Ominous Concerto


An ominous concerto


Chords of war

blow within


‘cross green seas

of meadow grass

behind homes


stored within

vessels flesh



hiding from

shattered glass

and angry blasts

of cannon’s bark

and bomber’s will

to die and kill

and kill and kill


The siren’s fiddle warns in the middle

of our field

out back

in the year

of war

below blue skies

swirling black


An ominous concerto


I Blame the Scientists

In the middle of the stage, dressed in the breath of dry ice fog and laser laced face stitches; Frankenstein rose from the floor with a white Rickenbacker 360 in his right hand plugged up in his exposed heart beating faster than a Neal Peart string of acid laced triplets and all amped up to a pair of Fender ’65 Deluxe Reverbs dangling from his decaying ear lobes. Blood dripped from Frank’s fingers as he slashed chords. The “Stein” screamed lyrics that sliced his lips as the crowd of 25, 435 bald scientists in white lab coats, all snorting coke, and drinking strawberry Kool-Aid held lab burners in the air chanting FRANK – EN – STEIN, FRANK – EN – STEIN, FRANK – EN – STEIN.
Sud-den-ly to most, and in slow motion to the science nerds on quaaludes, Frankenstein collapsed and registered a 9.0 Richter Scale earthquake that preceded a Mount St. Helen resurrection on the stage that left nothing but the fading sound of sizzling crack pipes. Frankenstein was dead along with all of scientists who created him.

It was such a waste of a fine guitar and amps.
Damn the scientists!


A New Voice

A new voice
A language hidden
In poverty
Of otic region echoes
Of mountainous streams
Gold reed’s rustling secret
Hushed beneath
Aside a crude cabin’s cello and cold hearth
Fibrillating near charred remains
Formerly known as – church bus –
In family circles –
And skeletal remains
Of a broken compass
Pointing north
Always north




Explózia n
Dancing like twisted fused flying dynamite
Sparkling loudly
Feu d’artifice

De flores flor
Fleurs fleur
The bloom of such potent sky flowers

Rouge – červená
Blush passion –
Red – ROJO

Amarillo, žltá
Juane –
Yellow flashing
Streaks of lost caution

Hacen el amor en el público
De l’herbe verte
A modrá obloha

Making love in the public
Between green sheets of
And blue blanket’s fantasy

Explózia n
De l’amour


And Further By

Where is green grass
Why do I slip
And slide
And fall on my ass
In my winter days of shortened lengths of light

Where is my grip
Why do I smoke
And drink
And forget to sip
In my shortened lengths of lit winter days

Where is the joke
Why do I laugh
And snort
And trip like a bloke
In the light with my winter days short of length

Is there a path
Why do I ask
And hope
And act like an ass
In winter days of my short lengths of light

Says a voice in a song on a street corner downtown
In the winter
With a sound
I heard while passing by – slowly – as light dimmed to night – and flicked my cigarette into the street – and muttered –
Damn man – flipping up my coat collar – as I passed further by – and further by – and further by –


Memories From A Rickshaw

I was sitting in a rickshaw

I think it was last spring

Reminded me of Asia

But in a Euro kind of way


Was on Unter Den Linden

Stopped at the Bebelplatz

An underground memorial

Of empty bookshelves mute


I could still smell the ashes

Where burning books in flames

Died a silenced death of murder

While author’s spun in graves


Then onto Gendarmenmarkt

Where twin churches faced the other

Then along a cobbled road

Where a battered wall fell down


I could still hear some echoes

Of words I cannot say

I drank a lot of beer


But couldn’t shake the image


Of empty bookshelf shivers

Of forgotten words decay

I thought of that this mourning

When the news girl spoke to say


Subversive was misused


In a governmental way

So sat down by my river

In Montreal – Quebec


And I spat down on the water

That didn’t even splash

So I got back on my bike

And went and bought a book


And I’m reading it tonight

Sitting in my chair

It doesn’t make a difference

But its words will know I care


Grout and Tile

I live in a house of grout and tile
Not a square foot of carpet
Not a curtain or drape
Just blinds and shutters
Dolce Gabbana shades reflect forward
Protect what’s behind
And I cycle
Miles and miles and miles
One way
To another house
Of grout and tile