El segundo primer beso

El segundo primer beso

I knew that I missed your kiss

but I didn’t realize

how much I needed it


that came as a surprise

much like the moment

when it was clear

that our last kiss

was almost the last kiss


maybe neither us knew

it was to be the last for awhile

it might have a lasting memory 

until I had that dream of you


we hadn’t spoken for two years

after that kiss

not that it ended in anger

it just ended


first I stumbled upon

a short clip from a porno

a Latino man 

with a beautiful face

talking Portuguese to the camera

while playing with his dick

his eyes

his smile

his sexual eagerness

was so much you

though you spoke Spanish

but that look

that invitation

is the same in any language


then I had a dream

of you emotionally hurting

I dreamt it twice more 

before I had to reach out 


we reconnected shyly


then hungry for that first kiss


than the memory of the last

‘Based on a true story’ 🙂 One of the dumbest things I ever did was when I stopped seeing  … um … let’s call him Beso to keep it simple. I’d meet him on line & our first meeting was chaste & our second was incendiary. His work shifts made it difficult for us to see each regularly so each time was special. He’d even been to my house for supper a few times. Then it ended without warning.


Being an all or nothing guy I unfriended him etc. But I couldn’t get him out of mind. He was one of the  few men who I wrote poems for/about. As this piece says nothing happened but it just ended. The porno clip is fact – I watched it several times & each time Beso haunted me. 

I had that dream. I doubt if I would have recontacted him without the dreams. I friended him again on FB, asked if he wanted to meet up to catch up. We met and went for coffee & creme caramel. We came back to my house and boom – incendiary. Some thing sin his life had changed: work etc. But the chemistry hadn’t changed.

I could have let my stubbornness keep us apart forever. The thought of dying & never seeing him again did away with that stubbornness. Life is short enough as it is & inviting as much joy into as one can makes perfect sense. Even if that joy doesn’t fulfill all exceptions what it does fulfill is enough & always leaves me wanting more. 


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Mompou and Revueltas

I find music in unexpected places. A few years ago I watched the excellent Spanish movie Cría Cuervos (Ana Torrent and Geraldine Chaplin). In it Chaplin is a pianist & she plays an etude over and over. The credits listed Frederico Mompou as the composer. I did a search & easily found the etude in a collection of his complete piano works, played by the composer himself. I also found the pop song by Jeanette that is featured in the film.

Mompou’s piano music is charming, playful, at times a little sentimental. Some reminds me of Gershwin’s etudes, a touch of Satie. There is, as one would expect, a distinct Spanish flavour to much of it with pieces that are variations on folksongs, dances, Chopin. I was happy to discover classical world music.

To this mp3 collection I added some work by Mexican modern composer Silvestre Revueltas – Music de Feria: a set of his string quartets & Troka: various orchestra compositions. I came across ‘Feria’ as 2nd hand cd at a store that was once around the corner from me on the Danforth. I enjoy string quartets & this intrigued me. Troka is a download when I wanted more of his work.


Both collections reflect rather than replicate his Mexican heritage. Energetic in some pieces, mellow in others. Clearly modern but not atonal. Rich harmonies, sweet melodies, & appealing. It is refreshing to find, in both cases, Latino composers who aren’t mariachi homages. There is an amazing range of excellent classical music outside of standard repertoire – these are two great composers to widen your horizons.

Plotless Outline

When I was turning twenty-three life was a lost treasure that I no map for, futility seemed a nice, kind way of looking at it – why bother – but I was driven at the same time to bother. A Doors song was my theme ‘music is your only friend’ and I believed that – I was a little town queer who felt isolated and threatened.

Lucky I wrote a lot – driven to expresses something. Though I never knew exactly what is was I wanted to say – I kept trying to say it. I had some booze buddies, musicians and poets. Smoked a few joints with them and hung out in my family’s basement. I had a room there decorated with Beatles posters, my paintings – art getting the inner out some how.

Drunken, near blackout fits of sex. Oops, what did we do last night, sort of stuff. Seeking and not connecting with anything other than the shame of being what I was with no one to share that with.

I became more eccentric as years went on but the patterns were really set then. The things that I held closest to me: music, books, paintings all around me. My writing and some friends who were more extensions of my fears & wants than companions.

