tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26820788774609640962024-03-14T13:43:04.795-07:00The Square CornerThe Square Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10942354729937177275noreply@blogger.comBlogger802125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2682078877460964096.post-8823877843388523412024-03-14T13:22:00.000-07:002024-03-14T13:42:34.241-07:00<div style="text-align: left;"> <b>Waiting</b></div><div style="text-align: left;">I dream sometimes of barely floating atop a dark black sea...praying for gentle waves to safely take this soul </div><div style="text-align: left;">I don't know where or how...whether ever it will be </div><div style="text-align: left;">I don't know if it will be today, tomorrow, or when my spirit passes </div><div style="text-align: left;">But someday the waiting will end and perhaps I will be saved,</div><div style="text-align: left;">My life may be preserved...a drowning, praying captain safe from a dark black sea</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/eEQzKjcFHF4" width="320" youtube-src-id="eEQzKjcFHF4"></iframe></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Square Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17629157708485887615noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2682078877460964096.post-43867336236039925612024-03-06T10:26:00.000-08:002024-03-06T11:44:27.387-08:00<div style="text-align: left;"><b>Blackbird</b><br />I remember the summer of Tokyo time...between the gathering of darkness and a sun's rise. I close my gaijin eyes and hear the rumble of walking lives...the ghosted memory crowds from Shinjuku trains hurrying the blended mix of jazz and cinema samurais and swords and sullen Blackbirds singing into the dead of night. Oh, reimagined salarymen as Shoguns stumbling into red lanterned Izakayas to embrace Kirins and taste the grilled catch of the Japan sea. Where did I stand in all this loneliness? So far from home? Nippon handkerchiefs absorbed my sweaty brow. Two years in Tokyo time...the end. Back home to where I can drive my car. Roll down my window; feel the ocean breeze. Look to the east...and dream of samurai trains; remembering how much I wanted to come back to my town. And now with the decades passing I wonder how I was ever there and if in the dead of night Blackbirds drink Tokyo beer and sing forever into a sun's long rise.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/JiL5JpUtjqY" width="320" youtube-src-id="JiL5JpUtjqY"></iframe></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Square Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17629157708485887615noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2682078877460964096.post-32994661568699147452024-01-03T10:48:00.000-08:002024-01-03T10:48:11.338-08:00<p> Beatles Library</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/O5tqC5wZTv0" width="320" youtube-src-id="O5tqC5wZTv0"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/7hMrRspL8oc" width="320" youtube-src-id="7hMrRspL8oc"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/OxO4nODCGD0" width="320" youtube-src-id="OxO4nODCGD0"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/vhC4imHiJUM" width="320" youtube-src-id="vhC4imHiJUM"></iframe></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p>Square Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17629157708485887615noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2682078877460964096.post-292012568841033162023-11-03T12:42:00.003-07:002023-11-03T12:51:34.173-07:00<div style="text-align: left;"><b>The Alley Men</b></div><div style="text-align: left;">I have an evening secret... </div><div style="text-align: left;">Under a rhyming street light.</div><div style="text-align: left;">live alley men who come apart</div><div style="text-align: left;">Like broken parts, Like wheels that come unwheeled</div><div style="text-align: left;">Minds astir, crazy, unwell, mad city birds fly ahead</div><div style="text-align: left;">I have an evening secret, I stop at the alley and take a breath..</div><div style="text-align: left;">my mind a bit astir, but no broken parts, and the wheels still wheeled</div><div style="text-align: left;">the devil cries inside, compels me...</div><div style="text-align: left;">I roll bye in defiance of the sorcerer's mind</div><div style="text-align: left;">Not yet ready to walk inside the rhyming alley</div><div style="text-align: left;">To sing Psalms to an atheist's Spirit</div><div style="text-align: left;">Not yet ready to walk within an alley's tears and madness</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>The Square Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10942354729937177275noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2682078877460964096.post-10880448657363878722023-10-01T19:31:00.010-07:002023-10-01T19:59:07.845-07:00<div style="text-align: left;"><b>Space and Time</b></div><div style="text-align: left;">Do you know fallen sons who</div><div style="text-align: left;">fade away</div><div style="text-align: left;">into the silent movie of</div><div style="text-align: left;">whirring reels</div><div style="text-align: left;">of crazy minds </div><div style="text-align: left;">of backlit flickers eliding space and time</div><div style="text-align: left;">backbeats and rhythm disappear</div><div style="text-align: left;">The band is gone</div><div style="text-align: left;">Projected words between quiet scenes</div><div style="text-align: left;">The band is gone...</div><div style="text-align: left;">Do you know clowning fathers who</div><div style="text-align: left;">cry alone</div><div style="text-align: left;">Eying final credits of their fallen sons...</div><div style="text-align: left;">who ride the whirring silence of space and time</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/tcd9N62nOLg" width="320" youtube-src-id="tcd9N62nOLg"></iframe></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><br /></div></div>The Square Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10942354729937177275noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2682078877460964096.post-2403839817612941632023-09-21T20:38:00.006-07:002023-09-22T10:38:29.457-07:00<div style="text-align: left;"><b>Veins</b></div><div style="text-align: left;">Each day from work my muscles are torn,</div><div style="text-align: left;">my eyes are weary like heavy weights</div><div style="text-align: left;">my belly is fat, but my stomach is empty...</div><div style="text-align: left;">just like the empty kitchen shelves </div><div style="text-align: left;">and the blank cold air in my fridge...nothing there but sticky food stains and dead celery...</div><div style="text-align: left;">only a last waxy sleeve of salt crackers... a hollow plastic jar of peanut butter...almost as empty as a beer can... I'm too tired to go to the store...to go get takeout...junkies prey on old working men who walk slow and alone... the crackers will keep me going...the last swabs of Jiffy sticking to the roof of my mouth...even my lips are tired...68 and stocking shelves...the only reason they hire me is cuz labour is in short supply..."I don't want to end up like that old loser"...is what I overhear.. the part time high school kid says so...