tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49361223932874802102011-07-07T18:50:51.955-04:00Poems and muses from the pen of Jeff Casselman.The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comBlogger701100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-70022323147387923862010-09-13T12:55:00.001-04:002010-09-13T12:55:12.530-04:00

you have followed yourself into battle; you have answered the call, the clamour of armour and the rising mists.  You have perceived the enemy, the enemy is you outside of you, the enemy is a mirror pointed at the sky like a lake of still reason reflecting the concept of emptiness, that owned by all eyes that you cannot understand without hatred.  The conscience is for the conquered, lost in the

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-12776431279034890102009-07-26T10:28:00.001-04:002009-07-26T10:28:12.320-04:00

And were I to create any question of you Would I create a tomorrow for it? Would I, Haunting these long corridors and short mausoleums Threadbare in my rags of reason; And If I haven't held worlds in thrall I've at least held moments In any embrace which lets them slip away – perhaps, That leaves me often shallow and breathless, On a cusp of words I could never quite build up to Over,

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-15355921183707678872009-07-18T12:29:00.001-04:002009-07-18T12:29:39.914-04:00

Quivering, strung precariously to edges of leaves In the mists of the mornings when Frost claims these faces; upturned Lying frozen under an icy breath now, Eyes hollowed Remainders, somehow centuries behind But looking forward to What was and is no longer there- Blink. Worlds confederate back into blackness; Buildings whistle tunes in the windowsills Statues continue doing what they

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-54856705393547977432009-07-14T22:22:00.001-04:002009-07-14T22:22:15.878-04:00

Bones will speak longer than the years I live and yet I am not dust so speak to me in this place, but whisper, I I’m the undeniable event That haunts every dream and I'll remember you;   When everything that does end doesn’t end, in this hitched moment Is all as it should have been?

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-82752868753604222302009-07-13T22:11:00.001-04:002009-07-13T22:11:19.797-04:00

What's passing passed as a footprint in the sand even if I watch always changing, filled then refilled with accidental mythologies and our legends until unrecognized in the restless oasis of our nature lain flat, only to be broken again.   Technorati Tags: Poetry,Philosophy,Confessionalism,Literature

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-49122552109405921202009-07-08T20:44:00.001-04:002009-07-08T20:53:02.781-04:00

the falling raindrop knows nothing of sadness the fire burns with no concept of scarcity the smoke shares nothing with gravity   the leaf grows with no fixed expiration date the flower borrows nothing from death as the ocean is not intimidated by land   the sky knows nothing about bounds and

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-7438862012514169852009-07-06T23:10:00.001-04:002009-07-06T23:10:10.309-04:00

(Opus, part III.) You as something I once feared, that soft glowing of flesh under the yellow lights of a hanging garden or the breeze remembered quiet as the lake, where I can imagine your delicate coloured wings, or the fickle caress of the corners of our mouths in transit;   an opus plays on if unheard, knowing I'd carry the tune with me through the summer night until I sing it here

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-11316754328700857992009-07-02T22:11:00.001-04:002009-07-06T22:08:10.923-04:00

(Opus, Part 2) Easy now, follow the course of the descent this flower petal lowered into it's grave; does intention bloom under newly turned earth, as a dream, scratching at layered surfaces in such a shallow universe of soil where what's broken down is then freed; if only to release these words in the darkness I close my eyes, born into the light guarding my secrets jealously-

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-54830350829676748822009-06-24T10:11:00.001-04:002009-06-24T10:13:26.860-04:00

  1.  The Gatekeeper 2.  The Old Church of Love   -Acrylic on Canvas, 16” x 20”.   Contact holotropic@live.com for more information.     Technorati Tags: Painting,Acrylic,Black,White,Canvas

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-86314766270487302432009-06-21T18:40:00.001-04:002009-06-21T18:41:51.396-04:00

when the day was consumed there was an orange glow in the stomach, still and adrift across infinite impossible lingering distances; in a perpetual state of falling or rising, a hanging indent in the wrong lane, a surging tidal of blood hanging over the surf, the cliff faces, the onrushing clouds that scrape and curl over the tops of mountains and trees, time forgot what I remembered to