Got a job at Famous Players thanks to the mother of my best friend Howard. Flo was box-office there & that was to be my position, it quickly became assistant manager & candy boy. Made lots of pop corn.

Gave me a steady income and some sense of being functional. Added at the same time to my sense of not fitting in. I think that was a big thing for me then, wanting to be like the others yet not wanting to be like the others. Wanting acceptance without wanting to conform to some pattern.

The year before I got the job hadn’t been that bad or good, aimless and pretending I was looking for some job to steady my Dad’s need to see me working and out of the house.

The folks were never that approving of my writing or painting – like many, they figured that stuff was only good if it made one lots and lots of money. Sex wasn’t discussed at all and I didn’t know how to go about telling them I was queer. It wasn’t till I was ready to leave the Cape many years later that I told them. Not that it was such a shock mind you.

Looking back I really didn’t know how to establish myself as a man, as an adult. Booze was one of those adult things but I felt I had to hide how much I drank & how often. Sad, but true. All those secret nooks and crannies.

Most of which had no real outlet then and there. Little was I to know what the journey of my future was to hold. But I survived wanting to wake up dead, wanting to end the confusion and pain and made it past 23 and even past 24 and finally here I am.



every Tuesday 2019

June  – Capturing Fire 2019 – Washington D.C.  capfireslam.org 

August 2-13: getting back to my roots in Cape Breton
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Hey! Or you can give me $$$ to defray blog fees & buy coffee in Washington at 2019’s capfireslam.org – sweet, eh? paypal.me/TOpoet

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Dark of Five


in the dark of five in the afternoon

I have no fear of death

just a fear that putting it in words

becomes an invocation

to what needs no invitation



duende knows no time

no clock no light

nothing is needed

nothing is sacred

diversion is sacramental worship

as long as there is no need to focus

there is no need to fear

there is nothing to push away

the duende brings its own ripe red bite

the edges are crisp clear

you are just wretched rat shit

hoping that you have a way out

there is no need to escape

there no where to go

where the black ribbon won’t tie you

cannot define you but will end you

no need for need

all will be hidden revealed discarded



my fear is that only in death

will I be discovered

that the vast treasure I contain

will only spill forth

like gold nuggets hidden under my skin

when death slices that thin membrane

to send them raining ringing like love



in the dark of five

do I dare invoke duende

while I sit at my window

the fade of an ice etched day

the mortal cold of that snap grip

dances between dust flashes

the empty air ghost filled



I call upon the balsam east

rising hope’s dream language

to assuage pain it can never cure


I call upon the spruce south

the scald of blooded lusts

words tossed to defend portents

all that has passed and will come


I call upon the Douglas west

a sense of past to build on

recall the many who have stood here

to evoke from you a shared memory

our separate histories that

understand pine but see a different box


I call upon the evergreen north

the clarity of moon on brittle snow

the gash of revenge regret atonement

join with the strength from below


the earth that holds divines the future

it has the silence of the sky above

the sun to reflect on us

who count on words to illuminate

what turns out not to be seeable

in the dark of five in the afternoon

Several people have asked me about this piece. I thinks it’s a good one to end the year of Wednesday’s with. We are in a time when it is the Dark of Five O’Clock. As well this is the ‘dead’ of winter and the piece deals with death. It is an older piece written with the clear influence of Federico García Lorca. Ive read bios, have a fat collected works – fat with English on side & Spanish on the other. I read it every other year.

The title comes form one his better known pieces “Five in the Afternoon” His line goes: It was five of a dark afternoon! The line was more a prompt which took me in many directions as opposed to an homage to Lorca but something in which I tried to capture his poetic essence. It started as a series of random images – not in the order here. I wrote them over a couple of weeks as well.

Some of it is a contemplation on the nature of fame, creativity & mortality. Lorca was well-respected in his time but not financial successful. His sexuality & the culture pressures around otherness shaped much of his voice, though at least one biographer call it his “tragic flaw.’ Fuck – it was his culture’s (& many other culture’s) response to otherness that is the tragic flaw.