</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Then don't drink so much...and don't treat your wife like she don't matter and she takes the kids 30 years ago and walk's out on you and your crappy apartment and minimum wage job....68 and stocking shelves...sitting on a tired couch, eating crackers and peanut butter looking at Peloton commercials on a 16 inch flat screen...barely able to lift the remote...barely able to fill the bathtub with warm spinning water...</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I drop my old, fat body in a half-soapy mess of drowning thoughts...what happens if my arthritis gets worse...what then?...disability pension...not enough money for rent...no more money for booze...homeless</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I guess I'm better off than the junkies...they prey on old men...I wonder what goes through their veins...if its painless...the needle tearing the skin and muscles...I wonder if they know its night when the opioids damage their brains...what is high?...what is low?...supposed to rain tomorrow...damp weather makes arthritis worse...the doctors say they don't know why...I wonder if junkies get arthritis...if their arms hurt in the rain...</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Hd3oqvnDKQk" width="320" youtube-src-id="Hd3oqvnDKQk"></iframe></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><p><br /></p>The Square Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10942354729937177275noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2682078877460964096.post-4815135151765551672023-03-13T14:27:00.033-07:002023-03-16T11:01:22.590-07:00<div style="text-align: left;"><b>Butt Gas</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b> -I- </b><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Sometimes snow streaks from a maddening sky....</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">Sometimes a maddening sky weaves streets of snow... <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"> <b> -1+1=2- </b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b> </b>A crazy man...I exited my apartment...pushed by the bland hand of nothingness...nothing but the view of a whirling winter from a single room window...I wanted to touch the cold...I wanted falling snow to touch me...I needed to walk away my numbness...to restore my life like a colour photo retouched by memories...</div><p>A small table outside an out of business hamburger joint was empty. I sat there and faced the street...and talked to myself. I exhaled a jumble...a jangle of words that did not stay...that did not build sentences...only crazy random talk...Nothing cathartic...just moist human mouth steam billowing against the cold. <br /></p><p>Then she appeared. I thought she was there...I thought she was real...I didn't see an apparition...Or did I?...a female vision in tattered white linen with a sunken shallow face atop a body of hard thinness...forlorn lips that got muted by life but were too sad to kiss...vulnerable, but not against the cold...oh, no...did I create her with my jangled, mangled mouth words...did I create a suffering ghost lady out of vowels and madness...?</p><p>"Love tore us apart!" She cried out, her right hand pointing to the sky, her eyes fixed on me. "We loved each other too much. Then he melted like a candle and died. I still hear his voice, see his face. I search inside a hopeless truth. He's gone."</p><p>I wanted to say sorry...loss is tough...I've known suffering, too...I hope I can help...but all I did was exhale crazy, jangled words...and she was gone...disappeared in between what I wanted to say...and what I couldn't...<br /></p><p>I ambled back to my apartment. I opened a can of mixed beans, and ate them quickly with a plastic spoon. I lay under my covers and tried to sleep early for the night. With my knees pulled up near to my chest I erupted loud gas from my butt. I thought of her...the lady in linen...I could talk straight now...I wanted to say I was sorry I melted like wax...but I didn't die...I wanted to say I was sorry we both slipped into madness...I searching for streaks of snow... she searching for woven love that tore us apart.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/674KGKRQBPE" width="320" youtube-src-id="674KGKRQBPE"></iframe></div><br /> <br /><p></p><p><br /></p>The Square Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10942354729937177275noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2682078877460964096.post-91009373869959604412023-01-13T14:07:00.016-08:002023-01-13T14:45:42.365-08:00<div style="text-align: left;"><b>Time after Time</b></div><div style="text-align: left;">It was three in the morning when I got a call from a friend:</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">"SC, I got mortality on my brain. I can't sleep. I do internet searches, and I can't sleep."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"What do you mean?" </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"I look for old friends, people I've known and I find they are dead...cancer...heart attacks...suicide...I don't know why sometimes. I feel bad. I feel bad. I wish I could go back in time. Say sorry for the things I've done. And say sorry for the things I didn't do. I know we get older. Some day it'll be us."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Sure. Someday it'll be true," I added wearily.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"You know, once I heard a writer interviewed. He said you honour people like a fighter who's been beat down to the mat. You lift yourself off one knee and fight some more. That's how you honour their memory, you struggle for life as much as you can."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Sure, sounds right," I yawned.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"SC, you know what's real. The sound of the trumpet, like a dying man. He plays jazz against time..."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Sounds wise...but I got to go to bed...work tomorrow." </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">I hung up and slept under the dead of night, till the alarm clock rang. I lifted myself off one knee and made my bed...and thought of an old friend, my indifference gone...dancing like a dying fighter time after time...<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/UVvhUI8wIkQ" width="320" youtube-src-id="UVvhUI8wIkQ"></iframe></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />The Square Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10942354729937177275noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2682078877460964096.post-60455603543583581242022-12-02T10:35:00.009-08:002022-12-02T11:27:16.563-08:00<div style="text-align: left;"><b>Legs and Hearts </b><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Above me turns a grieving moon,</div><div style="text-align: left;">I can't sleep</div><div style="text-align: left;">So I walk the night with memories:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Of a city of young men dreams,</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">Cars pass by</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">Early winter, </div><div style="text-align: left;">I roll my shoulders </div><div style="text-align: left;">Pull at my woollen collar,</div><div style="text-align: left;">Turn my hood above my ears,</div><div style="text-align: left;">I stop at a parking lot like a hundred days,</div><div style="text-align: left;">Empty, </div><div style="text-align: left;">But for memories,</div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Of a city of young men dreams, </i><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Seems a hundred years when--</div><div style="text-align: left;">We fought against our enemy lives.