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-86615530074234860942009-06-17T16:54:00.001-04:002009-06-17T16:54:26.077-04:00

A burning sun under the softness of silk and cotton drawn in breezes and months of summer Sundays, if these eyes were to follow those traces, suggestions of where you're going, where you've been, of what lies underneath, would any of that matter under this shady porch somehow outside everything you'd walk by; imagining you, as leaf on a branch, you the unbroken green lawn, you

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-15057113455463070962009-06-02T21:32:00.001-04:002009-06-02T21:32:37.741-04:00

the black tar pit bottom of coffee cups the slow droning ooze of clocks the quiet progression of the huddled masses that ebb and flow around our table, our building, our city the eternal smile of the television the vapor trails and endless wakes the sun refracting through dusted windows the oracle in your eye in the absenteeism of your gaze the mouth that has opened

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-58087621748577668642009-05-31T22:51:00.001-04:002009-05-31T22:51:15.237-04:00

4. (the words) ...will not cling to my lips trembling with this angry hunger, and the sweet dew of you slides away again: lips glistened with the elixir of pain tremble your name from the back alleys of my mind from perches around cold fires- every  shadow slides off, fleeing my every broken note, croaking symphonies still in a nightmare where I reach out

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-60463953920378975012009-05-31T21:31:00.001-04:002009-05-31T21:31:24.520-04:00

3. (Cartesian reasoning) street-lights mark a path through any city you could ever imagine, cats forage through bins door open and close on nasty little secrets with painted faces, smiles and claws common knowledge to any grate or prison cell- streets end and begin eventually drunks sway without partners cars roll on, without destinations- walking backwards- the

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-76856681401642561672009-05-31T15:20:00.001-04:002009-05-31T15:20:59.680-04:00

2. (alone) go to your window now, close your eyes turn around the other way: life at your back, over your shoulder, pulls you in close, arms around your hips like lovers or rumors rough and welcoming. the truth a stale confession, whispers 'this is your heart, here, look, it stops right at the glass' and the night outside darkens taunted, in creeping

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-32810215217798095072009-05-30T22:58:00.001-04:002009-05-30T23:01:31.577-04:00

1. (the words) for Jody ...as unspoken, as under suggestive silences, as under crude patchworks of my guessing quickly sewn up tight with implications as the fleeting kisses on my nape brushes my name while my fingertips play on satin, tracing against the past with a future tense- desire never survived in quotations, in single moments, in it’s transitions it became a

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-85038077238414565252009-05-29T20:23:00.001-04:002009-05-29T20:23:31.204-04:00

telegraphed through old cotton thrumming hubris, these translucent intents are the borrowed fervor of bygone ages words as burnt paintings erode from their meanings, in yellowed pages and sepia eyes that digest quickly leaving the color to pool on the floor; a footprint here would leave meaning, electric, art, at random, filling empty space

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-14371444968484473102009-05-19T22:23:00.001-04:002009-05-19T22:23:26.083-04:00

A heart is a candelabra filled with tiny flames this is how I burn slowly threads of wax fading my remainders mounded in retreat, sculpted increments I can never get closer than what you'll burn away.                * Fingertips cold against porcelain frozen for centuries; in this pond for the looking you'll find only you, you’ll softly touch

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-91741474554151404362009-05-18T02:07:00.001-04:002009-05-18T02:07:56.158-04:00

I realize this is all time every word, syllable and breath a space is filled when you rubbed my arms swollen with the dead work of the world- and I am worth more than flesh or the rotten carcass I will leave more than the suggestion of beauty subverted into a purpose- because I have one hunger and that is to make it home to the smile you never once sold to anyone

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-51319802196543093842009-05-17T00:41:00.001-04:002009-05-17T00:41:49.944-04:00

Prometheus Hammered down to the worlds face To wake with chill frosted eye And a burning anticipation when In every dying thought that crushed the sun Between a thumb and fore finger, memory Lingers, Death comes, only to wake once more- Only to find those burns  will have healed Only to find darkness is temporary, Of no respite, and light of no use- Jealous of the

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-24135583147588243432009-05-16T09:03:00.001-04:002009-05-16T09:03:11.738-04:00

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-16857649137889666752009-05-13T22:34:00.001-04:002009-05-13T22:34:10.032-04:00

