Catching Up. Wearing Down.

Isolation in my nature

The world is catching up

Turns out being stuck at home isn’t very fun

For years I’ve said as much

I’m not on vacation

Some days I need a cane to walk

Twenty eight and fading fast

Body breaking down

Mind ever lasts

Casting light on deepest suffering

Crushed by the reality that it will stop at nothing

Smoke and Memories

Dawn of sobriety

Eyes clear, mind lagging behind

Reality is cruel

A simple fact of life

Nights spent, restless

Barely getting through to morning

A few cold beads of sweat are the only early warning

Body wracked with pains

Worse than all the anguish I’ve been feeding to the flames

Face full of smoke

There’s no walking away from that which hurts the most

Homeless and Voiceless

It amazes me that people who have never been homeless (or even talked to a homeless person) have the balls to make blanket statements on their behalf. I’ve been homeless more than once and I’ve stayed in a couple shelters too. I’ve shared meals and even showers with countless people, along with endless conversations. All that misguided sympathy and no chance to have our own voice and speak for ourselves. That’s how it always goes. We’re all people and we end up in that situation due to an infinite variety of reasons. Most of us never meant to end up homeless and for some it was unavoidable, but there are those who choose that life. Again, the reasons vary to no end. Have some respect and don’t think you can accurately sympathize with people you often avoid in the street. I’m lucky enough to have a roof over my head now, but there’s no forgetting a time when you were treated as a systemic problem, rather than a human being.

I met a young man from India who had illegally entered Canada and found himself in a shelter, downtown Toronto. As he had taken a sort of vow of silence nearly a year before entering the country, nobody was yet aware of his status, meaning he couldn’t leave the building, nor did anyone know of his personal vow. In my third week, I was allowed to stay inside past the 8am “out time” (when they kicked us out for the day), due to a health complication. I decided to quietly write poetry, for it was just he and I in the room. As I finished a page, he approached me and gestured for my notepad and pen. I handed them over and he scribbled a short line that read “Can we speak?”. He gestured again, this time toward the small outdoor patio we were allowed for smoking. I followed him out and we sat for a while. The first thing he said was “Sorry”, which seems almost profound in retrospect. He spoke in a hoarse whisper, which is familiar to any who go long periods in total silence. He explained that he’d barely spoken in almost a year, due to his belief that negative interactions hinder your spirit and that most conversation lacked the depth required to achieve anything resembling enlightenment. He asked what it was that motivated me to write poetry and I explained that I pour almost all my negativity into it, trying to find something beautiful within it all, or create beauty from it, when failing the former. That seemed to resonate with him to some degree, as a smile shone through his thick beard for a few moments. He explained that he was ready to move on from the shelter, try to find his place in the world. He thanked me for the conversation, my honesty and the half full notepad I had decided to gift him. He added that it was his first positive interaction since arriving, then resumed his silence. Following that, one of the shelter staff approached me in amazement that we appeared to have spoken, insisting I give his name for the records. I told her the truth, explaining that we never exchanged names. She began making assumptions of his character, saying that he was probably evading authorities by staying there. She went on, painting her own picture and taking advantage of the fact that for his own personal reasons, he couldn’t/wouldn’t defend himself. A most direct example of the issue that inspired me to share this.

P.S. I’m sorry for all the comma splice errors. I’ve always been loose with them.

A Storm’s Face

I wear my heart on my sleeve and I’ll offer it to anyone

I’m easy to read, harder to love

Above me, dark clouds crowd the skyline

Eyes scan the edges, no silver to find

Sure signs of a storm

Easy to read

Complex in its’ form

Bare Strands

Intricate reality

Tapestry of time

Silks interwoven

Don’t cut too many ties

Intimate connections

Threads of fragile beaded glass

Loose ends, scattering

Some falling through the cracks

Past inaccessible

The baubles gone away

Loose threads lead to tattered, empty frames

15 minuets

If you’ve ever had your fifteen minuets of fame, you might agree that it really does feel like the briefest of moments, whether it was out in the real world or online. I’ve had finite experiences in both worlds, finding that I ultimately don’t like an overabundance of attention, positive or not. In fact, I’ve never been so uncomfortable as I was when I attended an upscale fashion show in Toronto, Ontario. It was hosted in some fancy hall, within a large hotel. The main area was populated by representatives from firms spanning the known world of fashion; names such as Hilfiger, Ralph Lauren and so on. I had arrived at this event without any prior planning, taking up a “plus one” offer at the last moment. I was dressed in torn off denim shorts, worn over my plaid pajama pants, with an early era, black bear lined leather trench coat from the Sears Men’s line over a ratty hoodie, topped with a toque I had studded. Every designer approached me by the end of the night, asking who I was representing. Each took a long, incredulous look at me when I told them “Nobody. I just dress this way.”. I think it’s the most direct attention I’ve ever received in the real world, aside from a couple public speaking engagements that I half assed and the time some restaurant owner mistook me for being in “Ill Scarlet”, whoever that is. I prefer poetry, as I doubt more than a couple hundred people will ever express interest at any one time. It’s also harder for people to criticize poetry, which is comforting. I wouldn’t mind another free burger though…. If for whatever reason you’ve read this entire ramble, I apologize. There really wasn’t any specific point.

P.S. That jacket fell apart years ago, but I saved the patches for my jean jacket. It’s hand stitched and it was won as part of the prize at the very first “Guess Jeans Invitational Rodeo” by my father, a former Rookie of the Year and certified professional bull rider. Its’ style model is one and it’s among the first jackets that Guess ever made (possibly the first produced).

Thin Souls

Heart beats slow

I’m out of rhythm, out of breath

A flutter, a weightless hollow in my chest

Mind arrested by the feeling

Obsessing over details of days I keep reliving

Retracing those same steps

Wearing holes in the memory

Old soul becoming thin

Northern Whispers

Howling in the garden

Howling in the trees

Gaps in the door

The windows scream

Through weathered seams

Cracks begin to whisper

Creaks in the frame

Straining old timbers

Winter bearing down

First comes the fell wind

A cold and hollow sound

Heat and Pressure

Flashes ephemeral

Jewels of glass, set upon my brow


Perspiration is my crown

Ruling over visions

Extracting diamonds from within

Pressure forming stones that glisten

Reflecting light most dim

Beauty juxtaposed to coal black origins

The many facets, faces looking back

Telling a history of life beneath the cracks

Ages passed before emergence



Making diamonds in the darkness