Ode To A Before Picture ...

Ode To A Before Picture ... the big ol' half-moon gloats as it bloats you and floats you across the room like a Ringling Brothers elephant riding a peculiarly small but brightly coloured circus ball until with a splat! you teeter this way and that until you tumble down flat on the floral-covered crippled couch where you spread out and unfold and unfold and unfold just like you were a road map of Eurasia oh yes, i love you baby and i'm a dummy for your tummy even when it's a bit crumb-crummy but, heck, just let me vacuum it first it's appalling when things start falling and folks stop calling not because you've gained a hundred pounds or two not because there's really nothing much to do but you see these new hybrid cars are just a bit too small in stature and it would take another rapture to squeeze you in the back of a car like that it would be like squeezing Gibraltar through the tiniest crack sort of like forcing white through black oh yes, i love you baby just the way you are maybe i'll buy us a big classic 60's car and we'll drive away but not too far and watch the sun rise in a red and yellow burst some say that summer sun is a cruel old hack a steamy heart breaker some say a one-eyed Jack but when we're on the beach where it's all surf and sand all broken shells and pretty sea glass you'll have to dress in pastels and no-tells to cover up that ass no, no, no ... no more hiding in a straight black sack think a little less Aretha Franklin and a little more Roberta Flack oh yes, i love you baby but no more sodas and no chocolate bars no more stout ale in dingy Brit bars no more hiding under the dark night's stars no more believing that your life is cursed Copyright © Kennedy James, 2009. All rights reserved.

the second coming ... with great apologies to Yeats and aging hippies everywhere

the second coming ... with great apologies to Yeats and aging hippies everywhere i'm slouching towards Bethlehem riding on a ragged and rough beast that someone left to die of dehydration by the side of the road but not to worry i fixed the critter up with a couple of raspberry Dasanis i had stashed in my rack pack and before the sun melted and turned the sky into a Jackson Pollock we were good to go i think i'm high on the pot i was Goodwill smoking off some guy one stall over in the Starbuck's john a couple of days ago or it could be i'm just dizzy from the smell of oil wells burning on the horizon yeah, i know huge brain bummer and a real echo-disaster not to mention all the grannie four-wheelers that could use that oil over in Armerica but what the hell it's Judgement Day anyway the end of the world and all that huh? yep, me too at first i thought it was just a joke but when the dead guys in the burned out jeeps started getting fiddly like Captain Jack's pirates and began swapping out batteries from the toasted Mercedes turn-over wrecks into up-armoured Humvees well, i figured fork and spoon this is going to get bad real bad and if it's a joke well it's like way more tragicosmic than funny don't ya think? unless maybe you can hitch a ride on the cool white cloud bank that Jesus is driving around here somewhere like He's chauffeuring a triple-x stretch white limo as He cruises at a serious low altitude and circles the world once or twice to pick up the strays before heading off to paradise OK believe what you want i'm telling you that the omega king swung by here for sure maybe just 22 minutes ago but i waved him on by 'cause hell i'm not really into hitching much anymore and sure he's a good looking dude even without the beard but i figured at the time there might be more chicks on the road Copyright © Kennedy James, 2009. All rights reserved.

Waiter, There's A Horny Rhinocerous In My Pea Soup ...

