My childhood went by

like a toy pushed down a long

hallway, set fire, bouncing on the

walls.

I escaped time through

‘a long, prolonged’

exposure to gamma.

And radio.

And hamstring strung up

to drain of fluids, like a butcher,

with those first lines.

Pool hall jukebox and foose ball pothead early teens.

Long before Kerouac or anyone else infested my dreams.

I found delight in my own nature first.

You can learn the only thing you need

to from a swimming whole or a junk yard,

and a few good friends.

(Cue, The Wonder Years Theme)

I don’t believe in being imagistic though.

I washed my hands of all the splices from

Ads and other suggestive thighs, crossed into my own

recollection, my calm, cool predilection

for hosting my own awkward, crazy

unrehearsed audition, (in the middle of dawn

quiet streets, walking home from another night

high on the circumstances of my own fate,

my own perceived destiny;

to outdo every writer junk head

since and including Hunke,

and with style, old Bull Lee.

(“With fucking crystal, a ball,

and the Bladerunner Soundtrack on fucking bust.”)

I don’t deny I have Eyes,

but my mind has the filter in place

that keeps it all in perspective.

I will not let anything disrupt the narrative

that gets me where I need to be again.

The more vampires who get fucked over the better.

This world needs more real heroes

and fewer celebrity cameos.

The photo op can’t cure or

absolve the cause, when the other hand just

refills the charity quota.

But I got over it.

And will again, and again,

And again,

I still have toys to play with.

I will film you a million reasons to keep reading

my shitty subversive versified kisses.

I will.

Excuse me while I set them on fire to Carmina Burana for a decade.

You know. Mature, art-house stuff. Very serious stuff.

Excuse me while I set my dead leaves in fire, dance around

Half naked, half crazy, half brilliant,

half Ontarian half Newfoundlander,

running in sometimes a literal,

others a figurative,

(but godamned if he’ll be forbidden both),

Freedom Field.

Ill grow up when I’m reintegrated with the cold polluted soil of whatever place I fall.

 “I’m not a Christian, but I’m not an atheist either, I’m weary of hearing that accidental old aphorism of mine ‘I’m not an atheist, thank God’ It’s outworn. Dead leaves. In 1951, I made a small film called ‘Mexican Bus Ride,’ about a village too poor to support a church and a priest. The place was serene, because no one suffered from guilt. It’s guilt we must escape, not God.” – Luis Bunuel