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-91932490149186425672009-05-12T22:11:00.001-04:002009-05-12T22:13:57.882-04:00

Be meticulous, incessant, last through these recessions of inspiration clean the cupboards, dry the landscape, consume, hoard strange cracking faded dusts and cover this complicated fascination with prestidigitation; the bid to impress with art printing up words, conjuring image, page, thought, wit, is it, it as a presentation to art decorated with tiny gold seals or flagpoles

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-58954828995674310972009-04-30T20:49:00.000-04:002009-04-30T20:49:50.673-04:00

(black and white acrylic, on canvas, 20” x 16”) For the purposes of constructive theme; the series of paintings, in a darker sense, will portray denizens who live behind our doors.  Section 1 (Complete) – On Sale for $250CAD   Section 2 (Complete-On Sale for $250CAD)     The completed layout for the first and second installments of ‘A Hall of Doors’ – On a Film Noir theme.  The

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-50375059597774801052009-04-23T23:15:00.001-04:002009-04-23T23:15:30.637-04:00

1.  The Elegiac Negotiations Canadian. I have never written a love song for you, so I apologize, I have not forgotten the words.  I have written songs like olive branches, partnerships, not wedding bands or symbiotic dependencies.  I have offered myself equally, you expected more, as if your garden can grow without my soil, as if my soil could nourish without your rain, as if it matters without

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-7993948889386189392009-03-21T23:32:00.001-04:002009-03-21T23:32:46.607-04:00

  when did the hunger stop?  the desire?  when was it decided no further action was necessary?  when was it figured out that you'd done all you could, that there was no more to offer.  when did you start letting it go?  when could there be no further result, no more good to come from a little more effort?  when was there no ways to break into the future?  when did not losing matter so much as

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-13390091335066291292009-03-19T22:06:00.001-04:002009-03-19T22:06:12.581-04:00

In Your Aftermath A second from cooling, white hot I throb in open air; away, brought to solder, fire-red mythic dragon's eye, as primal movement, destroying breaths I touch where I could set fire to the world; Then slammed back to the anvil - I am what has returned from the fires Not the same, through, sums in parts joined Under your iron grip, your blunt

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-57175579279443836122009-03-14T14:56:00.001-04:002009-03-14T14:56:24.239-04:00

Chiming through deserted nights, an arm around the flexing, strained chord winding whispers; of reassurance in melancholy no longer alone, not sad in words, no tears drawn over stone, just trickles, applauded to the very roof of the sky quietly, a warm bath the Heart sinks itself into, picturing keys turned and pressed gently with care and dream born to shatter and assuage

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-55350987038005639202009-03-09T02:55:00.001-04:002009-03-09T02:55:27.580-04:00

  Love poems and the truth hardly agree because feelings can or cannot fade without the onset of a periphery thoughtful blackness, the muse, that long dull tooth of time where frozen moment like shards, reflecting other moments that still shine light, but as if from a long distance- If love is love it's only the consideration of itself or the projection of itself A

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-76941240734273076362009-02-23T02:09:00.001-05:002009-02-23T02:09:59.733-05:00

So if a lightning blow shocked me here into life if I wait long enough won't it take it away? And if some cosmic dryer split the atom that forced that lightning down in a strange concerto not being until I was, and my thought turned to why in this I might be, might I be an after thought to what is only accident? this thought I thought is not tangible, there is

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-4565282375695882192009-02-21T06:26:00.001-05:002009-02-21T06:26:04.716-05:00

Perhaps it's here time tinkers, endless fascination likened in breaths given to each step, in motion, and perpetual in the pale puffs of my wake marking the air then released back into it's cold, a winter inclemency under the soles of boots, sounds drawn tight as my shoulders knit closely as this fragile wool overcoat If I stopped for one moment the world would continue

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-76023327293691031402009-02-18T11:03:00.001-05:002009-02-18T11:03:02.531-05:00

A finger traces and follows the shimmer left over from where the porch light painted these summer nights, draped in a moonbeam and glimmering, warm love's sheen wearing invulnerability- clocks do not tick, minutes remain unborn but future arrives, muses quickly unsteady, if leaves hold trees to account and these fingers one day may fall away to grate on frost and cold