Waiter, There's A Horny Rhinoceros In My Pea Soup ... On the weekend, I went with my family to the Toronto Zoo. After making arrangements with my daughter, Erin, to meet us there, I hightailed across the top of Toronto to pick up my son, Joshua, who, with the help of the lovely Linda, organised the entire day. The moment I pulled up their driveway, they were quick to pack up the back of my van with a fabulous lunch, a cooler of iced tea, cheese and crackers, bottles of water, stroller, and my granddaughter, the precocious Ava. It wasn't until we had drifted onto the freeway and Josh and Ava had drifted off to sleep in the back seat that questions of my son's sexuality surfaced. As we snaked our way through the morning traffic, the lovely Linda wondered out loud, "Did you know your son is gay?" I was a little taken aback, but not surprised. "Gay?" I murmured. "I suspected he had a fondness for sheep when he was a kid, but, no, I never had any indication that he was gay. Has he developed a fondness for your male relatives?" "No," she said with one of those dry-wry smiles, "but in your blog a while ago, you called me his 'partner.' Wouldn't that suggest to everyone who reads you that I was a guy and so, by implication, that he was gay?" The gay-pride neighbourhood in my brain suddenly lit up, and I swear a little Mardi Gras spontaneously spilled across almost the entire range of my consciousness. I suddenly heard the Village People singing YMCA in my head, and I imagined all kinds of out-rageously dressed transsexuals dancing under a disco ball. All of this occurred in a swashbuckling wink of an eye, but the experience lingered as all these smiley-faced neurons took up a sort of soccer-stadium battle cry that began pulsing in my brain: "We're gay! We're gay! You may be gay too!!" I quickly regained my senses when the driver of an eighteen-wheeler with Louisiana licence plates blasted his horn at me, and I swear I heard him shout, "You're driving on a freeway, you stupid old faggot ..." as he roared past us on the right/wrong side of the van. A tide of road rage sort of swelled up like hurricane Katrina and recklessly flooded over my thoughts as I considered cutting that big rig off into the guard rail and watching him jack-knife his way down an off ramp to Hell. I quickly put the brakes on my emotional response for the more rational concept of driving to stay alive. It was at that moment that I realised how destructive hurricanes of any kind can be. The Mardi Gras in my head had been cancelled, and the smiley-faced gay neurons had checked out, presumably for higher ground. "What's wrong with the term, 'partner'?" I bleeped after taking a deep, diesel-cleansing breath and pressing down with a little more force on the $3.75/gallon gas pedal.. "'Partner' is sort of gender-generic. It suits every occasion." The lovely Linda was unconvinced. "I prefer to be called his 'girlfriend,' his 'fiancée,' the 'mother of his child,' or perhaps even 'the love of his life,'" she suggested. "Oh, I don't like those," I quickly retorted. "Too mushy. How about his 'main squeeze'?" "No, I am not an orange." "His 'foxy lady'?" "No thanks. It's hard enough convincing him that he's not Bob Dylan. Let's not add Jimi Hendrix into the mix.' "Right. You have a point there." A quiet moment sifted through the van, and for a second or two, I wondered if I was actually at home, stoned on amino acids, and dreaming all this. I sensed I wasn't, and so I continued. "His 'better half'?" I offered. "How about that?" "No, too judgemental." "'Time-and-a-half'?" "No, just too mental." "Well, I'm stuck, then. I really don't know what to call you, unless you want something fancifully romantic, like his 'urban oasis'?" "Hmm ... I like that ..." "Of course it conjures up all kinds of sexual excess — belly dancers, glittering fairies, exotic fragrances, sultry wind chimes, and the like. Is that the effect you're looking for?" "Good grief, no. I just don't want people to think that Josh is gay, not because it's wrong to be gay, but simply because he's not. " "Trust me. There are more important things in life than worrying about what others think. Don't worry about whether or not people think he's gay, fat, stupid, or anything else for that matter. Worry about making one another happy, because if your relationship is going to work, only two opinions matter in all things — yours and his." As the van pulled into the zoo parking lot, there was a stirring in the back seat. Father and daughter were done their catnaps to the delightful shouts of "We're here! We're here!" Still, the lovely Linda had a chance for one more question. "What if those two opinions are always different?" she asked in a quiet voice. "Then consider yourself lucky," I threw back. "Imagine how dull life would be if they were always the same." ~Food For Butterflies~ [Toronto Zoo] Copyright © Kennedy James, 2009. All rights reserved.

The Waiting Room ...