There is also a reflection on the notion of ‘as ye think, so shall it be’ So to think of death is to invite it? to rush it? To write about makes those thoughts more concrete. My fear isn’t of death but that writing about will cause it 🙂

I love some of use of language & images in this & when I perform it speaking lines like ‘ripe red bite’ ‘the black ribbon won’t tie you’ “raining ringing like love’ give me great pleasure. They show some of the Dylan Thomas influence on my writing. As I edited it for flow I broke it into sections then titled the sections. The Consternation section, for me, is magical in the clearness of the image & the power of the subtext.

Lorca often wrote about his cultural folk lore so the final section is pure Canadiana. I have participated in various ceremonies that call on the power of the directions . a ceremony that runs through Native North American & South American tribes, as does appear in Wiccan traditions as well. After I was done I did some research on the trees for each direction, the assignment is mine though. Then I wrap it up with the image that started the piece.

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Cambodia Rocks

world2I recently watched an amazing documentary: “Don’t Think I’ve Forgotten” Cambodia’s Lost Rock and Roll. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PJ2hIYkMLCg  Followers of my Monday posts know I am world music fan and also that I have a fondness for 60’s world pop. So as I watched this doc I made notes of singers to look for. I found the soundtrack & another collection of 4 Vol on iTunes & added these to my collection.

The music is much like the Japanese & even the Québecois 60’s take on US rock. Some rock-a-billy, some covers of well known (at the time) songs given either direct translations to new lyrics while keep the melody. The Cambodia take is sweet, innocent. The Musicianship is great even when the sound quality isn’t. I love the sometimes stunning guitar work, great garage-band organ. Voices are good thought he female’s do have that rather sharp Asian sound.

map vertThe thing that really pulled me into needing to hear & have this music was the fact that when the Khmer Rouge invaded the country part of the cultural genocide they implemented was to execute the rock stars! That’s right these performers were murdered for being decadent bad influences. Temples, libraries were destroyed, the language was made illegal. The politics is even more complex than this. I wanted to give these performers a chance to live & be enjoyed. Enjoy them I do. Watch this documentary. Then think could this happen here? If Trump rolls back lgbtq progress – Elton John could be deported because his homosexuality is in conflict with someone’s deeply held religious beliefs.

mapdesk02Also on this MP3 collection I added Mute the Saint : an amazing progressive metal sitar band from India; Corinne Marchand: French actress singing songs in her movies; Haumi: bought by accident looking for Japanese lp of the same name – Italian pop; Pablo Puyol: super hot as male romantic interest in 20 Centimeters: a wild Spanish musical about a trans woman (you must see it) ; Brigitte Bardo: more movie stuff from And God Created Woman: sultry sleazy & fun; Finally Pugh Rogenfeldt: Love Love Love – sweet 60’s Swedish psychedelic pop, also worth searching out. 



January 3 – launch of Lazarus Kiss – here14257567_1162384753819933_3271661288579707843_o
on going 🙂 when new podcast are posted:  Disability after Dark  iTunes



my first local feature in over a year: location date TBA

it came in

April season 3 FINALS – Friday April 15th Buddies in Bad Times – early show – 7pm startgames


June 9-10-11: attending: Capturing Fire 2017 –



check out these poets from  Capturing Fire 2015 & 2016

August 31-Sept.3



November 1 – 30 Participating NaNoWriMo




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in the pink
in the pink


On The Bream

My small Julian Bream collection consists of stand-alones: Guitarra, Guitar Recital, and a lp/cd transfer of Classical Guitar, with some Segovia, John Williams to round that cd off. The music includes works by Sor, Granados, Albeniz, de Falla, Villa-Lobos.

festivesnow how festive

I picked up the first two as deletes at either Sam’s or HMV mainly because of the Spanish composers. Even under the controlled playing of Bream the emotional, sexual energy of their writing came though loud & clear.


sole of snow

The transfer has less Spanish music, mind you – Segovia was the real start of my love of classical guitar – more about him when I get to ‘s’ on the shelf. These guys recorded at a time when the music was paramount, not the looks of the performer. Unlike pop I was aroused by the composer not the performer.

orangesnow orange you glad

I say this because often on the classical lps there were no photos of the performer so I had imparted some of the vibrant music to the appearance of the performers. When I saw pictures of say Segovia, I was a bit disappointed he was older & pudgy. Pop music sells on image and these guys had the image of university professors not dashing Spanish bullfighters.