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-80854403729334324932009-02-15T00:46:00.001-05:002009-02-15T00:46:23.384-05:00

Stars still Shine I know you have flared brightly bright as suns in skies where I have burned like a thought this is yellow this is the flare of passion that darkened this skin foul in endings where endings begin- This the yellow of the eye the rotted color that overtook everything certain of age certain of everything or everything just dies, endings where

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-70470467137499781122009-02-10T00:21:00.001-05:002009-02-10T00:21:21.559-05:00

dreams grow slow inching with thickness building their strength even in what's desolate silent as looks caught from the corner of an eye then gone- motion in a dead tree, in the hands of a puppeteer; dreams don't sleep either dreams don't swallow their words they have none they just know, one day their root will crack your stone one

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-90677162048892099412009-02-02T01:03:00.001-05:002009-02-02T01:03:35.033-05:00

Swells like a reef or the wave cracking against the rocks, slamming with force or unyielding, roaring quietly from a distance or in punctuating symphonies while your toes get wet; there is massive movement here, the gentleness of rain against the face is forgotten this is the raging deluge of overthrow kept only at my arm's length always reaching to grasp me.  Where I stand I see shades of

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-58446363444883370852009-01-25T14:07:00.001-05:002009-01-25T14:07:12.059-05:00

A pencil scratching a page for purchase, In a desperate pilgrimage Through the dusty reams of inspiration; Words; engraved into watches of consolation Words; chiseled into headstones Words; promised on bands of gold Words; written scrawls on toilet walls, Words; limp daisies dangling from muted hearts Words; that rang joyous victories ‘Stories’ he muses, ‘we all have stories’ With

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-4117728664369239502009-01-14T03:33:00.001-05:002009-01-14T03:34:35.681-05:00

A billion neon nights, all strung back to back, A million beckoning doorways A Hundred thousand reflections that can't quite be believed Ten thousand words you heard where the promises never were deceived A thousand Jolts of electricity crawling over thought A hundred touches that crawled inside to whither and slowly die like hunted, tired, desperate

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-18825574997750440742009-01-12T15:38:00.001-05:002009-01-12T15:47:59.240-05:00

Maybe you'd say in all your travels that my glass relics underneath mean nothing- you'd say their context passed time through the sieve and as such remain fickle, clotted bone flecks stray synapse and ambition. The book of truth bound in many small lines Here is a mausoleum of all spare parts, I reign uncontested among time’s crumbling monuments as a testament to will

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-14190266249732296652009-01-11T21:14:00.001-05:002009-01-11T21:15:47.659-05:00

Will grow out of an ear like oak trees crush your head And cloister together rickety under the weight of a day, they fall silent into the arms, victims, to drawn out claws willing to the warm flame they drop like flies, if the words I say do promise you flowers I asked of forever and found it in the clocks newness and in relief at the end of a

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-92112504954973272052009-01-09T01:18:00.002-05:002009-01-11T18:55:19.922-05:00

If I have dreamed I have dreamed of things that have been in the Eden of a life, serpents in trees, apples, leaves and scraped knees; If I have closed my eyes and like a river let myself be swift and sure of every word falling from my lips in waterfalls If life were lifted from my heart and I were allowed to fly with winds far from where once an oasis held my

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-19856921174791254272009-01-06T23:31:00.001-05:002009-01-06T23:36:52.704-05:00

Towers have risen then fallen on eyelashes and within earshot bombs have spread flowers over your body Hosts have been roused in the twinkle when the moon finds a home in your eye, pale stained glass the colors and truth of a breath a chameleon in the grass, whisper secrets to me, nations fall in and through mirror shaped mountains, these tear strips as armies march onto my

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-9161809792824690922009-01-06T00:05:00.001-05:002009-01-06T07:36:49.954-05:00

 Furthest Star The gaze that demands whole skies, drawn a brilliant pinprick where distance is only dreamed of and nothing's cold; now and then to flitter like a breath paused then re-taken The moon a pale round jaded pock mark gaping in the night dusted like an unused table where none have sat since creation oceans of time that separate do not command

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-91773457186600481092009-01-05T01:27:00.001-05:002009-01-05T01:27:07.656-05:00

