Electric Blue 


Electric blue heaven

Neon and never

White walled endeavor

Beam me up

Down round town

You’re the Hatter's clown

Electric blue heaven

Calculated invention

A saint hood’s intention

Callously taken

Misguided yet still reborn

Forever forlorn


Words Are Not


When words are not enough

spewing out like regurgitated civility

one can respond in one of two ways:


polite manners



relatable struggles


The Great


The great expanse lives all around us

within and without our worries

whether, or weather, or not we

acknowledge it’s abounding presence

Look deep until you see the line in the

horizon and nothing else



(Untitled With Undertones)

Then nothing, white light, and nothing

Can you feel the un-descriptive muffled sound

The white nothing all around

The pulsating throb coming through your temples

On either side of your skull

Spots blurring together and overlapping

Spinning slowly without purpose

It is in you to find and rest

The question is always can you find it

Again, nothing, warm and white, and nothing

And mostly more of less

But less is much when more is 

overcrowded, overloaded, over-thought

When so much is over-looked and mostly undervalued

Whiter than precious soft porcelain

In quiet, without sound, with presence and purpose

Nothing, white and warm, spotless and spaceless

Nothing, lots of more of less

Compressed for millennia like a metal crushed to dust

Until the cosmos blow us away



The limits are not withstanding, time is finding footholds on a cliff, crows peck seeds from the flesh of the earth, finding love in the darkness is a liars delight.

Don’t ask monkey sense if you want the tide to come in, or the captain who tugs the boat further out to lunch.

To hear, to be, to bear the leverage of the sea.

A one-liners-line can only out wit the witless, give me a witness. 

Can you tell the difference.

I am saving the worst for the best, the pools life preserver is for pickled souls, bridges are for horizontal island jumpers in the middle of a conversation on electric avenue.

Take me back east, she whispered through the mouth of a fork in the road.

Take me out west, he said as waves lapped against his shirt collar.

Take me to the river, the pastor preached to the small grey mice in the wall. 

Give me some cheese, the mice replied.

Only to find the preacher died from lack of eating his vegetables and ingesting swiss cheese in large quantities.

Roaming realms feed animalistic desires in the paws of my palms.

And the beast rules once more; hooves, horns and bone - give me a stone.

Can you tell the difference?

Giving fish food to the waters edge, to a small man sitting on a book, in a park, on a bench, is pointless, finding garbage in a university mind is nothing to hide from, in the midst of afternoon musk.




to think the brink

fake up - fess down

so much so little found

hover to cover

and shudder’s are cedar

unclog September’s gutter

in the heg

the long good neighbor

sculpted me in with the

tiger’s fossilized saber

overburdened to handle

the cradle swings

while mother longs to sing

empty space gaze

snatches a phrase

walk a brazen maze

having landed rough

the deck folds like paper

all splinters break loose

a moose jumps the wreckage

finds new world sewage

runs back to boreal foliage

surround me with your eyes

if you want a somber sigh

on a Friday high

catcher and the whisky

all too risky

b frisk me

laugh it off

lounging soft

bloody cough

take it to the distance

blue and true

for instance

cave me

save me

crave me

blue Sue

come over to feel

something real

take a trip

take a hit

find yourself in . . .


Canadian Winds

Subtle and sweet is the orange night,

outlining shadows in navy

Figures emerge and dissolve within

the black cold of early temperatures

Find a weather unchanging in September

on the prairies that has measure

Oh the pleasure living in constant change 

in a haze and maze of climate scenarios

Paint a Manitoban sky that is unmoving

and I will be amazed

Sunny clear skies by daybreak, rain and cloud by noon,

with flurries to tuck us in

Burry us in our need of prediction

and controllable outcomes

Set us free insurmountable Canadian spirit

Don’t let us become tamed -

keep us malleable

Your wild winds strengthens and unites us all


Let The Light Burn

Look at the light and then 

through the reflections and refractions 

of colour and light

Hold the prism in your iris and let it 

travel through you to the back of you

Keep it and let it live there, 

be aware, be there

Stare still more and more still 

until it burns into your cornea

Find the room in you 

where you keep all of your struggles, 

the room you keep at bay, 

the room you hate

After you hesitate, go, 

until it is found,

until you are convinced you don’t want to be

present, that’s when you 

know you should be there

When you gain access, be cautious, 

this room is lethal

If you open it straightaway,

it could destroy you - be patient, be prudent

When you are prepared, pry the door open, 

let the light seep through, 

let it fill every crevasse and crack of you

The door will try to bar shut, a practiced reflex that you have unknowably perfected

You must resist the urge to seal the door

The shooting pain will radiate, 

the light will sear like a downtown 

detox at 3am

The morning after you will be released,

and set free onto the streets again.



the lives we live

apart and far from the affair

always leaves something left to bestow

and the internal grief we harbor

the gash of separation, the longing

the more of ourselves we conceal

the temptation to leave is vivid

like a blue burning flame

nothing more, nothing given


Metaphors for Dinner

words: shape, sound, texture

design, font, and spacing

glorious text; so simple, serene and sharp

a novel without grammar, so free, so open

the limits have vanished

only poetic exclamations of endless action

yes, if nothing else, poetry can save you if you let it,

if you are willing to dive in to a pool of melancholy. 

Subtle meaning makes interpretation resonate.

The potency of subtle is the resilience of poetry, 

yet is also an instrument to use sparingly judicious. 

The symbolic is sublime, for the poet and the

reader, who digests metaphors for dinner.

To liberate yourself, is to rescue poetry.

For life is poetry.

Only the poets know this


The Moon and the Tide

Swoon is the secret name of the moon

When dawn yawns too soon

And the tide recedes come noon


The Time Betweens Us

There is upstairs

There is downstairs

Then the time between us

The monologue to our life won’t read amiable

This much I can deduce

There is outside

There is inside

Then the cavity between us

When the credits roll, and theatre abandoned

Not much will be left

We will be raw before the other

Naked and unescorted


Swazi Sauce

It will stain your innards orange

Your palate channels mother earth: a gritty uncouth

Tang, with a fiery paroxysm.


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