</div><div style="text-align: left;">With wooden sticks and curved blades</div><div style="text-align: left;">We rushed into a frozen made up game,</div><div style="text-align: left;">To hold onto a ball no one could control</div><div style="text-align: left;">We've all grown old--I assume</div><div style="text-align: left;">But in the end I know we disappear,</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">Rushing the goal--</div><div style="text-align: left;">before the night steals the evening light,</div><div style="text-align: left;">before the air gets too cold,</div><div style="text-align: left;">before legs and hearts grow too sore,</div><div style="text-align: left;">The ball races wide along the net...</div><div style="text-align: left;">Is it only me who cheers under a grieving moon?</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">Perhaps I've walked too far, </div><div style="text-align: left;">Perhaps I think too much,</div><div style="text-align: left;">Recall too much of youth and the cold, <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">My legs and heart are sore</div><div style="text-align: left;">Time to go home...I'll walk the parking lot...disappear along a make believe</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> <br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/CDi64fShuS0" width="320" youtube-src-id="CDi64fShuS0"></iframe></div><br />The Square Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10942354729937177275noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2682078877460964096.post-89223220096691175502022-11-18T10:25:00.001-08:002022-11-18T10:29:08.410-08:00<div style="text-align: left;"><b>The Blows </b><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I lay alone in bed. It's late, the night's grown old.</div><div style="text-align: left;">I can't settle down</div><div style="text-align: left;">It's the restless time between sleep and fear,</div><div style="text-align: left;">My woman left me</div><div style="text-align: left;">It's cold, the hotel window is open;</div><div style="text-align: left;">it wont close, wont quite touch the sill <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The curtains carry with each breeze</div><div style="text-align: left;">A radiator steams, but barely keeps me warm</div><div style="text-align: left;">My women left me and I hear the street noise</div><div style="text-align: left;">Sounds hurry in the cold,</div><div style="text-align: left;">Men fight on the sidewalk below</div><div style="text-align: left;">I can't see, wont get out of bed</div><div style="text-align: left;">But I hear the blows</div><div style="text-align: left;">My woman left me,</div><div style="text-align: left;">I can afford more, but I searched this bad part of town</div><div style="text-align: left;">Found a heart broken inn, with long stairs and lonely blankets </div><div style="text-align: left;">She said she can't take my moods,</div><div style="text-align: left;">My controlling ways,</div><div style="text-align: left;">She found another man,</div><div style="text-align: left;">I've come home wounded to this bad part of town,</div><div style="text-align: left;">I left for awhile, thought I'd never see the street again</div><div style="text-align: left;">Everyone's gone<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">But I should have known, women leave me, and the night always grows old,</div><div style="text-align: left;">The morning heals,</div><div style="text-align: left;">but the night always grows old,</div><div style="text-align: left;">And some windows never close, never in the cold<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/YoagldK69U0" width="320" youtube-src-id="YoagldK69U0"></iframe></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>The Square Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10942354729937177275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2682078877460964096.post-30203440887400716662022-10-07T09:50:00.006-07:002022-10-07T11:52:34.076-07:00<div style="text-align: left;"><b>Stolen Car </b><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I walk through a field around the edge of my town</div><div style="text-align: left;">Just beneath an autumn sun a sky settles down</div><div style="text-align: left;">White clouds shroud a golden soil<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Every year I pray alone in the temple of fallen skies </div><div style="text-align: left;">...for stolen lives</div><div style="text-align: left;">People I've known...</div><div style="text-align: left;">like stolen ground</div><div style="text-align: left;">Cut short by the thief of time</div><div style="text-align: left;">Alone I ask to see them once again...</div><div style="text-align: left;">A silent sunset like a Raven's eye watches me</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">A pair of headlights along a country road passes by<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Stolen car like stolen lives...I ask no more</div><div style="text-align: left;">A long walk takes me to my town</div><div style="text-align: left;">It's 1980... </div><div style="text-align: left;">I see a passing headlight along the dark edge of time, <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">like a fallen prayer that's settled down<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/eS7tat0J5qQ" width="320" youtube-src-id="eS7tat0J5qQ"></iframe></div><br /> </div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />The Square Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10942354729937177275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2682078877460964096.post-85262385942411220512022-05-02T19:48:00.007-07:002022-05-02T21:58:14.267-07:00<div style="text-align: left;"><b>Waits</b> <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Every night I listen to the rain,</div><div style="text-align: left;">Sometimes it falls gently on my rooftop</div><div style="text-align: left;">Other times it presses hard against my window</div><div style="text-align: left;">I sleep easily to the sound of rain</div><div style="text-align: left;">like the rumble of a downtown train,</div><div style="text-align: left;">drops roll down in narrow streams </div><div style="text-align: left;">like waving dreams under umbrella trees</div><div style="text-align: left;">African elephants</div><div style="text-align: left;">Crying whales</div><div style="text-align: left;">Who awaits this reverie?