come one! come all! come and see!
this act of frenzied masculinity;
hear our loud and adjective-filled song,
it is HUGE; it is WIDE; and it is very, VERY LONG!

come hear the music of the Canadian oppressed,
come sing along with the Canadian distressed;

with it and ours we plan to penetrate,
the capitol city of our fair state;
(and to hell BTW with the fourth estate!)
know that we are engorged with rage,
we will not suffer your rule-lined cage;

come hear the music of the Canadian oppressed,
come sing along with the Canadian distressed;

for this – this god-blessed, virile and noble cause,
brings a global, anger-filled and thunderous applause;
we’re here to save you whether you like it or not,
so just lay back and take it, it’s for you we fought.

come hear the music of the Canadian oppressed,
come sing along with the Canadian distressed;

black is surrounding comfort
that leaves us alone and safe;
it is night without nuance
and a place in the dark
where one can shelter
away from the burning light,
that carcinogenic beating blaze.

let us alone with the night
to gather with the timid things
that seek the safety of isolation,
wrapped in the harbour of blind obsidian;
black is best as it holds us closer,
this place of merged shadows;
it sings to us of sweet sleep .

let me poison the air around me
with hate-filled, corrupted words
and stand back confused
as people die at my feet

billions of coal-fired humans
vomiting poison to the skies
that it might rain down
to baptize the upturned gazes
of the unwary and wary alike

praise be to the freedoms
we despise so much

how is it
that i would rather
stay ravaged
in the midst of the storm
than step outside of it
and explain
that i don’t know
how i got there
in the first place

we are moments
moving through time
like small soap bubbles
floating rainbow-etched
in the summer’s sky;
with air behind, ahead
and surrounding us;
we are stars against the blue
sparkling fragile in the sun,
for a few moments.

i have taken
the tapestry of Nietzsche
to pull a dark thread out,
and so too
with Shakespeare and Wagner
while Marcus Aurelius and Margaret Atwood –
theirs may remain whole.

but the others,
when the corrupt was dragged out
they fell to golden shreds;
so what was i to do
but to weave something new
and shelter within its warmth.

sitting in fluffy onesie pajamas
my wife is matching;
she swears up a storm
working through Legend of Zelda
Breath of the Wild trials
while i read volume one
of a two volume set
on the History of Tamriel
of Elder Scrolls fame;
i ponder my children,
i ponder my life
with gratitude;

i am in love.

this perfect moment
could continue forever

words are moments
not continuity;
bubbles to the surface
of the bog
betraying life in decay
and preservation
for the age to come

we learn
through corrosive time
that there are no heroes
except the ones we create
within our vacuum head;
that every bright halo
hovered above the
darkened, doomed dead
and every white knight
was simply corruption
hidden beneath our bed

what light we stumble to
is not our own…

the world is a violence
wreaked upon itself
a heavy press of anticipation
strangling the living
with loving asphyxiation
until the only breath left
is the very last one
squeezed out
again and again and again