sitting, striking keys while the harbour dies

cold wind seeps

under slitted wood window

I sit at the keyboard dreaming

about this and that

rather than work as I’m

supposed to

I see my bike through

the wooden slitted window seeping wind

she waits alone locked up

soon I’ll be free again

to fly through city streets feigning

flight of gulls over the harbour

dirty harbour, whose

mouth has been made to swallow

manmade detritus for two hundred years

who keeps her mouth open

for more abuse until she dies

I sit here

at this keyboard

typing short lines

three to four words

six max

for the sake of hearing keys

sink to their bottoms

for the sake of not doing

what I’m supposed to

while the harbour swallows rain runoff

oil, soap, cleaning agents

make their way

with floating cigarette butts and

foam peanuts

through sewers

bypassing befuddled broken processing plants

oil and toxicity flow into her

while city politicos sit sideways

lunching along her flanks

feasting on lobster caught just outside

their eateries resting

right above the sewer traps

where rats drown

I sit at this keyboard

striking, looking up occasionally

wondering why you’ve come this far

wondering why I dream

of this and that

rather than produce, produce, produce

the harbour? she sits there calm

mouth open through calamity

not a silent scream or whimper

‘till something else

changes

what was previously unchanged

welcome

a wave-less weekend
spent with mother and son
building
veneering
laughing
napping

restlessness got the better
of me
so off on the bike
I went
Sunday city streets
have different faces
but the potholes
all
still there

monday morning rush
off to work
to edit
proof
politic

waves

are

always

welcome

lingering conclusions

conclusions are not common
in real life
lingering admonishments,
like mid-morning moon opposing sun


a master of mistake
so good have I become
that irony
has rubbed clean off

lingering remorse
like day after
stomach flu
belly burn

a master of apology
irony lost
conclusions are like
winning lotto tickets

time does not wait
wrongs not righted
but forks in the road provide
the choice a wiser man would choose

to linger in thought
perchance this time
to go left
up that leaf covered path
where loved ones await
with open arms for now

lingering doubt should be
extinguished
resolution resolved
remorse restored
to quiet confidence
and peace
of longing
mind

casual dismisal

it’s easy to forgo the beauty
of solemn gray morning skies
of rain drops dripping
from tree into puddle
on blacktopped streets
peace of dawn
subdued sunrise upon gray skies
the quiet listening of a
favourite morning song
the looks on the faces
of mother and baby
in deep sleep
sometimes when too much time is
misspent on life’s listless noise
it’s easy to forget the beauty
of life’s livity
consciousness shouldn’t be
casually
dismissed
viewing, feeling, tasting
sensing
daily
intentionally

blind faith: part 1

science

beware of scientists who use the phrase:
"we used to believe that ____,
but now we now for certain that_____"
next generation's scientist
will likely use
the same phrase again
with new
cockamamie
discoveries.
why don't we
listen
to our own
intuition?
why don't we understand,
that the same breath
we breathe,
is the same wind
blowing
through trees?
beware of
blind faith

someone asked me "who is Bukowski?"

waiting

for the new one
to arrive
for my morning muscles
to unwind
for the coffee to be ready
and for the yellow, orange,
and red lines
to march across the swell map
for the lottery
and for the new brew
waiting for the waning
of waistlines
and for the next run
around the city
waiting
to see my B when
I go home
waiting for reunions
with my brother
and his
and my folks and sis
waiting for winter’s snows
and diapering woes
waiting for new sea green
fish
and top to bottom turns
waiting to learn
to appreciate
the moment and
the process
waiting to wait
coming to come
ok
done
waiting

run

maritime fall

in the valley the leaves are
red, orange, yellow
pink
at the bay
colours grey
baby seal watching as I
struggle with the set,
duck diving and going backwards
baby seal watching
and more waves coming
out the back
meanwhile
Blacks is there
and others
the wind from the southwest
the inside finally releases
its grip
and I make my way back
to the lineup
where’s my spot?
ok I think here I
fit
and then it comes,
a long wall
probably a closeout
the hell with it
go
bottom turn and
down the line,
all white like mountain ranges out west
the wall comes down
again the inside holds me
for another set
baby seal is gone
Blacks is gone
there’s no red in the bay yet
all is grey

from "the eagle of the heart-"

it is well
to feel good
for no reason;
or
with a limited
choice to
choose
anyhow;
or with a little love,
not to buckle to
hatred
faith, brother, not it the
gods
but in
yourself:
don't ask
tell.