</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">I sleep easily under the sound of rain,</div><div style="text-align: left;">and see drowning men as heart broke sailors on a downtown train,</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">and their forgotten women like wavy dreams...they take shelter from a crying shame<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/ZZ4UymgYKNE" width="320" youtube-src-id="ZZ4UymgYKNE"></iframe></div><br /> <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> <br /></div>The Square Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10942354729937177275noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2682078877460964096.post-77161716516990794042022-04-04T12:08:00.009-07:002022-04-05T19:33:05.278-07:00<div style="text-align: left;"><b>Thin Ice </b><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I sit by a creekside and watch autumn leaves skate away,</div><div style="text-align: left;">sliding atop a Canadian stream</div><div style="text-align: left;">barren trees</div><div style="text-align: left;">as golden and yellow ships race aside rock and fallen branches</div><div style="text-align: left;">The sun is at my back-- casts a shadow over the encroaching ice </div><div style="text-align: left;">As a writer I need my solitude, a walk in a forest tires me quickly</div><div style="text-align: left;">I am as old as a memory </div><div style="text-align: left;">Time to move along, a stop along a creekside is short, the air is cold, </div><div style="text-align: left;">I want more time alone; but a dampness breaks through my wool clothes</div><div style="text-align: left;">When I was I young, I would not take this rest at all--nor walk along this path<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Then I was not a writer, I saw no beauty in solitude </div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Thick as a Brick</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Skating Away</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">Life is not the same,</div><div style="text-align: left;">I hear the change of aging music in solo winds<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">A walk down the path will take me to my writer's home </div><div style="text-align: left;">There I will set a fire in a black stove,</div><div style="text-align: left;">and burn new words--not a verse from an old song</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/KGz_g1i7KU8" width="320" youtube-src-id="KGz_g1i7KU8"></iframe></div><br /> <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>The Square Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10942354729937177275noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2682078877460964096.post-22211591920073351262022-03-07T14:37:00.372-08:002022-03-18T13:22:52.512-07:00<div style="text-align: left;"><b>Where he goes</b><i>....</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">Down in the alley, between blood shot eyes and bent fingers, a man rumbles through a blue bin of brown bottles and cans made wet by a short spring rain. </div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">Each night he searches for gold topped beer cans behind the <i>Easy Bend Bar</i>. Not that the they are worth more than any other cans, but he imagines his small street earnings to be otherwise. He packs the nickel a pop empties into a giant construction bag--the great tool of his trade, along with an old shopping cart with half-rusted wheels he uses to haul his night's earnings to be redeemed at the corner store. <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Last night he got beat up in the same alley. His eyes bloodied. His hands swollen by the only two punches he landed on the instigator's head. He got beat up by the same man he knew during his days on Wall Street, who now fought him over the same empty treasures.<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>He didn't go down...not that night, but years ago...<br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"> <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Once they were young brokers and rivals. Never quite trusting each other, their friendliness masking their common competitiveness to stake out the same territory of finance and success--make the most money, drive the flashiest cars, buy the crystal and glass condos, catch the same expensive women. Eternally lucid in their seductive dreams of more and more.<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">In the days of oil barons and gold mines they would have lit conspicuous cigars with hundred dollar bills. In days of Wall St. they would snort coke through rolled up Benjamin's, and drink too much Cognac out of a stoner call girl's high price shoes.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">Maybe all of that is what takes them down. Or maybe it's the compounding, gnawing truth they are expendable. Or maybe it's just a singular something in their heads--within the high dollar universe of stars and meteors that collapse their minds. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">They crash through Wall St windows, slip off Manhattan ledges and land on park benches and fall into the scrabbled livelihoods of men and women who redeem bottles and cans, one nickel at a time. <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">As with the homeless Vietnam Vet--his PTSD haunting him every second of every relived, fearful thought..</div><div style="text-align: left;">As with the math professor, whose days of numbers and decimals drove her to madness...</div><div style="text-align: left;">As with the Japanese computer scientist, who just ceased thinking...</div><div style="text-align: left;">As with the Honduran mother who cleaned houses during the day and collected bottles at night, so her kids could have a better life...so they could escape the hollow madness of poverty</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">They are called 'canners'. They live at night, collecting and fighting for redeemable bottles and cans against the emptiness in their bellies, against the demon voices in their heads. <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">In one perfected motion the man uses his alley strength to hoist the construction bag over his shoulders and drops it into the shopping cart. He turns his squeaky cart around and noisily rushes out the alley and moves hurriedly along the street. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">A police car drives up along him. An officer mockingly says: "Hey, when r' going to oil those wheels? You're waking up half of Manhattan. What's with you grabbin' only gold beer cans?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">In a panic he quickly pushes his cart in an s-curve. The cops laugh as they drive away. The man holds his cart to a stop, scared and out of breath.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">From where he stands on the Upper West Side he can't see Wall St. It's gleaming towers, it's bustle of men and women...and commerce...and stocks exchanged and sold...and businesses opened and closed...and dollar demon voices...and shuddered lives, collapsed and crushed like haunted, hollow aluminum.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">He stops at the corner store and drops his empties into the vending machine that coughs out his night earnings. Just $15. Each night's collection gives out less and less. He thinks maybe his old friend steals from him, arrives early and takes his golden dreams. He worries what's next, but he also knows there are no more windows to crash through, or ledges to slip from. No more benches in homeless parks where they can land. Just that he knows no where to go is where he is...just another life, another short spring rain falling on brown bottles and empty cans.