Four Twenty Laundry

poem, poems, poetry, writing

It’s April, Twentieth, Twenty Fourteen.

It’s Easter and 4/20.

A good day to do laundry.


George’s Spin Cycle.

Advertising the Triple LOAD in the window,

Along with real-

Looking, fake plants of some tropical origin.

Is where I land.


Sitting below a retired drift wood

Walking stick.

Under a mural of blue sky paint strokes,

Swirling cumulous clouds of Tide bubbles.

A retired walking stick.

Calling to the old woman who owned it,

and placed it above the hearth of the door.


I measure my time here,

under the fluorescent lights

In ounces of detergent and Perrier.

Perrier by Andy Warhol-

Advertised on the green bottle.

I wonder what the Artist would think.

Made famous by painting advertising.

Turning the camera from the stage.

Turning that primed revolver from the consumer.

Returning as an advertisement.


We may be consumers but

Companies feed on culture.

I say all this after two spliffs worth of

Futile attempts at catching

The perfect smoke ring,

On Snapchat.


Watch Your Step

poem, poems, poetry, writing

My single Americano

Spins towards me in a white cup

Atop a white saucer.

The classic simile

As to what a coffee should be.



And sugar free.

Accentuated by the small, looped handle.

Mimicking hands, whirling

A face of numbered time.

Just above Bellwoods

At Dundas and Shaw.

Near where Sammy Yatim

Was gunned down by the law.

Scrawled through osmosis

Upon the bricks

Of the Lucky fruit convenience

Is this:

Watch Your step or you may fall.


The wall is littered

With peeling plaster

And fluttering confederate flags

Of promotional entertainment rags.

The basement washrooms

Of trendy booze monsoons

End in harsh stone slabs

And unfinished corridors.

A sign at eye level bawls:



All in all,

It was a good summer.

Autumn has come in Early August.

All the drunks remark on the wind chill.

Leaning, in cold brick alcoves.

Huddled around that winking cigarette.

Made sweeter by the cold breath,

Ramrod chasing that burning powder,

Shot, and lead bullet

Into the cul-de-sacs

Of their chest cavities.

They don’t remark on this.

They cough rolling thunder

And spit black matter

Onto the concrete ladder,

Stretching for blocks beneath your feet.

Grumbling: “Watch your step or you may fall”.


An Ode to New England

poem, poems, poetry, writing

It’s not about where you are going but where you have gone.


In autumn.

The Green Mountains roll

Like a Jackson Pollock painting.


My mind sits together; fits like a puzzle.

Waves lap like a thirsty, salty, dog.

Each of the six states

Eroding into the Atlantic and Mid-West.


From the Canadian tip of Maine to

Cape Cod’s cranberry bogs.

Yankees tea party

At the idea of Kings Tax.


It’s not about where you are but where you adore.


Armoured in Carhardt


Saw-dusted fleece.


The people you meet speak

With the bah-ck of their throats.

“Bah-Habah” Maine is popular slang.

“Wicked-nice” New Hampshire is built on a granite slice.


Ar’s become ah’s in Massachusetts.

As in: Cah, Bah, Lobstah, Chowdah, or

“It’s like my mah used to say. New Hampshah is fah too fah,

If it were me? I’d take mah cah.


It’s not about where you know but where you grow.



Listen my children and you shall hear

Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere.

Oh, and my mind’s paddling on muffled oar,

Skirting history’s ruffled memory shore.


One if by land


Two if by sea.


Foretold in veins that Revere the leaves of Pine,

Oak, Beach, Shag Bark Hickory,

Apple, Ash,

And Maple trees.


It’s not about where you stand

But where you land.


poem, poems, poetry, writing

As easy as it was to tell black from white,

With the more minute details I cannot be sure,

Can’t distinguish between reds and greens

Just gradients of light.

The lines hold the boundaries of our soul

Ink soaking into the paper like an engine burning coal.

The Pacific Railway running up my spine

Like the cracked shores of the Isles of Shoals.

He said stay

She said O.K.

Sleep deprived but satisfied,

They watched the tide

And the ships passing in the night.


One if by land

Two if by sea.

Come to me and I’ll tell you what I see.

I believe we can burn through infinity

So pack extra luggage.

Seasons changed as they sat on the edge of the coast.

Their blood froze and thawed, experiencing death and rebirth

Without a single change in scenery.

Rebirth like the leaves mimicking

The tricks of the phoenix.

A birth through ash

A death through the spending of cash.

She whispered in his ear

Do not fear but the end is near

I am here and sober enough to steer.

He replied, what if I told you

Eternity is right here?


She wrapped her feet in seaweed

And pulled herself undertow

The eroding shores

And sand sliding through the hourglass.

The story goes that Mary Magdalene

Sells seashells by the seashore.

The unconsummated bride who

Died alone and poor.

