Selected Writings

On Difficulty Waking Up…

Again last night a truck must have come and filled my bed with cement.

This morning, encased in concrete, I've woken unable to move anything but my eyelids. 
This is how a turtle must feel flipped upside down on his shell.

Or, a mobster who has woken to find that his time has come.

Coaching myself with all the lies and guilt I can muster

I jerk myself upright to a seated position on the edge of the bed. 

My brain chemistry and inner ear begin to send me a frenzy of static-like messages.

As if tuned in-between stations.

Waking on these days seems like such a disappointment to my nervous system.

I’ve got to sturdy myself on these legs…let them hoist me up into a standing position. Wearing nothing less than a concrete casket.

Reaching for the door frame to support my first step

Let's get this day started.‏

On Eating

Marbled fatty lines with a red juicy middle

Washed with the dark love of crushed grapes

Cutting, chewing, gulping like a primate

Stomach lining soaks, blood travels,

Brain walls pour in their hot bath water

Life’s weight lifts.

Cookies before Bed

I eat the first one saying it’ll just be a taste

Washed with a cleansing chug of milk

I take another believing that cookies are to be eaten in 2’s

A little more cold milk and the third goes down without a fight

Now the horse is outta the barn and I’ve got no defenses

Half a dozen later I’ve past guilt and go straight to shame

I stagger to bed to let the nightly ritual settle into my bloodstream

A hit of dopamine hugs me goodnight

According to the 'Stages of Change' I think I’m ‘contemplative’

Haven’t got a plan, not ready to make a move

But thinking I’ve got to do something about this soon.

I’ll stop this bad habit...tomorrow

Wounded Smile

Running over the ruthless terrain

All jagged peaks and rocky cliffs

Standing in a row on the skyline

They line up like kindergartners all outta place

You’d think I’d felt this land for the first time

Cause each time I’m surprised at its asymmetry

I think if I go over them enough

I’ll wear em down all smooth and straight

Like water that eventually shapes rock

My tongue, like a steady river, glides over them

But rugged they remain

My smile is my wound

Speckled Tufts of Hair

Lulled into a sensory trance

By my five foot high Nicaraguan lady barber

I sit, eyes softly closed

Body asleep, mind awake

While tufts of hair roll gently down my cape

Like leaves falling in autumn

Rousing, I observe cold streaks of grey

Speckling each tuft and I ask Ada,

‘Whose hair is this?’

‘Must be the previous customer,’ she lies

I pick up a tuft, inspect it closer

Sure enough, follicle corpses

Like dead leaves clinging on in late November

A cool north wind begins to blow

Through the windows of my mostly abandoned mind

Seasons are changing

But like snow in September

Its arrived before it’s time

And like a man falling from a great height

And flattening the roof of my car

The thought comes to me

With or without my consent

I’m aging.

Fossils now in the ground

Were once sitting in chairs like this

Getting their hairs cut.

Sleep

Sleep stitch me together

Again today I’ve worn thin

The threads of my soul

Weave strong the fabric of my mind

Patch up the tears in my heart

Sow in seeds of hope

That in waking I am new.

Difficult Conversations

It’s been building for days now and if I’ve got even a shred of integrity I’ve got to take a stand and say something. Vice grips press in on either side.  The shame of sweeping it under the rug and the fear of hurting feelings.  The anticipated conversation rattles around in my mind like shoes in the dryer.  Restless as if my body is being fed an electric current I flail around in bed sleep gets pushed back like clocks in the fall.

The morning assaults me.  It’s as if seamlessly my brain has continued on all night without me, fine tuning each perfectly placed word, each indefensible argument.  Now I can’t shake it.  From bed to shower, shower to getting dressed, down to the car, filling with gas…the dress rehearsal chases me like a bully.   

It’s game day, anxiety throbs in my veins, like walking out of the tunnel into the coliseum to meet a wild animal, I might as well stick a knife in the toaster.  I envision my opponent, catlike, claws stretched screaming through mid air hurtling toward my head.  Then wrenched by slide number two I envision them, a lost puppy that I’ve just kicked, sulking and silent, looking at me with that victim’s pity.  Billboards will broadcast just how unreasonable I am, how unfeeling, how self-righteous.          