The Waiting Room ... In the waiting room, the fluorescent light was so bright that it melted away the shadows of the crowded room and created an almost one-dimensional world, something like a late-night reflection of life trapped in a flat pane of glass. And yet, there were shadows, shadows of a different sort. Dark and deep hollows creased the gloomy faces all around me, faces with greying skin and furtive eyes that were closed or indifferent to the comings and goings of one patient after another, eyes waiting, eyes that flicker away to hide what is behind them, what is inside the man or the woman or the child — discomfort, discord, disease. I looked at them all, one by one. I remember none of them now. This waiting room was new to me. Its taupe-coloured walls, its two-tone abstract paintings, its smell of sour disinfectant — all were new to me. "Uncharted waters," Marlow said to me in the back of my mind. "Such experiences have always been, for myself, an intolerable weight oppressing my breast, mixed with the darkness of an impenetrable night. You'll remember it forever, I suspect. " "It's just a room," I grumbled silently back to the overly dramatic storyteller. "A room of fear," Marlow hissed. "A room without a compass, maybe. Not much more. I feel more lost than afraid." "Du calme," Marlow offered from somewhere in my memory. "You have been through worse, for all you say. It is always hard to find a decent helmsman, one who will not jump ship in a swell. Still, steady as she goes, hold fast to your courage, and do not give into the wilderness, whatever you do. I admit, that was my mistake. My failing, completely." Then another voice, more high-pitched, like the voice of a parrot holding court in a small pet store. You hear it, you almost understand it, and then your brain gives up on translating it into meaning. "Pardon me?" I said aloud. "I said that you'll need to fill in this form before seeing the doctor, and I'll need your referral note from your family doctor," the voice commanded as it drifted up from the seated receptionist behind a short counter. She was a woman with a sour expression, hidden partially under the veil of her downcast eyes and almost alien in appearance, with bright red blush on her cheeks and pencil-drawn eyebrows, angular and as thin as a razor's edge. Her hair was spiked, the tips frosted an almost obscene white. Meeting her anywhere but here might have caused me to pause, perhaps even to admire her as more a fashion revolutionary than bizarre harlequin, but here she heralded the way to life or death, and in such circumstances, I suppose I expected a more conservative custodian ushering the way in and the way out. "Oh, sorry, of course," I assured her, as I passed her the note from my own doctor, nothing but a scrap of paper really, and yet the backstage pass that allowed me to be here, in the waiting room of a doctor known to be one of Toronto's leading cancer specialists. "See?" Marlow all but bellowed. "This is going to be fine, just fine. Everything is falling into place. That mole? Just a mole. Nothing unusual about it at all." I silently croaked back at him, "If there were nothing unusual about it, then I don't suppose I'd be here, would I?" "Yes, well, it's grown a bit, that's all. Perfectly normal." "Grown? That's an understatement. In only a few months, it's grown from a pin prick to the size of a quarter." "Not quite a quarter," Marlow said assuredly. "More like a nickel." "I'm not sure this is the time or place for funny." "Perhaps you're right," Marlow grumbled contritely, "I sometimes let my thoughts run away ..." "It's fine," I interrupted, "but please, let me concentrate on this form. I'm really not sure why you're here at all. Really, why you?" "Your choice, I suppose," Marlow threw back quickly. "Who better? Would you want some drunken Hemingway character foreshadowing your inevitable demise? Or perhaps one of Frost's weary, sick-of-life travellers? Frankly, I think you made a sound selection. I know you think me a coward, but you're wrong about that. I do not fear the consequences of my actions. And neither should you. I am here because you fear the worst and somehow I embody someone who confronted the worst and lived to tell about it. If you did not fear the worst, then I suspect Jay Gatsby and all his idiotic revisionism would be here calling you 'old sport,' and helping you to make believe that you did not smoke for over thirty years, that you ate properly your entire life, that you exercised daily, even that, heaven forbid, you avoided all those years in the sun." The door to the waiting room opened, and yet another patient stepped into the room. I looked up, but saw only a cool, grey fog rushing through the doorway and billowing into small clouds. I shuddered involuntarily. "I do not fear anything," I whispered. "Then, accept a death sentence, if that is what you get here today." "I will. It is not death that troubles me" I assured Marlow. "It is all the preparations for death that are so troublesome." What Marlow said next was lost in the fog, now quickly filling the room. I hurried to complete the form, and I returned it to the receptionist. She glanced at it briefly, then asked me to please have a seat and wait for my name to be called. I found my way to a stiff chair close to the door, and I waited. Copyright © Kennedy James, 2009. All rights reserved.

love is a river ...

love is a river love is a river it roars all around you and slashes over you in a strange eddies of unrecognizable currents a torrential force that smashes you into vaporous kisses rising like steam and falling like cool drizzle all over your body where you lay pinioned under the debris by the shore (and kiss me here and kiss me here and kiss me here oh god, yes, kiss me always) love is a promise spilling over lips of sweet poison that infects every part of you in an instant and leaves you for dead on a battlefield of feathers where you lie spread beneath a second body bashing and crashing above and into you wanting only to revive you or finish the murder who can tell? who can tell? (tell me you'll love me always, tell me you'll never leave, oh god, yes, tell me how to love you) love is a hanging tree where you sway in the wind like a child's rag doll caught on a wire fence it chokes you from life constricts every blood vessel until you succumb or surrender to the will of another until you choose to die or choose to die and just when you find the strength to speak you are cut free and fall to the ground where you curl into a ball of pain with barely enough strength left to whisper (i never loved you, i never loved you, oh god, no, i never loved you at all) Copyright © Kennedy James, 2009. All rights reserved.

