it all make sense:

Another space chicken rapture graffiti

Poncho Sumo Gaelic bazooka

Blah blah this air just wrecks my tiny, tired tin brain…

Another thirst trap on my feed

Dream Home

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Inside there are
books piled upon
books piled on
tables.

Broken calculators
blanket the floor.
Factory beige.

Cracks run underneath.
Insects chatter.
Moss grows.

Dead flowers in black vases
grace midnight windows
under fluorescents strips.
A lurid spectacle.

Dusty mirrors show long neglect.
reflections shunned like criminals.

A staircase descends into darkness
on the other side of a door
torn from its hinges.

All the floors
beneath the floors
and rooms behind
rooms behind walls
change between visits.

A stranger not certain
what they should wear.

Webs in darkened corners.
suggest larger things.

An empty trophy case lingers
at the far wall
crumbling
like a forgotten receipt
in a back pocket.

Close as a buried trauma.

Once the wind gets into this place
things become scattered.
Unmoored.

Once the night comes in
it’s hard to get it out
and it’s hard to understand
why.

At The End Of Our Dream

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Mist white as a neighbour’s lie
spooks the immediate field of snapped hay strands
beyond the red-roofed townhomes
-rows of white walls facing down on
yards sloping towards me
sparsely populated by chickens with no heads.

A grey horse with an unruly mane arises
from lying on its side in a side alley
and ambles its way towards me.

It has no face
no eyes no mouth.

As I arrive at the dark sodden earth
of a farmer’s field where the houses ended
I knew that it was the end of the dream as well
and that there would be nothing beyond the tree line
etched into a morosely still overcast.

If I continued onward
I would simply awaken
and that this was what the end would be like
-it was not frightening or sad
but just was

and that in my life when I passed
I would simply be awakening from this dream
-our dream,
and I would end up here
somewhere passed those farmer’s fields.

I would go without struggle and
without ceremony

because this is
how things truly are
beyond the curbs and the lights
and the boxes in which everything has been placed
and carefully labelled.

A figure was approaching
from beyond the trees.
A tall, gaunt shape in no hurry.
It is not time to meet them yet
but they will come
as does the night.
As calm as a still sea.

Turning back I see
that the path had changed
from when I came.

The way back home
is a little longer.

It always is.

Father

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In the cold air
In the night
In the yard
Seeing my father out there
standing
facing me
with his eyes closed

He pulls down the
oxygen mask on his face
so that it dangles
below his neck

The hospital gown loosely
hangs onto him
Exposing his white chest
just like I last saw him

“Thank you for coming. Thank you so much for being here.” 
He said
and I can still hear it
everyday
in traffic
brushing my teeth
as I lie in bed and wait
for sleep

I didn’t know it at the time
but
those were his last words to me
before the monitors started flashing
the machines started beeping
and the nurses came rushing in
as he closed his eyes

A light switching off
on a living room family portrait
growing increasingly further away
until last words
are all that is left

He says something else now
He says it every day that
I’m here
And I’m trying to but
I still can’t hear it

Over all of this bullshit
that I call myself

but he's always been
standing right in front of me
the whole time.

Health Check

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The good doctor placed a stethoscope on my chest
and listened.
“This is quite irregular,” he said. “You only have half a heartbeat.”

“I know, Doc, I know…” I sighed.

“It’s shrinkflation.

It’s how I feel
about the coming election.

It’s an involuntary response
to the harsh reality of strangers
at the local Stop N’ Go.

It’s been silenced
by woke culture.

It’s been outsourced
downsized
and deregulated.

My dog ate it.
My ex wife and lawyer
had seconds.

It’s been sanctioned by the UN
for my role
In the energy crisis.

It’s in my back pocket
along with a receipt for something
that I cannot return

and a picture
of me with a celebratory blunt

at yet another summit
that wasn’t worth the hike.

How’s my cholesterol?

I Have Let it All Go

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A mind like an abandoned factory
A field from which you can hear birds
A blank yellow pad
An empty shell on the beach
A floating seed above the sea

This is how I operate
on a good day
on a bright day
on a clear day;

weightless
and joyful
-a nitrogen balloon.

I wander between
voids filled with
industrial noise

as a ghost from childhood
always there
and never
but

calmly tucked
into a soothing respite like

wind chimes
beyond the freeway or

a dark bedroom window.

I have let it all go.

I am a quiet place now.

Moment

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No matter how fast
you can’t catch it.

No matter how strong
you can’t lift it.

You can’t bottle it
You can’t measure it.

You can’t change it
and you can’t fix it.

But you can hold it
as long as you want to.

Some people
never let it go.

Like me.

So many times I
could have done it
differently.

So many moments
that I never left.

Things and People and Pets

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It catches up to you
over time
-the accumulation of things and people
and pets.

It just happens.
They spring up out of nowhere
like dirty habits
and Walmarts.

When you eventually own a home
some kids would be running around it.
They might even be yours.

No, you don’t know their names.
That’s what your wife was for
(Martha, wasn’t it?).

There may be a cat sauntering about
‘OMG THERE’S A FUCKING CAT!!’
‘We’ve had Buster for ten years.’ Your wife (Martha?) would say.

You look in the driveway.
There used to be one car.
Now there’s four.
Why do we need so many cars?

Why does the fridge have a screen
and the gerbil an Instagram account?

All these questions need answers!
And problems solutions!
But you don’t get solutions
even when you pay for them.
You only get more problems.

Things start to move too fast.
It becomes disorientating.
debilitating.

Suddenly you’re a tortoise
without a shell and it may
be best to hide in the basement
until this all blows over

in twenty years.