Such eyes become  pale pools for the looking and my muted reflection She has somehow made me into perfection- I'll fall delicately from walls in thin, shaved layers, I breathe in whispers, summer alphabet of love gets misspelled, traced in wispy fingertip kisses and suggests time is to be neglected- She has taken root here lingering in empty spaces where on me she has

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-54006149797081840842009-01-02T01:17:00.002-05:002009-01-02T01:21:11.466-05:00

where I found you looking outinto everything, a glazeheld close as a blanket - still,and perhaps this stillness mystifiedchasing as you were after some reflection left to redeemeverything you'd left withoutthat moment you left it allto fall headlong into your patha pair of lights bearing downor the gleam of a curtain drawnback, a morning unexpectedyou never could understand;when I drew my finger

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-62934677535000284432008-12-31T00:21:00.002-05:002008-12-31T00:26:04.660-05:00

Do not cry because I have fallen asmany have fallen beforeand their love lives always in our worldasin my last whisperchildren live on in sunshineand others have futurewhile I remember all my beautyin sorrow and joy forand those who I'll see again one dayevery wayand if I have faced helland felt fear in my heartI know someone after me takes this flagwith my heart throbbing hard in their

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-56482906167381763982008-12-30T01:40:00.002-05:002008-12-30T01:42:39.098-05:00

Your winding streets hold no excusesthey are exactly as they were madefor the small world we were-Cobbled together by men who saw foreveras being exactly the same as nowwhen there is miles between people.these squat little houses,the strong Roman bridgeswhere I stop now makeme believe I am waterand I have flowed for a thousand yearsand I will flow for a thousand moreunpunished by

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-31298259067998519702008-12-28T21:17:00.003-05:002008-12-28T22:27:57.310-05:00

Such a bluish Sylvia in stasishangs down, a flower bent under rainis betrothed by happiness, or soI've been told; under my fingers those satin petals that cling to eachfingertipslide eagerly away busyriding the crests of the breezelike you always did love-The autumn garden gets emptierthan perhaps I can remember each year,whispers with vines and willows of memorywould just seem to suggest so, not

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-80491877386975434742008-12-25T10:27:00.003-05:002008-12-25T10:31:53.108-05:00

I see you as a wall that stretchesfarther than I can walkhigher than I can seedeep as I can imagine, youon the other sideback to the walllegs drawn to your chestface buried in knees, mearmed with kind words, thesecut you like razors, hushed,holding a sledge hammer, I'mwearing a monster's old face and a will strong enough to keep swinging at the future-this is how I deal with sadness;there is no

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-56615455458673565052008-12-24T02:53:00.002-05:002008-12-24T02:56:34.419-05:00

For Love-I have not been running away for a million yearsbelieve meI have not been waiting for deathI have been waiting for the joyous spark of lifeI'd find maybe in your eyeor the way you didn't let go of my armwhen I turned from you in my desperationI have not studied ten thousand texts of sorrowpractising for this day, I resoundedlike a blow against a wall that you didn't let echoin fearI

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-74449837644231335462008-12-19T04:35:00.002-05:002008-12-19T04:39:01.885-05:00

a circle is an atrocity inside itselfspinning uselessly in breaththat won't begin or end-oran exhale, thenthe circle in your eyeround and dark as the skyis where I have fallen muted by,obscured,the thin tendrils of branchesthat challenge the starsI never gave over to a dream of artwhere this made sensewhere I thought I could capture youperfectlyencased in amberowned like a trinketworn around the

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-56627664100214008552008-12-18T21:47:00.006-05:002008-12-18T22:42:35.202-05:00

for joanneThe clock froze in your hands long ago whentime still mattered most, in that moment thenyou closed your eyes and forgot dreams againI am always baseless in your worldsyou have created a life with being without me,held hostage in sequels, leaving gapingholes in you while your heart screams again;I am always faceless in those wordstime still, shattered frost, cold windows againstmemories

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-65119672091255372042008-12-13T14:10:00.003-05:002008-12-13T14:15:26.429-05:00