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> __ __</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Story based on HBO Documentary "Redemption" about Canners of New York</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x2cejo9<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><p><br /></p>The Square Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10942354729937177275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2682078877460964096.post-50367703295072929962021-11-25T16:16:00.008-08:002021-11-25T18:28:20.090-08:00<div style="text-align: left;"><b>Roy's Guitar</b> <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I walk into an alley of madmen and midnight messiahs.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Under a crazy moon they preach and jangle on overturned milk crates. <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">7 messiahs. They cry in disharmony. In dissonant voices. Made up words. Indecipherable verse.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Ragged newspapers as holy books like their ragged hospital clothes <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">They preach</div><div style="text-align: left;">The madmen listen</div><div style="text-align: left;">They sit in a half circle on thin cold snow. Some pass the bottle. Some mutter. Some yelp at the 7 messiahs.<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>I listen</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>I listen </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>I listen...</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">To the alley music that separates the church and the bar<i> <br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;">A choir sings, the organ plays Handel</div><div style="text-align: left;">Their voices carry to the crazy moon</div><div style="text-align: left;">From the <i>One Lucky </i>come electric waves of Roy's guitar</div><div style="text-align: left;">The chorus of drunkenness meets Handel's holy loneliness <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>The jangle of noise</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>The jangle of noise</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>The jangle of noise </i></div><div style="text-align: left;">Crazy...Crazy...Crazy moon</div><div style="text-align: left;">The madmen rise and shuffle under the mania of streetlights <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The 7 messiahs leave the milk crates behind</div><div style="text-align: left;">Tomorrow I know they will come again. Where there are always alley cries of madness and music under a midnight moon. <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/deeBQZ8Aklc" width="320" youtube-src-id="deeBQZ8Aklc"></iframe></div><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> <br /></div><p><br /></p>The Square Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10942354729937177275noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2682078877460964096.post-22023797183300409542021-10-28T14:41:00.005-07:002021-10-28T14:49:54.093-07:00<div style="text-align: left;"><b>Peace and Rising </b><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Weightless in a night,</div><div style="text-align: left;">I float like a cloud</div><div style="text-align: left;">Like a paper lantern released by a gentle breeze</div><div style="text-align: left;">Beneath me, a country road marked by lights,</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">Trees swaying along a mountain silhouette </div><div style="text-align: left;">My arms spread like bible wings</div><div style="text-align: left;">Is this my death? I ask my weightless self<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I feel peaceful <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">No mortal stress,</div><div style="text-align: left;">Only a solace, a reverence...<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>As a Romeo meets his Juliette</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">My soul like a cloud in the night</div><div style="text-align: left;">Is this my mortal death?</div><div style="text-align: left;">Or my new love rising?<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>As a Romeo meets his Juliette</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>As a Romeo meets his Juliette </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/vyI9flHHT2Q" width="320" youtube-src-id="vyI9flHHT2Q"></iframe></div><br /> </i><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>The Square Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10942354729937177275noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2682078877460964096.post-64229161297223841522021-10-19T12:28:00.008-07:002021-10-19T15:02:04.480-07:00<p style="text-align: left;"></p><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Bone Chill</b> <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The alley men lit up cigarettes,</div><div style="text-align: left;">one dressed in brown lit up an old cigar</div><div style="text-align: left;">They all exhaled clouds of smoke</div><div style="text-align: left;">Inside the mortal night, inside the winter stillness</div><div style="text-align: left;">the billows of burning tobacco lingered</div><div style="text-align: left;">Second hand smoke, like alley lives never went far</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">Billy lost his mind,</div><div style="text-align: left;">Johnny drank too much,</div><div style="text-align: left;">and old Ralph had a little bit of both </div><div style="text-align: left;">Some men died in stillness and silence, blue veins and needles</div><div style="text-align: left;">A final euphoria before a lone death took them home</div><div style="text-align: left;">The alley men snuffed their cigarettes on the tar below</div><div style="text-align: left;">The one in brown snuffed his cigar against the cinder wall</div><div style="text-align: left;">Billy,</div><div style="text-align: left;">Johnny,</div><div style="text-align: left;">and Old Ralph</div><div style="text-align: left;">Never played a song</div><div style="text-align: left;">Never sang harmony</div><div style="text-align: left;">They couldn't whistle either,</div><div style="text-align: left;">Not when there was a chill in their bones</div><div style="text-align: left;">They circled a barrel stuffed with smoking cardboard and waited for a warmth by fire, like a saxophone <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/LCaD6GAQmjA" width="320" youtube-src-id="LCaD6GAQmjA"></iframe></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><p> </p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> <br /></div>The Square Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10942354729937177275noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2682078877460964096.post-77251940502164017392021-10-12T15:53:00.004-07:002021-10-12T16:33:12.380-07:00<div style="text-align: left;"><b>Half Chewed Aspirin</b><i> </i><b>and Nina</b><br /><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>You idiot, you could of had a family.