Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Monday, October 29, 2012
Monday, October 22, 2012
(for the late Shuffle Demons, Toronto’s Bop-Rap Sax Jazz ensemble, who I saw last at the Town Pump in the early 1990’s)
When the bouncing stops…
When the bouncing stops
and the giggling
and the sweat stops dripping
off eyebrows onto cheeks
And the saxophones
are seeking their velvet beds
we amble in a high
still on the dance floor
wondering when slam dancing
became called moshing
Our breathing slows and steadies
our triceps suddenly become strangely chilled
and the hoopy froods
in the long bright get-ups
and shades and berets
and long thin beards and burns
do more grinning
than people should be legally allowed to do
And we’re locked in place
on the dance floor
unable unwilling uncaring to move
as if there’d be yet another encore
when they’ve already packed up their gear
Lights coming up
leads to drive-by bouncers mumbling
“Time to go home”
leads to them playing Trooper’s
“We’re Here for a Good Time, Not a Long Time”
leads to direct statements from said bouncers
that we DO need to go now
decisiveness having fled long ago
as the orgy of the layered saxes
crushed our will
which we were happy to have gone
Left standing on the sidewalk
—how we got there I’ll NEVer know
we wouldn’t know that later in the 1990’s
the Demons would do some sort of reunion tour
of lower Ontario
and play goodbye to the “Spadina Bus”
and scream “Out of my House, Roach”
We wouldn’t know enough to cherish that era
until 2002 rolls around
Maybe it was the palindrome of 2002 itself
that brought our own Spadina Bus back online
days are numbers
and if I can keep at least one percent
of my will in play today
I won’t forget to cherish
because they’re as fleeting
as the wisps of low cloud
ducking under the cover
of the high puffy ones
that make the six o’clock news
Copyright 2002, Stephen Buckley 07.31.02
Saturday, October 13, 2012
How do you like my hat?
It was a catastrophe
but I couldn’t tell her that.
It’s perfect. It’s so you.
I especially love the tartan trim
the fuzzy little lamb grazing on the brim.
as I knew she would.
Sometimes a lie is best
when the truth is not so good.
Her hat in fact looked like
a three story house with lots
of windows but no floor boards.
She was just a kid with room
to grow and had been
working on her hat for hours.
With needle and thread
she tacked little straw flowers
In places where real flowers
never could grow.
They were all in a row
and in between
she filled up the spaces
with faces of people
she never would know.
It was an act of contrition, that hat
looking very much like a Picasso.
An abstract confession of other people’s sins
she was too young to have any of her own.
Cubism gone astray, you might say
accidently bumping into Claude Monet.
And, judging by those people
dancing on the roof
cavorting with Chagall along the way.
It grew on me
and so much so
my lie became the truth.
Day by day her hat
spoke to me in Tongues
as she kept working
adding flying buttresses, French doors
a balcony with a railing
a velvet ladder with golden rungs
so you could climb to the top
and see in the distance
a sunset, an ocean
a ship sailing.
Posted by Leocadia at 11:50 AM