The poet turns to the thiefIt's a question of belief.“Is it worse to steal a dollar or a million?”So strange this honour among thievesFor he turns the question aroundAnd moves to digress;“That depends on what price you’d lend to a human life”We split the sides of coins“What true value has moneybut for the fact we all must eat,Is it wrong to steal a million from oneWho has twoOr a dollar from a

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-72779785191920793452008-12-03T00:49:00.001-05:002008-12-03T00:51:46.575-05:00

At the end of this there is a dream storewhere one goes shopping for inspirationand food grows staler on shelves-I know I never knew you, I just thoughtjust for a minute that I did; a lifethat never really existed, yourmain industry is repetition, yourlights of inspiration hidden deep thereinside of you that burn and fireUselessly, concerns deeply struggled downuseless venom that stains every

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-80301433212996980582008-11-26T01:58:00.002-05:002008-11-26T02:02:03.079-05:00

MidnightMidnight was your weapon, love.Not too many people knowthis bit, I can confide in you-Our song marching through splinters;slammed doors, brokenmirrors, left holes in homescleared debrisclinging to bodies-But if midnight was your secreti wore it around for a long timelooking at your facebut pale, dead in your arms;that was my midnighta heart lying in concrete dustslowly drying.

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-82551124754477916942008-11-21T10:21:00.001-05:002008-11-21T10:26:47.561-05:00

"...lugete, o veneres cupidinesque" - Catullus, Roman PoetSparrowsdraw your chariot nowover the horizoninto my memory.Sparrowsin some sonnet baredinto another time;so rest here a while, friendSparrowssinging summer songyour life is one journeycrossing oceans in flightAnd thisis how you will beremembered by me andby us all, perched on aWire, lifepounding through each livingnote, a smile held high,

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-31043249911028530452008-11-13T10:04:00.002-05:002008-11-13T10:15:24.320-05:00

Large round disks like lenses when you looked at meyou perfected me,but that's not true- I just fall awayin layersI breathe in grated concreteFrom crumbled walls, theseI never minded those little lettersTracing with whispers on my neckwas definitely admirable,That's when it happens-Her hand on mine chimes a life suggested not yet lived then butonly her note does not waiverDesperationAs I try to

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-60935387004461025282008-11-10T12:01:00.002-05:002008-11-10T12:06:48.634-05:00

Finding himself littered with incoherence,always reconstructed in the nether of slumberCoyote dreams of life andFlames burning and extinguished againThoughts, consumed this way, are like skiesCoyote fills these skies with clouds and stars,The stuttering, all seeing eye of a moonAs magical tomes, runes set,What eyes see these? As suchCoyote created beings to look upAnd a flame burns a little

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-39642788733451395912008-11-01T13:59:00.004-04:002008-11-01T14:16:30.631-04:00

Lights will go downlights always end downor come up, wherever he ishe is content in standing;but maybe late to find the epiphany(maybe always late for that)standing up and pulling on your coathe doesn’t stop to listenThe moment ends without any effectexcept for punctuation;final words carry their own flags highThe lightest of triangle notes, rungall in a row, never repeated twice, but falling

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-43741191103921113222008-10-24T21:58:00.003-04:002008-10-24T22:54:02.490-04:00

A feather in the windalways returnedan anywhere destination-the stray synapse of incisionsin curious kilteryet slowly yielding, bored,offered on contact indefence, defining andelbowing away at dustfrom the tint of the world;the corridors to walk dim as possibilitycomposed of poems, empty air glittering with ground glass shards of dreams still guiding-in a constant fallingbut as light as the

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-70895701168033329302008-10-22T13:40:00.003-04:002008-10-22T19:13:36.672-04:00

Before the elections there was a massive uproar as Margaret Atwood spoke out on the impending vote, her few critics stating flatly she was involving herself into business that didn't concern her. I wasted a whole afternoon on the Globe andMail website navigating the comments, defending her position for those few who would listen and not just berate her as a lefty commie pinko - and that I quote

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-80086614037617213582008-10-20T21:54:00.002-04:002008-10-20T21:59:29.786-04:00

unlocking mysteriesfilling the sky with universesmarked by the starsin lovesolving people one by onegetting fooled by reflections in mirrorscalling myself my ownall innaming the pantheons crowdedonto platformsall waiting for their trainsto rollwinters are still cold andleaves will linger on between deaths-your thought the hungry touch of frosted irondesolatedready to never let me goready to make

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-23754779781916984152008-10-19T20:24:00.003-04:002008-10-19T20:37:59.298-04:00

ThoughtHardened jewel when challengedthose slivers fall away, inbreadths, I stealthought – light as feather,thin as air butintensitiesglistened with interpretationsand the neon pride of creation.In thought I deserve only to slowly falllike some ice carved godbeaded and worshiped in puddlesamong the trickling vapor trails of the rushingworldwhere I steal myself from meone line at a time.