Henry Chinaski

the question

to get control
is not the question
-the question
to take each day and give
all that I have
to get what I want
like Buk
sitting at the typer
beer after beer
night after night
to write down his question
his musings
it was the process
of getting drunk
of hitting keys
of watching, translating
into the question
it is the process
the work
the sweat
that gets me closer
to defining
the question

es una question
si me entiendes?
la cosa es que hay
que meterle candela
y que ponerle valor
al trabajo

cliches abound
but I won't rely
on them
only I can see
the question
the process
the work
the sweat
we missed your truths sometimes
Chinaski
we washed them down
with our micro brews
strong beers and IPA's
we missed the process
the question
so now I remember to run
to process
the question
to be each day
in the process
to be
the question

partially inspired by Dead Confederates

Dead Confederate~The Rat from LaundroMatinee on Vimeo.

drop

takin a stance away
from the puppet mans dance
gone surfing at sunrise
like steam coming off the harbour
air colder than water
like not tryin and tryin
like doin and doin
see yuh in the lineup
I'll be there at first light

a wha - one spliff a day keep da evil away

hear me a seh
dem a watch all de time
a watch dem watch yuh
like mongose pon de foul inna coop
like rum head a watch London man drink 'im Heineken
like a hawk brejren -a watch dem a watch

but unno no fi care bout dat
jus gwaan an do a ting uncle
yuh no see it?
a ting is a ting king
an you hafi mek a flex

inna poor man country
mango no rot pon de ground seen
dem seh opportunity is bounty


dem not afraid ah opportunity
move yuh bumba clot bwoy!

billy boyo


more like this at Dub.com

respec

best gifts

one of the best gifts I ever received was a music record given to me by my architect uncle. Live In San Francisco -an album featuring a collaboration between Paco De Lucia, John McLaughlin and Al Di Meola. This is one the more impressive tracks from that recording. Couldn't help but to fall in love with De Lucia's playing.

Here's Rumba in black & white in someone's kitchen.

rich

what would you do if didn't have to work?

I would lead
a modest life
wake up at dawn each day and walk to the beach
to check the surf
the yard would have an herb garden
and vegetables
chickens would fertilize and provide eggs
my body would be shaped and tuned
from hours of paddling
my senses keen from observing nature
my anxiety dormant

some believe that we are here to produce
"you must be useful to society"
but is not being peaceful
of use?
I would lead
a modest life

surfy intent

sore ribs and wrists
humbled by small waist high mush
I sit at my desk again
desk jockey
We are defined by how we spend our time
no?
was almost seven weeks since I immersed
in cold Atlantic waters
on the paddle out I felt slow
sluggish, fat, and old
did I say old?
rubbish
outta shape more like it
confidence waning like
last week’s moon
but all is not lost
what was once illusion of surfy self,
now shattered by fact
becomes a new challenge to find time
challenge to discipline and fortitude
to be fit -not fat
to be flexible, to notice the nuances in the horizon
on the face
to find the slope that will lift and speed to plane
to be positive in thought and action
there’s no fight with nature
only acceptance
intentional conformity
until one fits where spaces exist
sore ribs remind
that what I have is meager time

sliding magnets

“Mr. Travieso,
come and see me in my office”
I walk in, sit down
it’s sterile, dead-like
“you wanted to see me?”

“you didn’t slide your magnet to the
OUT position today at lunch.
Can you explain why?”

