after a day of hitch hiking;
a rest at the base of a waterfall in northern Ontario....

I see this beauty four feet to front. Bubbles snapping, fish spawning, plastic bag floating- wronging.

And still it pours with the same roar; mantra 'owe,' over the falls, falling in and mixing so.

Top to strand, above Blue Heron stilt-stands, and bursts to flight since it's soon crayfish night.

So Nature can course its cursed plan, rolling and lulling and wearing with sand; its bottom, its footrest, its mileage and used tires, its murky mad satires.

And here I sit at some grass and mud spot, shaky sheets of elder sun serene, still so hot.

And you're so far away, and I haven't spoken to anyone in quite some time. These brown waterfalls make me feel like I'm at nature's bar. It is droning, intoxicating, calming, magnitudes of voices that are saying nothing of importance, but still it seems dangerous. I should find a place to sleep tonight, and a phone to call you.


I love, my love. I'll shatter the blue sky with this kiss. It's your breathing, your eyes, your mind that I miss...

It's all spun out again. Skin tones and obscure shadows melt like sick butter over dust and two or ten-year old dead flies in a ceiling lamp shade. It's sweat, or it's blood of the clear eye colour no way; this is my story, and I'll be strong and admit. It's not piss or puke or verbal contest refute. It's simply rolling silently across everything that I haven't cleaned.



Stairway To Heaven plays sad and flat, mild and forgotten in this slurp straw rye with two bucks left bar. At one time this song -- it must have sent chills, thrills, and even teased young girls.



Work tomorrow. But that's tomorrow. Actually that's now, as well. Old woman down the oak from me with her drunk legs in the air cackling smoke throat 45 she's alone too Ice cubes biting my teeth. The bar tender LOOKS at me as if I'm the sane body and the connection is made so I grin at her expense.



We're all tough, pretentious and out of town. Reanimated, I don't know, but we'll act whatever made us comfortable in our comfortable hometown living rooms. Everybody is laughing. That's all.



Do you remember lazy dime days of Cracker Jacks and army men with plastic parachutes (that our fathers made in the factories), to throw up in the air once, maybe twice before the eves trough swallowed it whole, liquorices and sandboxes filled with cat shit, immense Saturday forts crafted in crab-apple trees and Nicky-Nicky Nine Doors, tag, swimming pools, parents that I now know were drunk, pyro anthills with red and white firecrackers in the Queen's ass, stubbed toes.

Crying. Tears. Sickening beckon of ponds and pellet guns.

Our first swear word