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-60310066894492535522008-10-17T20:35:00.002-04:002008-10-17T20:46:31.900-04:00

The Poet's Fate ('Our Creations' Part 2)fate arrives like the clock of the wallstumbling drunk through doors nightmaresa stricken number, unexpectedbetween reasons why and why nota new number doesn't fit well, but yesstand up, do your jobit's all adjustment-while water settles over everythinguntil serene surface is a sheen andthe morning mist returns to it, and in thisreflectiontruestill and at

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-5868677757439028932008-10-11T22:56:00.003-04:002008-10-11T23:03:13.076-04:00

you do not speak of this i speak of thisyou do not believe in thisi believe in thisi am not speaking negativelyi am stating only factdo you believe me?do we argue over a hair's breadth or just perception?

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-59931884072549558402008-10-11T10:44:00.003-04:002008-10-11T10:52:33.262-04:00

Swollen fleshmeasured breathsflailing, wreathed for purchase,some old pointless road maponly leadsto junctionswhere we have crossed in pathswhere our lips clutched undera waterfall, alwaysfalling, nowdeeperif not suspended in wordsthis hungry mouththat wouldconsumelovetimefleshdreambitter fruitwhisperssweet dewsflowing sands, all long for us reality spits us out...

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-54296549028679827422008-10-09T21:48:00.001-04:002008-10-09T21:53:09.790-04:00

Negotiations - Rota Fortunaewhen I dream of powerI hold everything else in my handcareful not to squeezebut mountains quickly nail down eye lidswords turn into raging rapidsdrowning intentions-Power becomes an omnipotent backgroundhum, useless to everyone, stars in a skyfree, open, hugely ignored.

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-9050184108994340042008-10-09T20:06:00.006-04:002008-10-09T21:57:24.676-04:00

CanadaPerhaps i don't project enough scars;I'm only an old fenceleft over afterthoughtssplitting fieldsveinslike mad math, meaninglessto those who've reached over them,to those who've taken them outto shake hands with strangers;for those who haven'tmy face,hung on a pole and swinging in the breezebelongs to you all whorun like blood through those little borders.Here, I'll barter your nickel for

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-24729903992808128382008-10-08T21:42:00.000-04:002008-10-08T21:45:27.671-04:00

Before we begin, I must admit that I am staunchly ABC at the moment...Recently (today, actually) it came to light the truth about Bill C-10, when the Right Honorable Mr. Harper our present Prime Minister "Pulled the Plug" on - the one that while cutting $45, 000, 000 in arts funding, reforming tax structures, also funneled the grants and tax breaks that still remain into an approval scheme.

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-41077896638099195232008-10-07T22:18:00.000-04:002008-10-07T22:21:31.671-04:00

Here looked his own pallid reflection in the window, pulling roughly on his skin with one lethargic hand. Outside the lights of a far distant town were slowly creeping by, tiny lights do still fire against the dark night. The lights inside the cabin had come on with the sunset. Elsewhere in the cabin people were talking hushed amongst themselves as the miles rolled out beneath them. They were

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4936122393287480210.post-3046554903843931162008-10-06T22:21:00.002-04:002008-10-06T22:27:41.455-04:00

http://www.theglobeandmail.com/servlet/story/RTGAM.20081004.wlivesimpson1006/BNStory/specialComment/?page=rss&id=RTGAM.20081004.wlivesimpson1006Dear Sir or Madam;I am Addressing Jeffrey Simpson's online blog last night; (Link Above)I didn't need Margaret Atwood to tell me how to vote strategically, Mr. Harper has said it long before in some (at least three other) very suspect legislations, and

The Village Voice Hudsonnoreply@blogger.com