The Young Lords of the New Machine

Who are your machine overlords?

Sinister masterminds

Loathsome ego

They wear no black hats

No gruesome warpaint

They came as heroes

In skinny jeans and Skechers

Fresh faced, unsuspecting

Young Lords of the New Machine

but they have succumbed to vampires

They are planet Renfield

until they too will walk the Earth

as the Undead

On English Bay

We departed the mountains in darkness

The Sun’s yawning stretch cross-continental

flailing at my back

Banks of artificial light burrow

through the mists to find the sea

Shadows of stone lay down

in the rearview

lost in night’s repose

The wet streaks the windows

Magnifies the twinkling lights

of the city below

Bridges arced with fireflies

spanned the straits

Midnight blue in glass

like blood from a wound

In a world tilted downhill

Touched ground on Hastings

and dissolved into the mists

Coffee House Irish Whiskey at 3:00 AM

Smoking hash with some freaks

in a cold flat under a bridge

Stranger in a strange land

No Heinlein Hero, I

I wandered off at dawn

til my boots found the sand

English Beat on my Walkman

Sunrise on English Bay

Land’s End

We came to the water

from hillsides

following the melt

from sylvan glades

and dusty plains

to the warmth we felt

on the soles of our feet

through sun baked stones

lining the shore

We migrated the banks

or the waters themselves

Ever on and garnish with mud huts

Til the rivers’ end

and the great sea

What desperate need to cross?

Last day in Barcelona

Sailor suit hopscotch

across the flagstones

Balearic sun paints the square

The cafes fill, seats and umbrellas


like blots on celluloid

The error of their imperfection

captured in beauty by light

She was perfect in profile

holding that tray

the fall of her hair

balancing glasses

When the rains came

her skirts twirled

lost in turning parasols

They vanish all

fleeing the downpour

The Bun Boyz

up before the papers have arrived

Mondays begin the weekend

for those who serve

the mewling herds

Saturdays and Sundays

their largess dispensed

in controlled dosage

The Princess holds the purse-strings

Princess wields the leash

She is amused by your

pathetic affectations

Your Samurai is all bun and no sword

Woe betide us all

the day they slip their collars


Conformists Anonymous

Hi, my name is

I am a conformaholic

It has been thirty years

since my last confession

Don’t recognize anyone

or anything

Least of all myself

When you stop believing

all the lies you’ve been told

their matrix crumbles

Better that a man believe nothing

No further harm will befall you

Where the sum of all belief

still adds up to nothing

And hope after hope

this esteemed body

issues no judgment for failure

nor tokens for recovery

Success or failure is all your own



Now my eyes fail

I see more clearly

My ears fail

as I learn to listen

As taste is diminished

I know what to savor

My voice will fail too

I’ll have nothing left to say

And when rest eludes me

sleep will be dreamless