I’m dumbfounded

the magnet board is the keeper of order
the board is white and pristine
model of virtue
names ordered in magnetized strips
some of them have lady bug magnets
I have a red dot about ¾ inches in diameter
I slide the dot in the morning
I slide the dot when I leave
my office door is next to the magnet board

I walk into my office
there’s marker on my pressed shirt from
bumping into S. Jones
“lunch back @ 1” message
no one will know
when Jones is coming back

what do I do here?
where goes my time between magnet slides?
I could be sliding waves
slicing watermelon
building cabinets

“please make sure this doesn’t
happen again Mr. Travieso.
We must all obey the rules. That’s why we
have rules”

I leave for the day and
forget
to slide my magnet
-red dot still in the IN
position

one less thing to do tomorrow

poem by Chinasky

what can we do?

at their best, there is gentleness in Humanity.
some understanding and, at time, acts of
courage
but all in all it is a mass, a glob that doesn’t
have too much.
it is like a large animal deep in sleep and
and almost nothing can awaken it.
when activated it’s best at brutality,
selfishness, unjust judgements, and murder.

what can we do with it, this Humanity?

nothing.

avoid the thing as much as possible.
treat it as you would anything poisonous, vicious
and mindless.
but be careful. It has enacted laws to protect
itself from you.
it can kill you without cause.
and to escape it you must be subtle.
few escape

it’s up to you to figure a plan.

I have met nobody who has escaped.

I have met some of the great and
famous but they have not escaped
for they are only great and famous within
Humanity.

I have not escaped
but I have not failed in trying again and
again.

but before my death I hope to obtain my
life.

forIver

Forever is not easy as say
walking the dog in the rain
or keeping a promise to I self ‘bout how
much consumption and mispronunciation
Forever is like sand or water
like spring un-coming or
energy inna balance with nature and life
forever is legacy from one who somehow shown
through the darkness to others and even still does
so

like sand in the water and air in the tree tops
forever sways in rhythm with nature and we
the man, struggle against I
and you and dem
and as he said before
“there is no reason to slay the wicked
jus leave dem to face fierce death and
they will perish”
forever

B can write about Rabbi's

Something new happened today. B composed a poem and sent it via email while we’re both running the bad race from our office desks, in different buildings in our small maritime city. I present to you a poem inspired by growing up in Winnipeg written by my sweet B.

The Case of the Knish

we are standing in the kitchen and I am staring at the plates. Two
piles. One with flowers and one plain. I am going over the list of
ingredients. Getting caught with the wrong plate will give me heart
palpitations. A snowball effect which could result in the Rabbi
having to be called in to bless the plates.

He is staring at me staring at the plates. His mother is staring at
him, staring at me, staring at the plates.

There is no meat in a yogurt knish.

Castro Retires

loyal one done

today Fidel stepped down
Like his name suggests his loyalty
to the Revolucion cannot be betrayed
his ailing body and tired constitution
have tamed his resolve to stay in power
meanwhile Negraponte and cronies
clamoring for an election in Cuba
“freedom" but no lift of the embargo
and the White House in a pinch as
new documents about Kennedy’s assassination
could be tied to Hollywood contracts
in my old house in Bartow the
bomb shelter left over from the Cuban
missile crisis still smells like all the
pesticides and fertilizers my grandfather used to store there
to make the lawn green and free of weeds
Castro -the last of a league of dreamers of a better world
who knows if his route was flawed
or if he just had too many sticks
thrown into his spokes for good measure
by the cia, fbi, world bank, world monetary fund,
rich Cuban post-colonial royalty, and then some
one thing seems certain in these times
cynicism reigns
imagine for a minute a charismatic leader like Che
or Fidel, preaching from the pulpit of liberty and
dignity, breathing fire and holy water to cleanse us all
of our inequities and make all man
stand on equal ground
would you believe it? would I? your brother or your mum?
politricks is politricks and the people don’t believe
anymore in anything besides the tabloids
not in Obama or Clinton, not even in Koffi
the world churns the lesser than into mulch
for the machine of resource allocation for the
specials, leaving internal strife for the masses
so as Castro fades what will remain of his passion?
we’re moving into times of
I don’t cares and we’re all waiting to see who’ starring
as soon as the writers go back to work
and Hollywood starts writing checks