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">You run through half-awake dreams,</div><div style="text-align: left;">Through the river garden of naked madness,</div><div style="text-align: left;">Your youth adds up to middle age</div><div style="text-align: left;">The total of one night stands</div><div style="text-align: left;">Year after year of your self-awakening in rumpled sheets;</div><div style="text-align: left;">The echo of empty beer bottles, half chewed aspirins; </div><div style="text-align: left;">bitter unswallowed remnants behind your brown teeth</div><div style="text-align: left;">--wake up to <i>what's her name?</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">You know they all have families now,</div><div style="text-align: left;">You checked online </div><div style="text-align: left;">The women who once loved you...but you used them, dumped them,</div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>You idiot, you could of had a family</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">Taken the sons to baseball practice</div><div style="text-align: left;">Walked your daughter down the aisle</div><div style="text-align: left;">The one night stands are getting older and older,</div><div style="text-align: left;">they don't come to you so often</div><div style="text-align: left;">The echo of empty beer bottles </div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>There's no angel,</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>There's no angel</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Just a sinnerman<br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/1vDZsABHUbQ" width="320" youtube-src-id="1vDZsABHUbQ"></iframe></div><br /><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /> </i><br /></div>The Square Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10942354729937177275noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2682078877460964096.post-91318807897288348162021-10-04T17:44:00.005-07:002021-10-04T19:02:26.373-07:00<div style="text-align: left;"><b>Self Dialogue</b></div><div style="text-align: left;">It's five to four. For an hour I've been walking the street. I'm a kid, 17. Just a couple of months till I'm 19. <i>Oops,</i> I mean 18. This dope makes me funny in the head...smoked in my parents basement, with the windows open, of course. A cold wind made a cross breeze. My mom won't get home till six. She won't smell the reefer smoke. Some charity club she goes to every Tuesday. My dad the mechanic drinks beer at the bar with his friends after work. Talk about bald spots and beer bellies. Oh man, did I close the windows? Shit. I don't know. When I smoke alone I make stupid mistakes. It'll be freezing down there. May freeze the pipes in the toilet. Fuck. Sometimes this gettin' high makes you worry. Tomorrow I got an English exam. Reading that Romeo and Juliette. Boring Shakespeare shit. If I flunk my folks will kill me. <i>Mellow, mellow dope.</i> It ain't working. Too much self dialogue. Walking by my friend Tony's house. Her sister got me willing and hot up to her parent's room. But just as fast she changed her mind and rolled me out of bed. Nearly cracked my lower spine. Thought she liked funny guys. I know she likes weed. Whew. Smoking every day and watching cartoons on TV. Bugs Bunny is hip. <i>Daa..D'ats all Folks</i>. Freakin' self-dialogue in my head. Talkin' to me about Toons. I got the munchies. Maybe I'll go back to my friend Tony's. See if he's got some Cheetos and onion dip. Except his sister creeps me out now. Her mother looks at me angry. These adults, including my own mom, think I have no direction. Nah, nah...I got dope and a creating mind. And a plan when I turn 19. Go to L.A. with a van filled with dope. Write some toons. Just write from the dialogue inside my head...there's an open window and a cross-breeze. Smoke shrouded in a dream. A laughing rabbit, and a cranky duck...waiting for a wonderful tune. Five to four. Time to go home.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/HeERupuicHE" width="320" youtube-src-id="HeERupuicHE"></iframe></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>The Square Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10942354729937177275noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2682078877460964096.post-84047415711495099452021-09-27T12:25:00.011-07:002021-09-27T13:04:35.428-07:00<div style="text-align: left;"><b>Streaks of Snow </b><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The old man looked into a mirror and thought of years lost--</div><div style="text-align: left;">of the memories wrapped in chains</div><div style="text-align: left;">of a murmuring heart in a jail </div><div style="text-align: left;">The half way house was home<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">He pulled a donated cap over his eyes--</div><div style="text-align: left;">--the first time in thirty years</div><div style="text-align: left;">He put on a donated overcoat and fitted his hands in gloves--<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">--the first time in thirty years</div><div style="text-align: left;">The weatherman said tonight expect a Christmas snow</div><div style="text-align: left;">The parole officer wanted him back at 8.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Two hours for him to walk...and maybe sit on a park bench</div><div style="text-align: left;">Maybe for the first time in 30 years he could watch snow fall...</div><div style="text-align: left;">see it cover the hard city ground,</div><div style="text-align: left;">touch it softly on his shoulders,</div><div style="text-align: left;">feel it melt on his open tongue </div><div style="text-align: left;">7:30pm and still no snow</div><div style="text-align: left;">His legs were tired </div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>He gave himself twenty minutes to walk back to the house</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">8pm and he was safe<i>...</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">He closed the door and signed in,</div><div style="text-align: left;">and walked a flight of stairs to his room</div><div style="text-align: left;">He looked in the mirror, his cheeks were red...</div><div style="text-align: left;">with a quick wrist he removed his cap,</div><div style="text-align: left;">took off his coat</div><div style="text-align: left;">hung them neatly in the closet...they might inspect </div><div style="text-align: left;">He looked out his window and lifted his eyes...</div><div style="text-align: left;">for the first time in thirty years he saw streaks of snow and heard a female voice sing to him from far away<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">That was the story of his night...half a life and miles of distant snow<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/AEyGZlBdkaA" width="320" youtube-src-id="AEyGZlBdkaA"></iframe></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>The Square Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10942354729937177275noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2682078877460964096.post-75076180389332258872021-08-27T13:13:00.007-07:002021-08-27T14:11:13.176-07:00<div style="text-align: left;"><b>Raw Fish Like Boxing Gloves</b></div><div style="text-align: left;">Manny Weinberg was laid out like a knocked-out lightweight at his Madison Square Garden debut. The old unfulfilled fighter turned unfulfilled trainer clinched his chest on the ambulance gurney, as it rushed under the Brooklyn L train. