Bob Dylan 1964-10-31 Philarmonic Hall New York City, NY

Dunya

Dunya  -  temporal world—and its earthly concerns and possessions
as opposed to the eternal spiritual realm, or the hereafter (ākhira).

Shuffle Demons - Demonology

Shuffle Demons

Sax Orgy
(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
a stupor
a meandering
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
politely
that we DO need to go now
yeah, whatever
we’re braindead
decisiveness having fled long ago
as the orgy of the layered saxes
crushed our will
which we were happy to have gone
frankly

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
but ultimately
days are numbers
and if I can keep at least one percent
of my will in play today
I won’t forget to cherish
my todays
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

The Hat

She said

How do you like my hat?

It was a catastrophe

but I couldn’t tell her that.

I said

It’s perfect.  It’s so you.

I especially love the tartan trim

the fuzzy little lamb grazing on the brim.

She beamed

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.

by Leo