As if my survival depended on it I make my move.  The conversation gets started but it’s shaky, I hear myself saying too much, revealing more than I have to, I’m repeating myself, surely they can hear the quiver in my voice, see me choke as I swallow, the tremble in my fingers, my flushed face, and the wobble in my knees, one clean stab in the heart and they’d have me lying in a pool of my own tongue tied fragility in front of the roaring masses.

‘No problem Glenn…didn’t know it bothered you.  I won’t do it again.’ 

Its over.  Stress falls off me like avalanches crashing down a mountain.  I float into the air no longer constrained by gravity.

RAMBLINGS:  On Where I’m From…
Big boxy building supply businesses, for sale signs, newly paved roads, sodded yards, next to soon to be ‘developed’ land.  Bulldozers, construction crews, suburbs creeping farther and farther like a virus.  No history, no uniqueness, no back story.  Used to be a corn field where we played capture the flag.  Garage door openers, security systems, self enclosed compounds, I don’t have the energy to greet my neighbor today.  My neighbor and I were so happy when finally we couldn’t see each other and our fence stood like a border crossing.  We sit unaffected but lonely in our living rooms.  And I like the notion of people stopping by until it happens and then I want to protect my time like it’s going extinct.

Sameness, homogeneity, ubiquitous gospel of ‘stuff’, of everyone having their own…lawnmower, snow and leaf blower.  We don’t need…each other.  Consuming.  Consuming for less.  On Thursday’s  I hunger… for the Canadian tire flyer.   If I can buy it cheaply does that make it OK?  Don’t challenge the doctrine of consumption.  Lined up like cookie cutter sardined houses.  Each respectably kept up.  Each with the same flowers, a pseudo rustic path, a spotless lawn, a wooden mailbox, a deck, a bbq.  Why do we live like this?  As if self sufficiency is our measuring stick and that to need our neighbor feels like a failure?  My friend said he drove into the wrong driveway one time because he couldn’t distinguish which house was his.  What colour is my brick? 

Budget my money.  Save vacation.  Save sick time.  Produce. Invest.  Consume.  Self-sustain.  Relax.  Play golf.  Keep talking about it all.  Find friends who are building new stuff and buying new stuff.  Roughly the same kinda stuff as me.  Maybe a little bit less so.  Have one friend who owns and makes a lot more than I do so I can measure myself as not being as well off.  Make jokes about how I can’t afford stuff like so and so can.  But have the majority of friends to be about the same as I am in order to enjoy our things together.  Have a friend or two, maybe just a friend of a friend, who is less wealthy than me.  I can measure myself as being successful but also generous (when I let the less rich one enjoy my possessions).  Don’t have too many of these people around because their presence could upset the whole thing.  They might kick a hole in it.  Do I have any poor friends?  Wouldn’t they disturb the flow of conversations at our bbq’s?  Would I feel awkward then about my possessions?  Hamsters run in wheels.  Relentless unconscious debit card use.  This is what I’m from.  This is a part of my narrative, my cultural heritage.  Evidently, I am troubled.  This suburban landscape wants to convert my soul’s terrain into a flat parking lot.  IKEA makes me dizzy and noxious.  I have to wait in the car.

 

God of the Sun

God of the Sun

That burns away

The clouds and mist

Clear the fog in my soul

I am flameless

I am pacing in my cage

Yet, I have all that I need and more

             

