Fathers figure


I had two paternal influences
Raised me to be two men, but one
Not the same

Like in life you both chose my mother
In one month you both chose your graves

You’ve showed me two ways to be
Two ways to live. love.
Two ways to stay.  Two ways to leave
And only one not like the other

gave me time to grieve

Dad we’d walk the trail together
Into dark wood. white floor, leaves brown

Father we’d walk the beach in cold weather
Waves come and go, some waste away, some drown

Here’s to Harry flying in his taxi
Taking tips always getting stoned
Here’s to Robert on his safari
Just this last line men – welcome home







singing Wonderwall in the rain
hoisting up our heffeweiss
we stangers made a pact in pain
clouds hide the moon’s first quarter slice

you could have taken the train
would not have paid the winter river’s price
before the bridge I’d blame the weather
it must be so cold under Neckar’s ice
you can’t warm your bones with Hasenpfeffer
after the Eiswein pulled the wheel to the right

wrapped up like maultaschen another runner in the night

Thinking there is a point to find is as pointless as to find life

your crowd only wanting each other
ways to fill voids in their own hollow lives
singing away memories smothered
waking up a new day and old Schwabian housewives

the pre-chorus naive and so full of trust
I envy you who leave before jaded by lust

into the black forest a boar
looks back over his snout
digs it up in the mud
by the river to the south
a backstage pass on his tusks
mystery of this poem in his mouth

you could have taken the train
you’d not be wrapped now in the hearse
it was beautiful to sing in the rain
The Backbeat starts, second verse

Southern Town


lake Maleren blows a thin mist
into the tent city of the Assyrian
like the breath of forgotten lovers once kissed
it never reaches the railway to Gamla Stan

I came expecting fair colored maidens
lovers of viking gods Odins solstice queens
but here a genocide ripple a refugee laden
displaced takeover mafia crime scene

no platimum blonds or swedish meatballs
only shish kababobs and islamic rules
to walk here with money a thing for the fools
roaming mobs dark of hair trade a knife for your jewels

motherless men twenty something or less
from the desert they’re from can’t hang the dead
so desolate not even a single tree left
here they now live tears of Thor have been wept

I sit looking out Mariestad in hand
an American standing out like my clothes a namebrand
a target a Bush puppet the one who invaded your land
I never signed up to make inroads to die in the sand

in Winter the sun never rises in Arab streets of Sweden
the cold never dies molotov only light
in the dark scandinavia the dead garden of eden
a season to survive Stockholm Syndrome and strife



Smoked Meat

in the shadows of Elliot Trudeau
grafitti dumpster a cliche routine
I was trying to understand the CFL
with my Molson, Tots and Poutine

but you had to come in take the stool by my side
an empty bar so many choices
but belly up to me you’d decide
than with your scarf and brainy voice
you would scoff and you. you had to chide
how is it that I bothered you
when it wasn’t I who came from outside?

As if the Sun is to be blamed for extinguishing the night

when you slinked back out to grab a smoke
no cameras around and you didn’t have a phone
looking up from the trash see the airbus has flown
in the cold still winter air hear the highway moan
I am the island in the city of Mary
and I should have been left alone

I have found things for which I am loyal
my precision. my love. my kills
looking down from up on Mount Royal
the seagulls circle your landfills

you can have a brother or a wife
and not know them til their funeral day
it’s easy not to notice in life
it’s easy not to hear what they’d say
they will know you now friend by my knife
pass the Schwartz’s, S’il vous plaît?

The Dogs of Bologna


The Urine soaked leaves italic culture
brought me to a girl crying over spilled gelato
distant yapping cani de Bologna
sneak through a Sangiovese echo
distinct tribulation a speaking vulture
sadness pusillanimous Limoncello

ancient the walls tell the story
terracotta arches structures of the wars
cured dead livestock a way to preserve
a third world country in high-reaching doors
red, white, green in all its glory
but the truth is made of scars
and the lies fusilli torment
anecdotes from splenetic whiskey bars




Lansdowne blood out

When the bat hit it broke my ankle in 9 places
I was keeping touch with Mama Kin
I didn’t know when you invited me to 8’s and aces
this was the night the gang would do me in

Was it that the pit-bull was yours?
I didn’t know where she got it from no lies
I was out for weeks with some band on a tour
got home when they were dead from getting high
just another Brockton lullaby

so you befriended me
coked me up and told me lies
brought the rockabilly girls and the money
right along for the fairline ride
looking at your tattoos when I heard the blast
but that shot missed my side
she had a rose in her hair and that broken bat
guess when I fell you thought I died


Maybe what I fear

Woke up drunk on a beach in Martha’s vineyard
surrounded by 100 rabbits in the rain
We played a gig on a Governer’s yacht in the ocean
the one’s with the money wanna touch me that way
Woke up in a Chicago jail cell frozen
I think it was the very next day
maybe longer maybe farther its all erosion
all the houses and the people look the same
I will wake up somewhere else I’m hoping
somewhere else away from the pain
or maybe I’ll just keep on corroding
keep on waking up in the same place same way