October 10-12 – attending – Gratitude Roundup http://www.torontogratitude.org


October 19 – feature – Cabaret Noir – Pinebow pineocthttps://www.facebook.com/events/1651892755035275/

November 1-30 – participating – NaNoWriMo 2014 – http://nanowrimo.org




There was nothing familiar in the room Frank found before his eyes. He had come in to the room get his glasses to open his pension cheque. When he had went to bed the living room had been bare, spare, empty, cold, dark and uninviting.

This morning it was filled with snow. A crack in the window had gradually widened and the room had filled with snow. Not just loose aimless drifts but a whole crystalline and fluffy world of turrets valleys peaks trees and ponds.

Frost patterns covered the windows and walls in elaborate swirls of tender and sometimes frightening visages. A picture of life in whites and wallpaper spread out along the ceiling, over the doorsill and down around the window.

Thick slabs of icicles hung along the window sill like heavy diamonds that encrusted the walls with an eerie blue winter light. His breath hung in tiny sparks in front of him as he stood in the doorway.

He was afraid to speak, to move, lest the vibration send the entire scene into a sudden collapse. He didn’t want to hear the crash and tingle of the ice world as it crumpled because of his lumpen human encroachment. Slowly he kneeled to take a closer look at the small marvel of a house on the carpet. As his eye neared it he could make out a tiny perfect person look up from it’s pension cheque to glance out the window at him. He jerked his head up to look out his own window but was relieved to see only the morning sun there and not a huge eye ball eye balling him.

Frank didn’t know how long he stood there, his unopened pension cheque in his hand. Time became meaningless as he studied the various permutations and variations of ice and snow in the room. He entered it slow so as not to disturb too much beneath his feet. He breathed as light as he could while he savored the myriad of reflections the morning sun sent darting through the many facets of ice in the corners of the room. The gems of blue swayed overhead and seemed to get larger as each of his breaths joined with them.

The heavy ice gems in the corners began to creak, rub together.

“Frank! Frank!”

He heard someone call him from deep within a frost cloud.

“Frank. Frank.”

“Yes.” he whispered. His voice fell into the air, flakes of ice trailed behind it. “Yes. I am here. But where is here.”

The cold hand reached out from the cloud to touch him. It caressed his face. It brought him sleep. He looked for a place to rest but didn’t want to risk any of the fantastic ice world around him.

“I’m here. I’m here.”

“Frank. Frank.”

He slipped into sleep. A deep, comfortable, warm sleep.

yellow snow

yummy yellow snow

Over Is Over (Acabada)

I’m what I call a ‘romantic realist’ when it comes to sexual relationships – which are different from hook-ups – one does nor preclude the other – which makes me a bit of inactive slut. I know that things last as long as they do, often for years of a slow, consistent burn, sometimes for short but brilliant bursts one doesn’t want to end.

house tore down that play house

The flirtation I enjoyed with the hot Venezuelan guy has come, all too soon, to an end. I knew it was finished a few weeks before he decided it was over. By the time he had made that clear I had already cleared most of his pics, dic pick selfies, even pics he taken of me off my hard drive, lap top & cell-phone. This wasn’t an easy or hasty decision, just read Me encantan tus manos to see how important some of those pics were.

stuffed dirty friends till the end

Perhaps if he hadn’t actually leapt the ‘poet’ barrier and come to hear me feature more than once I might not have felt so connected by more than our dynamic sexual chemistry. His energy certainly gave rise to some ravishingly romantic poems from me and for that I’m grateful.