Updrafts

It’s the lick of a blues rift

A salient song, a lament lyric

Ink on a pained page

A poet of longing

An encounter with grace

In the park, on the street, intangible

Imminent, translucent, unattainable

Moments of unworked for beauty

Moments that heal and lighten

Sheer gift

A look, a glance

Like the moon from behind night clouds

The actions of others that shine

And feel like sun on skin

It's the rock bottom bums

The one's enjoying laughter

Playing games on the park bench

Wheeling each other headlong down busy streets

Beating wild odds at living

Finding their way home

On crutches, in chairs, hurt

Speaking the truth

It's the man who has nothing but enjoys

That which has no end

Like sunshine, like rain, like green grass, and shade

It's the delight of the senses

It's the feeling of relief when spring comes

It's the feeling of wonder watching smoke rise

It's like a celestial dove nuzzling up under your spirit

Flying you up up out of stuckness

The updrafts the nudges of wonder

        Daily Mystery 

        Into the blackness a thin stream of white

          Clearly contrasted, it makes its entry

          For the longest time I wait in wonder

          Till a tan cloud begins to billow

          Volcanic in its power and creativity

          Fluidity going from black to a murky sand

          Lines of cream find surface refuge

          Dazzling now are your psychedelic contours

          On and on this alchemy allures me

          But with one touch of this steal wand

          My liquid tapestry settles on a colour

          I drink in this daily mystery

         

Rehab Collage:    (on life in an addiction treatment program)

Help me.  I’m done…I can’t do this anymore.  How long is the wait?  Assessment tools, TB test, OHIP card, screening with Lynn, consents signed, l need in.  I’m a ghost of who I was.  My life is circling the drain.

First day.  9:15.  Ricks' at the door.  Gives me a bed.   Takes my cologne.  I meet the other men.  I get worried.   I meet the staff.  I get more worried.  Empty my pockets.  Pull up my pant legs and pee into a cup.   House restriction.  Got no key.   If you’re going out, I’ll be a good,  please take me.

Group room.  Coffee stains.  Still air.  Whiteboard.  Tom’s markers.  Lamps turned on.  Penguins marching.  Back driveway.  Health break.  I’ve noticed that what’s said on the driveway sounds a little different than what’s said in the basement.  For 36 years men have been leaving their shame in that room.

Chores: floors, vacuuming, cooking, set up, clean up, lock up, garbage out, pails come in, it’s 8:15am, I’m on bathrooms, I’m gonna blow a gasket if he doesn’t get outta the shower.  Dishes.  Someone’s been breaking in late at night making a whole bunch of dirty dishes and leaving them on the counter.

I don’t always play nice with others.  I don’t talk first thing in the morning.  No one’s doing their chores.  The house is going to hell in a hand basket.  The staff say I catastrophize.  Nobody around here knows what they’re talking about.  I’ll fix this.  Ooops…that didn’t come out well.  No it wasn’t assertive.  Yes, my stress bucket if full.  Stuff stuff blow.  Should’s leads to shame.  Triangling. They’re telling me to slow down.  Ok, how can I fix this?  Talk to the guy.  You can’t be serious!  You want me to go to him?

There’s no milk.  Who took the last of the coffee.  We’re walking on thin ice around here people.  The garbage didn’t go out.  The bins weren’t washed.  I’ll show these people how to clean something.  Give me that bleach bottle and step back.  I felt good when the staff called me a perfectionist until I realized that wasn’t a compliment. 

Groups.  Hearing other men speak. Iron against iron.  Close down.  Hood up.  Eyes shut.  Silent like a stone.  Hard.  Rigid. Tight. Fight it.  Hide it. Blame it. Explain it.  Hearing the men speak.  Opening. Admitting.  Owning.  Atoning.  The sun’s warmth thaws the thickest ice.  Hearing myself speak.  At first raging.  Stinging. Pointing. But then. Breaking.  Softening. Confessing. Weeping and Torn.   A voice is being born. 

Air freshner.  Air freshner.  Requesting more Air freshner. 

Masks.  Defensive behaviour. Armour. Artillery. Guns. Swords. Daggers. A word. A look. A heat. A coldness. A sharpness. An edge.  A distance.  Keep away.  ‘I will never…let someone hurt me like that…again’. 

