The Abandoned Station






Larry's Wad

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Poetry 5

Another five word collages birthed by slow minds in rapid succession. It seems like this summer could use some calming moments.

NOTE: None of these are repeated in the new digital poetry book, Brief Tales of Compromised Solutions

Ghost Platitudes


My heart is so heavy

Or is it my chest

Going from mind to body

Is what I do best


I dreamed I cried

It seemed a possibility

To finally come to terms

With such a stirring inside of me


But to have to find it there

In a subconscious recess

Seemed to me to be

An embarrassing regress


This slow fusing of success and failure is getting my goat like I never imagined

And my imagination is the destroyer of societies and the spoiler of fruits

I assure you I got the long grumbling goods

So thereís a body on the ground

And the blues that run through it alternate between the left and right eardrums

Peeling off the moans and wielding that old mask into a true and pointed grin

Are you asking me to wake up right now

At the moment when Iíve got that nearly mangled dream in my sights

Just like that the method is revealed through lines of poorly deciphered code

And the animal spirit I try to escape in is stopped and disemboweled at the border


We are all lost

But some are less lost than others



Low Epiphany in ABA


Outside there is hiss and snow

When it comes to the calendar

The weather doesnít seem to know


A foul stench of a burrowed end

As if the chilly terrified sidewalks

Knew there was no chance for them to bend


Against the grain and for the grin

How slow down slush can you get

The reason to rise becomes painfully thin


We all look to the sky with suspicion

A silent protest against a wide left turn

Now every little string asks for permission


You remind your other to suck in the cold

Like a fight against a dark plotting air

We call it a play that just getting old


A tendency that is held over until this night

And then as she lets the air go gentle

To find a moment where everythingís just quite right


Seven steps and the hourís still firing

We look at each other like weíll never move back

But in the report itís just faulty wiring


Out Off the Weekend


there is a chain

a hierarchy

a play written

a madman with a pen and twisting grin

itís only over when the fat lady wakes up from her coma and is taught to sing again and not only taught but told and she has to do it willingly which means bribes with silks and sweets

but the line between the lines and lies is just the letter n


there is a wail

a cacophony

a story smitten

an expert with a deal and clicking tongue

itís the start of a long and winding ditch whose end will be spotted and gazed upon and analyzed in infrared but it will escape the certainty that scalpels and search engines seek

but the gap between sight and sigh is just the letter t


there is an exit

a mistake

an idea bitten

a poor man with rich and fancy excuses

itís getting likely that the explanation for the probing issues of our time will be handed back to our future selves as a punchline that you wonít get without watching last week

but the spot between the word and world is just the letter l


Buck Up That Trend


Buck up that trend and against the ways of the gods you fight with something stuck between your teeth classy honey just like the bees and birds are doing it behind the shed that housed the cow that killed Chicago all those years ago

Like that moth that bites the light to fund a screw that still hurts because that job in montreal is something no one quiet forgets in snow that succumbs to bleak white howls of protest because so few of us are truly in the very know

This is the way to everything to the nuggets of gold in the pockets of soul that fall in the early morning sun when the wind doesnít even bother and the fresh rolls off the skin with an ambition that is powered by stations caught in the flow

Inside the walls are the clicks and clacks of empty tracks rattling with the memories of transport long since left for better and bloodier ways so the wheels are tossed for sport and the husks are placed on blocked that rust in the snow

Unsure about the coming changes in the smooth steel sheen that runs over the people fingertips that pause pregnant with fewer organic thoughts as the lights that change decide that the reaping is option when selling what you sow

A close shave with warped power is just the thing that makes your diary sing send the drool out of the conspiratorís corners the humour that holds the bowl and lets the soup made of hope and tears and ancient possibility swish to and fro


With All the Warmth of a Bus Crash


With all the warmth of a bus crash

The story gets told through pitch black column space

And hideous little microphones

That blunt the words and make a right mockery of sacrifice


Right on the fog lines

Backing up the history on the tight curves of Daliís clock

Slipping off the rubbers in a soft cavalcade of mud

The raise of the morning sun warms your blossoming leather bank account


Picking out the quiet brays and horizon sounds

Along an edging moonlit lake

Water afraid to breathe all too deep

Light dancing through the scenes in its wake


The brush isnít serious about the sirens call

Against another season it waits

Like shattered glass in an empty room

It cannot begin to see its fates


Factual aggression played us all for whirlwind fools

Snapping necks each way for the promise of sullied information

Let me tell you now this is what I burned

The official at the place of the semi-skull makes calls in heaps of ash


Because it is working again

In the chilled early morning silence

When even your visible breath is mostly still

Like a far off blue dream lake





what can a poor boy do, 'cept sing for a rock n roll band? No seriously. In this economy that's a legit question.