chip no chip on my shoulder

He was also a sweet reminder of what is still possible in at my age in my life, my heart and my future. But I’m a great believer in ‘over is over’ and when he apologized for ending things & asked if he could call & see me to explain I said no. He’d explained it well enough already, for my sense of completion. He wasn’t getting one last kick at my can, as it were 🙂




week one


my cellphone lights up

with your face –

the first time any face

has graced that screen –

it doesn’t matter who calls

it’s your face I see

always your voice I want to hear

I see it every time

I check for the time

every time the alarm goes off

so even though

we may never sleep together

I can wake up to you


week five


my cellphone

no longer lights up

with your face

I let that happen a week or so

then put it into a folder

to glance when I chose to

I went back

to my San Francisco pic

I’m not pained by the fact

I may never be there again

it doesn’t seem as obsessive

so desperate

as having your face there

you are so fresh in my mind

I don’t need reminders

of how obsessed I am


week 23


my cellphone rings

your pics are gone

your number deleted

I’m not pained by the fact

as life goes on

other men other opportunities

frisco San Francisco memories

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One of the pieces I read on Monday night I first included in a blog post here: Brain Rental http://wp.me/p1RtxU-Hj. It has been edited several times as I’ve performed it a few times. Someone asked me how my editing process works. So I’ll try to explain some of it here. The most recent version is after My Coming Attractions.

two Practicality to be supreme. Choices to be made.

Bradbury – (this was working title, taken from what I thought the Viral prompt was. When I first wrote it, by hand, I made a note to add some Spanish & when I did that the new title presented itself)

he held

the palm of my hand open

traced a line

with his untattooed index finger (untattooed gives a sense that the rest of the body may be tattooed. This is a reference to Bradbury’s ‘Illustrated Man’ – in which each tattoo tells a story to the people looking at them.)

his touch light


my fingers began to curl

as did my toes

the hair stood up on the back of neck

as if he had caressed me there (‘there’ cut as we know where)

he pushed my fingers back

looked me in the eye

you have a wet life line

wet is good

you live in a world of rain (a reference to one of the stories in The Illustrated Man)

puedes verlo

he slipped into his native tongue

can you see it (no Spanish in the very first draft – picked some very simple phrases – Why Spanish? Ask mi tesoro if you ever get to meet him 🙂 )

his eyes held mine

they were the blue of a seaside sky

over a lawn being mowed (changed these lines to make them more surreal, romanic & also truer to mi tesoro – who had told me how much he enjoyed swimming at sunset as a child)

he leaned closer

his lips brushing mine

he smelled of

a freshly sanded maple toy box

and New year’s Day (tweaked these some from written version to add a more surreal dream feeling)

I like this wetness I witness

quieres saber más

do you want to know more (thanks to Google translate for my okay Spanish)

he leaned back

raised the palm of my hand

to his mouth  his lips (changed to logical sequence)

he bit the flesh below my thumb

then looked to me

what do you see

joker the spirit in search of experience

I see rain

I walk naked in its warmth

the ground is rough

the grass is green (changes here for consistency – brought the image back to the sunset beach)

yes yes he said

I want to be in you

in your wet

he folded my hand

and let rest on the table (fixed grammar here)

you like your future

Le gusta su futuro

seems to me

you read your own future

in the palm of my hand

he smiled wide

then showered me

with his happy laughter

five sexo en grupo

The poem is a mix of many moments – some from a dream – some from actual things mi tesoro has said to me – he has never read my palm, nor, as far as I know, reads the future either. The Spanish is also a nod to one of my dead muses – Lorca.


Native Tongue

he held

the palm of my hand open

traced a line

with his untattooed index finger

his touch light


my fingers began to curl

as did my toes

the hair stood up on the back of neck

as if he had caressed me

he pushed my fingers back

looked me in the eye

you have a wet life line

wet is good

you live in a world of rain

puedes verlo

he slipped into his native tongue

can you see it

his eyes held mine

they were the shadow brown

of a seaside sunset

he leaned closer

his lips brushing mine

he smelled of

a freshly sanded maple toy box

and New Year’s Day

I like this wetness I witness

quieres saber más

do you want to know more

he leaned back

raised the palm of my hand

to his lips  his mouth

bit the flesh below my thumb

then looked to me

what do you see

  I see rain

  I walk naked in its warmth

  the sand is smooth

yes yes he said

I want to be in you

in your wet

he folded my hand

and let it rest on the table

you like your future

Le gusta su futuro

  seems to me

  you read your own future

  in the palm of my hand

he smiled wide

then showered me

with his happy laughter

3501211-mirror-ball Le gusta su futuro

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