I can’t go back to where I was.  I’ve run outta second chances.  Underneath the grandiosity I’m terrified.  I didn’t know I could feel good again.  I’ve got my life back.  I didn’t know it would be this hard.    I thought I had lost my soul.  Will they take me back?  Children’s Aide labeled me a ‘hard case’ when I was young.  Be careful I punch in my sleep. He terrorized my mom and me growing up.  I’ve hit a wall.  I can’t do this anymore.  I could never ask for help before.  You don’t go from being bad to being good overnight.  We are not saints you know.  Will she ever…forgive me?  I think I’m getting this.  I might even like myself a little.  God shine your light on me.

Last day.  I earned Mary’s carrot cake.  My graduation is at 4:00.  Where did the 6 months go?  Am I ready?  Rick can I come live with you?  Did I do the work?  I don’t know if I’ve got another treatment in me.  This place drove me crazy and now I don’t want to leave.  Tom’s in my head.  It’s harder to make bad decisions with Tom in my head. 

Chasin' It

(Toronto Shelter: 2006)

Chasin' it in the early morning rain

Down an alley by the bloodstain

Chasin' it down George, down Pape to Main

Up Bay, to Yorkville, Hazelton Lanes

Chasin' it in clothes that don't fit

In a three-piece or Kasmir knit

Chasin' it Tycoon in sea plane or Hummer

In wheelchair, misfit, derelict drummer

Chasin' it high or twitchin sick

Hungry, empty, with a broken hip

Chasin' it All Saint's n' all sinners

Losers, fence sitters, and winners

Chasin' it detectives, dentists, drugists

Boardrooms, back halls, bathroom stalls

Chasin' it to the end of all that matters

With mind tattered like leaves scattered

Chasin' it through a crack in the fence

Bottle to the head owing three dollars fifty cents

Chasin' it in the drizzle of evening rain

Back door stairwell by the bloodstain

The Biker Wave

(on learning to ride and wave at the same time: 2009)

Green and wet behind the ears I couldn’t yet signal or turn a corner.  Nor could I switch gears without concentrating so hard steam would rise from under my helmet.  I jumped and spurted down cooper street terrified yet electric when another biker comes toward me.  He’s not someone like me who is doing everything he can to look like he’s been riding his whole life but can hardly come to a full stop without a serious wobble.   This guy is a real dyed in the wool, skull cap wearing, black leather, spikes, rough rumbling, handlebar moustache streaming like facial exhaust pipes, weathered, non moisturized, hard boiled, assassin riding my direction on a bike that sounds like a war machine. 

I know enough to know that there is the customary wave of biker solidarity but you never really know with these crusty old school types whether they’re gonna wave or not so you give your most nonchalant two fingered hardly flinching signal of greeting hoping he’ll reciprocate.  Sure enough the old battle axe with his cut off leather glove releases his left hand and effortlessly lets it be known that he’s seen me.  Steadfast in my determination to look as unfazed as possible I rumble on having something in common with this human crustacean.  I think as I pass by that even if I have to run smack into a street lamp I wouldn’t miss out on a wave with one of these guys.  I can’t yet turn a corner or shift gears but am I gonna be ready for ‘the wave’.  I’m not sure what the feeling is but I think I felt this as a kid when I ran in a pack.

Lucky One’s

The sunflowers look at each other with one-eyed smiles

Grass sprouts from the soil; Rocks sit together around the pond

Plants and trees breathe out what we need each in their own spot

A bushy hedge protects all that is at rest here

Van Morrison floats like bubbles on the warm evening air

Beauty works the grill

My chair tilts me back…way back

Brown bottles sit like rockets by our sides

Green grape vines lick us

A bird sings among the trees

Our plates come full of sweet meat

And the roasted fruit of the earth

Echinacea flowers stretch their necks

The air is blue fading amber gray

A man in peace

Best friend lying beneath

And our bodies feel all this goodness

And our bodies feel all this goodness

So the night slides like ice cream

Along the dry and ready tongue

Yet my mind flickers

To  hillbilly heroin, listerine wounds, fists of sorrow, tongues of violence

Yet my mind flickers

To souls smiling despite the rubble

Flickering again I’m lulled by water running over rocks

And I roll  into sleep