For the Love of Writing

poem, poems, poetry, writing

I always worry that the love

For the written word will leave me.

As though it were something that

Could be misplaced.


Unlike a forgotten face

That resurfaces during a dream.

The words drip from my pen.

In patient ink, black and clean.


But still I worry,

Who would I be?

Oh, god I have not written a word in a week.


The emotional trauma is building.

Like Heaped, black coal; burning brilliantly

The gauge needs a dump.

Or, I just may succumb to this haze of propylene.


Words then patter in a flash flood.

Carrying the cows and the pitchforks.

Washing away the banks and haystacks.


Those little pebbles in the dam won’t hold.

I’m on my second poem.

I’m Back on a roll.

What We Know

poem, poems, poetry, writing

The cold is put to shame

By the sun’s rays.

The city rolls toward summer.

I hold a job that blooms in July.

Tell me, where will you be at that time?

Tell me, where will I be?

The most I can do

Is draw a map and try to stick

To the interstate lines.

She still finds the time,

To remind me she is happy.

I’m a romantic as usual.

I try to stand in these concrete streets

Amongst the frost and salt and sunrays.

An individual traveler of the asphalt.

When I look into the faces of strangers

I wish I could read their past.

Instead, I read my own.

After all, all we really know

Is what we have experienced.

I guess that’s why I

Have pen and paper.

On She Goes

poem, poems, poetry, writing

Drinking whiskey with ice,

Smoking a cigarette,

On the cold patio I decide to write.

Light up another butt

And think about you and us.

Think about why you parade through my brain.

You have checked away from me long ago.

I just don’t care about much.

Thoughts far from my lungs

And whirling head.

We can all take flight.

But where will we land?

I’m still standing.

But it takes coffee and hope.

Why you parade through my brain, I don’t know-

Tomorrow, I hope I’m not broke.

Just yesteryear we went to the trees.

Sharing a drink and a smile under an umbrella.

The world was so light and all I wanted to do was be there.

Now all I want to do is be there.

Instead, I sit drinking whiskey with ice,

Smoking a cigarette,

And sitting on my patio trying to write.


poem, poems, poetry, writing

Mechanisms turning in the widening gyre.

My body is built on them but most of them are hidden.

I don’t expect you to see them.

I just expect you not to break them.

The universe is a mechanism and sometimes I feel like a grinding gear.

So lube me up and give me a wind.

I’ll ramble down the street deaf, dumb, and blind.

Your smile is a mechanism turning the chains to my veins.

White and red cells race to every tip of my finger prints.

Soaking in Vitamin D and winking at the overcast day.

The energy never dies because this here is man powered.

All Our Lives

poem, poems, poetry, writing

I view the world

Through two small windows

Dark as my stretching shadow,

Clinging to my toe tips

Threatening to float away on the slight breeze.


You can see the lightning storm

Of my nervous system;

The tides of my blood stream.

My mind arranges atoms and molecules of light

Into recognizable features and landmarks.

Bringing with them all

A flood of emotions.

BJ&K #2

poem, poems, poetry, writing

Feeling like a kid again

Playing house like Kat and mouse

Hiding under sheets

Like parachutes

In elementary schools.

Meet me on the swings

At high noon

So we can take flight,

Two birds beaten from the bush.

I’ll race you to the slide

Place your hands

On my rising chest

Whisper, “feel my heart beat”.

But you can’t hear me

Over the ring of the bell

We observe each other

Like show and tell.

Walk me home on the old dirt path

With naïve juvenile breathe,

Fingertips woven in mesh.

There’s a stop sign around the corner

I’ll leave you right there

Cross the street to the bus stop

Consume the fresh cut grass in the air.

The grass is always greener

And there’s somewhere else to go.

The rain falls,

The tides change,

And there’s new seeds to sow.

Nothing to do with the curling of the toe,

We know what we know

And the rest is yet

To be absorbed.


Future events

organized in effervescent



and sound waves.

We all grow old

Here right now full of temporaries

But I still remember

The blisters from the monkey bars.

Those memories, they left their scars

In behavioral gestures,

Shoulder postures,

And inflectional speech drawls.

These memories will be

Twinkles in our irises

And spittle on our lips.

They seep through our pores

In salty aromatic drips.

They tell stories of wonderlust

With every lasting finger print

On bodies and beds,

On cigarettes dropped in sewers,

On bills passed among the masses,

On coffee cups,

Car door handles,

And rocks glasses.

Stuffed in the liquor

Cabinets, behind automobiles

In driveways

And spinning sprinkler

Like playing 9-5 dollhouse.

Puppeteers pulling strings

The veil over our eyes

Grows wiser, dissatisfied.

More aware of their lies

Than their lives.

Tightening the knots

Of their ties

And shouting for the

Home team

Like when teens convene.

We are all young at heart.

Some really play the part.