I don’t care anymore

about getting too old


to finally fuck my way to

Hank Moody-legend status.

or to earn a cold million

outright, in loose change.


I might still love

a collection or too,

but whether it’ s

part of the problem

of commerce or piracy,

or produced with the

loose change I have on me,

as long as it has memories

it is better than gold.


I’m all about sharing.


Knew this kid who would

have morning after parties,

turn his speakers on bust

and face em out the windows

because I suppose like

myself, he thought,


what if the people

haven’t heard Miles Davis’

In A Silent Way?


or in his case some horrible mix on a

satellite tv Dance station,

but whose accounting for taste?


I’m worried about not getting

all the words down now.



More Honesty


There is a poem in every trip,

to the local gas station coffee shop.


The Ambulance drivers behind me

chattering with the headset.


The man ahead insisting

he still pay for something

while the pleasant girl on the till insists,

each time her insistence

further verging on aggravation,

or at least Newfoundlander annoyance.


They look like out-of-towners,

Mom, Pop and pre-teen

Sauntered to the East Coast,

to pose before cliché Jelly Bean rows

and the other recent additions

to our supposed culture

by our bored tourism board.


I do what we all do in local holes,

secretly wish to switch with them,

go elsewhere while

still a moderately young man,

just get the fuck out.


And not because it is unpleasant,

although this neighborhood is

half- elderly /  half amenities

a few gansta-street-speaking-skeet’s

and a few kindly elderly poor,

but because I am afraid of

being anywhere too long,

forgetting there is

always somewhere else,

while somewhere still exists,


it can never get bad,

and you won’t go mad,

as long as there’s

somewhere else.


Until nothing is left.

To be brutally real,

that’s as much as we can

have, any of us, I guess.


And it scares the sleep from me,

If I am being completely honest.