1. |
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I saw the open window so I strode,
From our blue line to their hash-marks unopposed.
Eyed down their goalie in hopes to even up the score,
When the time board horned this period to a close.
A chance turnover led to this rare breakaway,
But my confidence began to melt as teammates picked apart the play.
You should have knocked him off his socks instead of lifting up his stick,
Are you too soft for body contact, too fragile a flower to hit?
Jeering down long enough to hear,
Well he’s a choir boy he must be queer.
Hydrating on long tainted poweraide,
Goons groomed to posture and put down for status sake.
Coach combing strokes with his intermission speech,
Spoken to foam us at the mouths rile us up as hounds unleashed.
Finish every check cheat your elbow to their chin,
Be chippy in the corners when the refs they get distracted.
Take grey advantages in war it’s either us or them,
Go hard against the boards and show them how to play like men.
A mad scientist experiments with mice,
To perform gender on the ice.
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2. |
He(art) Attck
02:11
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My daybook became an impressionist painting,
Formal obligations blurred floral arrangement Monets.
Thoughts of us emerged, as a new aged collage.
Curious how once pasted people could be cut apart.
Oh what should I,
Interpret from this?
Oh how long should I stare and contort my head?
Each door frame became a surrealist escape,
Every step as unsure as an MC Escher staircase.
A mural arose, colourful swirls of theory.
Yes I detect patterns and themes here but please, what of some meaning?
Oh what should I,
Interpret from this?
Oh how long should I stare and contort my head?
Let’s take our joys and transgressions inspired mistakes to strokes on a canvas hued truths on display.
Bring these portraits exposing the organs of love to a gallery vacant with walls to hang from.
Throw a private exhibit, rent out a hall stow our invites distractedly in the gift shop.
With steps in retreat and back greeting backs witness frames of good hearts under attack.
Here’s to one last appraisal an honest goodbye walk through opposite exits leave all this unsigned.
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3. |
Car Odyssey
03:11
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I’m a trusted beater growing idle in a lot,
Decorating the front entrance to a cranky, auto repair shop.
Parked haphazardly between two cream decalled Acuras,
‘For Sale’ sign in my windshield blinding me with neon font.
I’ve grown tired of the stench that’s been wafting through these air vents,
Of worn down old garage men smoke away half of their pay cheques.
Tires restlessly deflating down the minutes of each day,
I reminisce of gripping asphalt the glory of past escapades.
How the sun always shone louder on past ventures of the road,
Attracting moonbeams worth of static for the sake of radio.
How the highways used to breathe weaving through my lowered windows.
Despite the many splendid miles shining cities, honest farms,
That which I recall the fondest were those inside the car.
One human I knew most til-an intruder broke into our bond,
But with time soothed as familiar as my spot in their garage.
With subtle hints unlocked the blueprints to these blood machine,
Their tense and ease of body language along with honking tendencies.
We’d galavant expansive coastlines long weekend cottage trips,
Until an argument arose and was shoved in my glove compartment.
Where words hid as airbags capable to save,
But never were deployed as they crashed and walked away.
To this functional device they seem to overcomplicate,
Return to dealership reactions to a simple oil change.
How we all become spare parts when left to unfaithful maintenance.
And that showroom allure seducing eyes and headlight bulbs,
To veer towards the gleam of the season’s newest model.
Omitting little wrench adjustments collude into head-on collisions,
Such neglect has left me here with winter tires in the spring.
My dreams will rattle on company for junk-yard sleeps,
Imagining a new adventurer sitting in my front seat.
Demanding down the asking price til I feel pavement underneath me.
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4. |
Game Show Winnings
01:44
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The gates were unlocked and we paraded in,
To a warehouse of wonders and not promised riches.
Each claimed our seats facing price tags and questions,
Studio audience couponed at attention.
In a blare and a blast of dazzling confetti,
Marched in our marshal of ceremony.
The first contender had yet to be diagnosed,
Undoctoredly picked by our charismatic host.
Despite odds sharply drawn stick-figure thin,
My name was detected from his golden ticket.
Approaching the stage to astonished applause,
Prizes gleamed with an apple in Eden clause.
Felt like front-page news to this living arcade,
Told my hometown, employment, gave one quirky trait.
Then queued to commercials nothing to rehearse,
I paced till the camera’s on-air alert.
