Tag Archives: Seat

Dusk (day 2158)

This is the spark that sets seed
A jubilant setting free
A sunset beyond every sea
With a new day the grain that grows.

And if each sign these clouds do point
Expose a pasture fit for rose
Should a foot that heals the earth
Lay thin dust that bitter burns?

Nay, each dusk a seat be found
To hold each glass, a little worn
A ritual many should be warmed
At last, sweet moon, a gray cocoon.

Ode to a Perfectly Placed Bench to Enjoy Nature (day 1775)

About my way
A merry one I should say
I wondered to myself:
My dear sweet man
What have you done,
You’ve gone and walked yourself out.
So there I was
A bit confused
Wondering what I could do
To rest my weary legs a while
To recoup my troubled mind.
And all at once
You appeared to me
Like some magic: unleashed
And set free,
Which I took as queue
And found my rest
Upon your well worn stead.

a bench in Fort George Park in Prince George, BC

Big Ol’ Bend (day 1733)

Keep me in the drivers seat
Till I’m almost home
Tell me I’m over the big bend
Like a sky been setting

If I was a man who bet
I’d be singing hallelujah
Hallelujah till I’m blue
As I sit watching you

Take me wild river’s edge
With an oar about my mind
Carry home on a trusty steed
I’m settin’ free

Thoughts for a Girl in High Country (day 1717)

If a robin came and sang to me
For you I’d wish my ears to be
Lifting lightly with a thousand sprouts
The reddest ribbons of my soul.

If a sparrow circled above my gaze
For you I’d wish it’s wings to be
Spring is here as I’d look out
Along the valley, home at last.

If a bluejay held it’s head up high
About the post up in the sky
For you I’d wish a seat beside
Ever last, a Queen, my pride.

Taking Dinner Along the Seawall (day 1440)

Glimmering thought
Steel bench seats
Delicatessens

Lofty Wedding Plans (day 1050)

Could you Amaretto my incomprehensible stiletto? Deep soaked truths brushing up against the blue moon life story that shared Tom Waits and Miles Davis equally between the two top sheet stuffed mattress in a good lord rented room.

The walls were left bare; freedom and shit. Fucking expressionists and their lofty ideals pulsing rapidly amongst soiled novellas and empty chopstick promises. How did I get here. How did I find this spot from outside in? I left little spit smears on my way here to keep me from wanting to know the way back, to keep me from guessing at a way back, and to keep the collectors hot at my rented room door.

The walls never left me wondering for too long, they’d start dripping some smear mold juice as the clock told me late. This was after I’d fucked the last resort out of my head and told my mistress to make herself at home, to which she calmly replied she was at home. I was the guest. I was the visitor in this white washed world trying to jam my heart out in broad brush strokes and feverish memories. Not ones that were lucid, the ones that came and convulsed and controlled and regurgitated out my heart like lofty wedding plans standing alone with a big bill and an empty passenger seat.

Cause fuck brothers and sisters. Fuck their abuse and consumption and interruptions and impressions. I’ve got Miles Davis really laying me low when I need the time off. You’re not the legend I thought you could be, but I’ve sure left out a piece of the past like left over cum spots in a 17$ too good too remember night.

Daddy left me here. He was two dollars short on the rent cheque, he was two days late coming home when I held mommas starving and overdosed fingers, left the biggest hole in his smallest of hearts where I put an industry of lifelines and bagged political statements I had prepared for a two minutes long deposition. I wasn’t ruthless as I counted on my fingers the number of deadbeats I had written letters for, I wasn’t ruthless as I blew elitist smoke up the child-like innocent faces of the wide eyed yuppies.

Now dare tell me why my maidens eyes weren’t bloodshot. Why hadn’t the tears soaked through her indiscriminate and perked speedbags that kept me looking like wild Jack, wild Dad, searching for the red room. Red Rum. Fuck. Red room. What kind of luck should I bring down on such an innocent vixen? Such a loudly laughing white swan budding in my autumn garden. I’m not a troubadour. I’m a fucking junkie.

Try Again (day 738)

You cannot win every day you try
You cannot lose every day either
You cannot fly among the birds
Without walking among the worms

You cannot begin to know it all
You cannot learn without advice
You cannot grow without a breath
Of inward, deep, and conscious thought

You cannot smell the flowers in winter
You cannot speed the times of seasons
You cannot walk amongst the trees
Without a path to lead you forth

You cannot love without a love
You cannot hope without a dream
You cannot be without a seat
You cannot cry without a smile

But in the end it pulls us in
We wrap around and believe within
A lasting hug, some tea to share
You and me as we try again

Dust (day 472)

A lonely seat that waits at the end of the bar
Clears the cobwebs from ones imagination
Marrying innocence to thick laid smoke dust
That one can never quite resist smudging

Perhaps that’s when the ghosts return
Walking in like they’ve never left the place
Light beams catch the dust they turn up
Barkeep still remembers their favorite drink

Their old friends come up and say hi again
Laughing as if one am just rolled around
Not enough, but still a lot
They wont be going home early tonight

The bottles at the top call out quietly
Asking what day it is today
It always speaks in that aged, wise way
That understands it’s all going to be alright

But where did my companions all go
The rest of them dance around here merrily
Red cheeks and full bellies roll
And the door swings shut, silence spills around