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">But this was no French Connection. No Gene Hackman as Popeye Doyle snaking his car in a crashing train pursuit of a pea coat dressed European, who exports white powder death through New World channels to make Old World criminals richer. <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">He thought of this movie as the ambulance's red lights reflected off the windows of franchise coffee shops filled with gentrified young professionals who thought some how they could be <i>Brooklyn</i> without a Brooklyn past. Without a Brooklynese old man teaching a young man how to throw a punch, or catch a threadbare baseball. How to survive on a street of tough boys who grew into tough men. Some became doctors, lawyers, captains of Wall Street, politicians--while others never left, never gave up throwing punches. Never stopped watching the prissy present eat up the past. Where the neighbourhood that was always home would soon be never more. When the last cannoli, last blintz, last beer and sausage, would be surrendered to a vegan butter cookie.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Manny grabbed his chest. His heart felt stuck, frozen, like it couldn't move the blood through his aged arteries. Word on the street was the <i>One Lucky</i> would be bought out and turned into a chocolate mousse cafe where baristas in made in China black aprons poured ironic cups of Cafe Americano. He'd heard the Carney Boxing Club would be converted into a California style Pilates studio with long fingered Shiatsu massages on the side.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">"Pop, Pop, don't die on me," his newly connected Nova Scotia son Hickory begged of him as he rode in the ambulance. "We were going to be a father and son team after all these years. You were going to make me Champ."</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">The edges of CTE. The onset of senility. He still had patches of reality. The clarity of reflection. "Ya, know," he said. "My heart, my chest, it don't hurt so much, no more. He shook his head a bit. "Maybe I don't got no heart attack. See's I was hungry last night and I dropped into the only place open. Some Japanese sushi place. What do I know what sushi is. So they's send my d'ese small plates with little pieces of raw fish on rice. They's look like little boxing gloves. And they's don't serve no beer in dese places. I know. I asked. Just little cups of green tea like your drinking out of a shot glass. So I's get the check, and it's $200. For what, little pieces of fish d'at they's don't even bother cooking. Da whole thing must a made me sick."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Hickory, begins to laugh. "Know what you mean, Pops. We're fried fish and beer kinda guys."<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Get me outta this place," Manny says to the driver. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The driver shrugs. "Nah, we still got a check you out at the hospital. You sound a lot like my old man, though. A straight shooter. He died six months ago. Used to take me to the fights as a kid. Some fancy lady fashion designer from Los Angeles rents his apartment now. $3,000 a month, can you believe it? I see her sometimes at the sushi bar. Even though I'd a guessed she was a vegan."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The driver turned off the flashing lights. He ended the siren. The ambulance drove up to the hospital gates. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">Then, out of no where, a man in a pea coat crashes a French Citroen into the side of the ambulance...<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/2TVyJ-51jzc" width="320" youtube-src-id="2TVyJ-51jzc"></iframe></div><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>The Square Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10942354729937177275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2682078877460964096.post-53751822064399001632021-07-17T10:43:00.003-07:002021-07-17T10:52:09.426-07:00<p><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span face=""Arial","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 12pt;">Stolen Food</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span face=""Arial","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 12pt;">When
a staircase is a fire escape<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span face=""Arial","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>…spiraled, and black cast iron</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span face=""Arial","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 12pt;">When
a tarred rooftop atop an old tenement is home</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span face=""Arial","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>…where two young poor lovers sit, eating stolen
food from a take-out Chinese stand</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span face=""Arial","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 12pt;">They
laugh, they forgot the chop sticks; they pull up fried rice and scrambled eggs with
homeless fingers…their mouths feel a rush of <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>momentary satisfaction… a few seconds of denial
of no place to go to…</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span face=""Arial","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 12pt;">Their
lives like broken feet so they can’t run to a better place…</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span face=""Arial","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 12pt;">The
rain comes before they can embrace for the night...</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span face=""Arial","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 12pt;">In
the back of their minds maybe the police will come for the stolen food, or for the
break-ins, the stolen goods; or for the hours they prostituted their big city
lives to suburban men. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span face=""Arial","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 12pt;">They
speak sometimes of these things, like once when they hid atop a building
and secretly watched TV through someone’s window…a 1950s musical with endless legs. They couldn’t hear the music. Only those legs…and spoke of hope
that someday, someplace, they could sing and smile…and dance faraway through puddles of Hollywood rain…<br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span face=""Arial","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 12pt;">The
shower came harder… they ran down the fire escape with aching feet. They wished they could slide
down a marble staircase…but that was for the movies…at least the rice was good,
and it filled their stomachs for a short time</span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span face=""Arial","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/D1ZYhVpdXbQ" width="320" youtube-src-id="D1ZYhVpdXbQ"></iframe></div><br /> <p></p>