Unveiling a wheel shut my eyes and spun,
Flashing lights, ringing bells leaked to me I had won.
Now goalposts have migrated borders shifted off the pitch,
Former mantle place idols cobwebbed in closets.
Jackpot's gone from sprees of spending and left,
Crowd’s worth of contempt for game show contestants.
When chance intervenes there no law in the land.
Luck seems to stream from the dealer's hand.
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5. |
Krakow
05:12
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This tour of Europe went better than thought.
One more day to return the rental car.
Months felt handkerchief clown-trick long.
I’ve marveled crowds and architects to exhaustion.
It’s Canadian Thanksgiving,
In a hostel, in Krakow.
With accents that I can’t figure out,
And faces I know nothing about.
I’ve bought stones and oils to help.
Conflicting horoscopes I recount.
All the cobblestones and heavy steps.
A paper bag containing homesick-ness.
My best man got married fresh last week.
I mailed a card and parcel with gift receipts.
Will you or I check out in the morn?
(We could draw straws) It doesn’t matter, ‘cause we both are.
Make a living meeting people to miss,
But what was I expecting from this?
I’ve bought stones and oils to help.
Conflicting horoscopes I recount.
I’ve bought stones and oils to help.
Conflicting horoscopes I recount.
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6. |
Empty Vespers
03:12
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The God of smoking coughs,
The Devil of the drink sweats one-off.
And disciples of the pair finding peace only in prayer.
Gargoyle ghosts,
Mock from mid-night bedposts.
Grin and sticking out their tongues knowing you cannot shake them.
The Agnostic walk,
Each step best intentions made in the dark.
The door to hell will open wide but it locks from the inside.
Am I the blade that scrapes away Rosetta’s stone for the translator?
The tectonic plates, the tidal wave for coastal villagers?
The damn that breaks, a convincing fake museum curator?
Halo come back.
Halo come back.
Halo come back.
Halo come back.
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7. |
Every Child
03:27
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Money’s talking trash put that voice in the litter bin,
Politics put Peter Pan into early retirement.
Empathy exists inside little Petri dishes,
Love I hope to no one that I can believe in it.
Take out the pre-meal ritual of crossing both my shoulders,
Up to mirrors to oil all of the mechanisms of coping.
My guardians float away and I’m plucking at their feathers,
Icarus descending over Sisyphus’ mountain.
All those campfire kids criticizing the arrangement of the kindling,
Are overbearing scout leaders, wilderness badge dictatorship.
Money’s talking trash but I’m trying not to listen,
Politics revealed the secrets of all my favourite magicians.
Empathy is weak it’s survival of the sickest,
Love I hope to no one that I can believe in it.
This is the death of tangible progression,
Everything here that remains is social second-guessing.
All those red pen obsessed kids campaigning their peers to be class present,
Are now administrative powers, Adams, Eves with golden apples.
Every little girl is the mother to the daughter, every little boy is the father to the son.
Every little girl is the mother to the daughter, every little boy is the father to the son.
Every little girl is the mother to the daughter, every little boy is the father to the son.
It’s less the earth more of the water,
We twist ourselves into the mold that we become.
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8. |
Breakfast Again
03:50
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We ended when you spoke,
From a step-stooled podium.
A muted microphone,
Why rebuttal when love gets splintered.
Oh we drifted farther with each strange encounter.
Oh propagate ourselves in sovereign planters.
Am I doomed to hear your voice?
A coin-less, unplugged jukebox noise.
Or run in like a plan,
A labyrinth which wields intent.
Oh we walked away from a ringing phone.
Oh left the low tide coast casually exposed.
Oh untied the rope to both our dented tin cans.
Oh strangers again with memories and separate maps.
In the friendliest of fires, there’s no spark of fault.
A good man will come, keep you up, know your pulse.
And those habits everlasting, as the patterns they form.
All of us are better, when we’re adored.
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Owen Meany's Batting Stance Halifax, Nova Scotia
Engaged, electrically charged acoustic guitar, teeming with emotive energy rounded by percussion and bass. As Owen Meany's Batting Stance, each performance is a contract to burst the bubble between audience and performer through relatable, punching songs. Lyrically oriented, using songs to cradle narratives with conventional chords and unconventional structure. ... more
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