<p> </p>The Square Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10942354729937177275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2682078877460964096.post-57241518072889559162021-07-15T07:48:00.010-07:002021-07-15T13:52:09.884-07:00<div style="text-align: left;"><b>Passing </b><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It was the last of three autumn trees</div><div style="text-align: left;">...rust and golden leaves rested upon frozen ground</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">I lifted my head and released a greyish breath <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">...my cloudy soul rose among barren branches <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">I felt a sadness...I thought of the passing of our mortal place and time</div><div style="text-align: left;">A second breeze cleared a path of fallen leaves</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">As I walked along the icy ground I felt a peace at last<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">...all things pass, I realized...and that is the beauty of an aging place and time</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Looking back I heard the humour of three autumn trees....like Three Laughing Monks<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/MCX4YqcW7kU" width="320" youtube-src-id="MCX4YqcW7kU"></iframe></div><br /><br /></div>The Square Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10942354729937177275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2682078877460964096.post-16072303464320235122021-07-05T10:50:00.123-07:002021-07-07T06:51:23.270-07:00<div style="text-align: left;"><b>Closing Time</b></div><div style="text-align: left;">It was closing time at the <i>One Lucky<b>--</b></i>A Saturday--</div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>...melodies of memory always played past 3a.m.<br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">'Beer Mugs' Moran cleaned the ashtrays, the bartender's apron covered in streaks of beer and ash. The last of two bar stool drunks competed over the same old songs.</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">The man in a worn blue overcoat drank the last of his beer and would always say--"Billy Joel's <i>Piano Man</i>, saddest song ever, my friend."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The man in the black overcoat drank the last of the tonic and gin and replied-- "No, Harry Chapin's <i>Taxi,</i> was much sadder. Two old lovers meeting in a taxi years later. He the driver. She the fare. They never lived their dreams." </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The man in the blue overcoat, shook his head: "Nope, still the <i>Piano Man. </i>Nothing sadder than a bar filled with loneliness." </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">Beer Mugs Moran switched the lights on and off. The two men took the cue and shuffled out of the bar nearly falling over each other, like wavy glasses of beer.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">No matter the season, no matter the summer month or winter storm, it always snowed at closing time. The snow always changing to rain as cold as a San Francisco night. In the cold rain the argument escalates as usual over the two old songs from when they were young.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">The man in the black overcoat pushes his One Lucky friend to the sidewalk. He yells "Taxi". Sue the cab driver waits for his call and picks up her 3am Saturday fare. They drive off, leaving the other man behind. And the man in the black tells Sue again, drive around the block and we'll pick up my friend.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The taxi driver knows to drive slowly, to give time for the sidewalk man to stand up and wave for her as she rounds the corner in the rain. The taxi stops, he gets in the back seat.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Take me home, " He said, his speech slurred but his line well practised like the actor he wanted to be.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">The taxi drives only a hundred feet. The man in the blue overcoat, leaves and walks towards his old apartment, above a 7 Eleven.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">Sue knows her lines: "Years ago, that store used to be a piano bar where he would play." She presses down on the gas and drives the last of her fare another hundred feet.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">The fare was only $2.50. The man gives Sue a twenty, and tells her to keep the change. He leaves the taxi and holds up his drunken arms like wings on a plane, and one more time wishes he once could have touched the sky. <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/A_g7fPjVxvg" width="320" youtube-src-id="A_g7fPjVxvg"></iframe></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/545Rlj1hITo" width="320" youtube-src-id="545Rlj1hITo"></iframe></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>The Square Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10942354729937177275noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2682078877460964096.post-42658085840923845592021-06-18T12:46:00.007-07:002021-06-18T14:30:03.961-07:00<div style="text-align: left;"><b><br />Touchstones</b></div><div style="text-align: left;">F*ck Springsteen</div><div style="text-align: left;">F*ck the Beatles</div><div style="text-align: left;">F*ck Apple Records</div><div style="text-align: left;">...Screw Steve Jobs, too</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">Screw the cultural touchstones</div><div style="text-align: left;">The sixties icons...</div><div style="text-align: left;">Dylan,</div><div style="text-align: left;">Reed,</div><div style="text-align: left;">The Byrds' Brains</div><div style="text-align: left;">Claptons' rip-off blues</div><div style="text-align: left;">Hate Asbury<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Summer of Stoned Love<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The Diggers and Andy's Tomato Soup Whores<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">F*ck the seventies--</div><div style="text-align: left;">Iggy's Pop bottle</div><div style="text-align: left;">Punk's spiked hair <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Seger's Main Street strippers<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Burt Reynolds' Smoking Bandits</div><div style="text-align: left;">Coppola and Scorcese's Godfather and Mean Streets</div><div style="text-align: left;">Halter tops and Platform heals</div><div style="text-align: left;">Alman's Bell Bottom Blues<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">F*ck the Eighties</div><div style="text-align: left;">Ronald's Ray Guns</div><div style="text-align: left;">Mullet hair rock Bands</div><div style="text-align: left;">Prince's Raspberry Berets</div><div style="text-align: left;">Motley Crew Cuts</div><div style="text-align: left;">Bleached teeth and bright Tees</div><div style="text-align: left;">Shopping malls and Japanese cars</div><div style="text-align: left;">Slasher movies on 16mm<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">F*ck 'em</div><div style="text-align: left;">Screw 'em</div><div style="text-align: left;">Torch the Touchstones</div><div style="text-align: left;">Live in an artless vacuum</div><div style="text-align: left;">Scrub away the past---</div><div style="text-align: left;">Sing! Sing! Sing! and Forget! Forget! Forget! </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/BKAYGVIkbok" width="320" youtube-src-id="BKAYGVIkbok"></iframe></div><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div>The Square Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10942354729937177275noreply@blogger.com1