Walking On The Moon ...

Walking On The Moon ... Over North American skies, there's a full moon drifting through the stars these days. So much is associated with that hazy globe of reflected light. For many people, it connects people from various parts of the world who miss one another's company. For others, it's a shining affirmation of love, a symbol of a constancy, light in darkness. Certainly it's the stuff of so much poetry, that I have often hesitated to ever use the moon in anything I write. Somehow, I just have the feeling that it's all been said before and probably more eloquently than I could ever muster. So much folklore is attached to the moon as well. Werewolves, Swiss cheese, man-in-the-moon, I guess the list is almost endless. I like to walk on the moon. I like to feel light as air and bounce through moon dust with reckless abandon. I know that I may fall into a crater or rip my spacesuit on a moon rock, so what? What is life but a series of gambles anyway? The little joys that we gather into our scrapbook memories are really so few, and I get tired of repeating things over and over again. Too often we take the safe route on our way to the next destination. For me, the thrill is not on the safe road. The thrill is in travelling uncharted paths. The thrill is in taking a leap into the unknown and discovering new experiences. It's a leap of faith, I suppose. The chances are that you may never make it through in one piece or that, even if you do make it through, you won't recognise yourself on the other side. I get tired of being myself. I get tired of being the same. The great joy of life is always change -- changing who you are, changing what you think, changing where you live, changing why you live. It's easy to say, "Well, that's just the way I am . . ." as an easy excuse to ignore the challenge of change, an easy excuse to hide whenever you are confronted with a challenge to see life from another perspective. It's easy to stay locked in a way of life, in a habitual existence. But, where's the unexpected? Where's the sudden fear of the unknown? Where's the drama of stepping into a crater and laughing all the time you're falling into empty space? So many people need to feel in control of destiny. I wonder if they're just fooling themselves? I'm not sure any of us control destiny. Maybe there is a plan, and maybe there isn't. Either way, the idea that "this is what I want" or "that is what I want" is probably nothing more than a way to trick yourself into believing that you can write your own life story. I prefer to subscribe to what I call the "Little Bang Theory." We rocket through our lives, and we collide with others in a way that veers us off course again and again, always in another, unexpected direction. That is how our personal, "little universe" is created and continues to grow. I guess I see life as a kind of cosmic pinball game. We bounce from bumper to bumper, place to place, person to person, and we really have no control over what direction we are headed next. For me, that's the excitement of every new day. Copyright © Kennedy James, 2009. All rights reserved.

Umbrella

Umbrella One day in downtown Encino, Jesus H Christ (Son of God, King of the Jews, Alpha & Omega, Original Celebrity Apprentice) was standing in the rain at a bus stop and waiting for the 808 West. I shuffled up next to Him, not too close, you understand, because I've heard that He has a kind of magic touch that might send me spinning into some kind of miracle, and to be honest, I'm pretty content with the way my life is now. Maybe, I should have minded my own business and kept my distance, but the man's white "muslim" robe was really starting to get wet, and I couldn't imagine what it would soon smell like. So I offered Him a spot under my umbrella. I mean, what the heck, He was a short dude, thin to a fault, and I couldn't imagine there being any problem fitting the both of us under a bit of shelter from the storm. I faked a cough, which caught His attention, and I said to Him, "Come and stand under here with me, if you like. Get out the rain ..." He looked at me with these kind eyes, and He smiled a little, just a lip smile, you know. No teeth flashing, and definitely no wink of the eye. He is, after all, a straight guy, I'm pretty sure of that. Nowhere have I read that He was ever into the gay scene, despite the fact that He kept twelve guys around Him most of the time. Well, He looked at me and said, "Thank you, I will share your umbrella." Then, He kind of glided under there with me, and I immediately realised that He was taking up much more space than I thought He would. Not only that, but He nudged me outside the sheltered area, and my left shoulder started to get a little wet. Now, don't get me wrong. I wasn't upset at getting a little wet, because, obviously, this is an important Guy. Still, I was wearing a new shirt, and I was a little afraid that the colour might run, so I pushed Him back a little. He turned and looked at me with a peculiar expression, sort of a mixture of disbelief and despair. "Sorry," I said quickly, "my shirt ... I was just getting a little wet here on the shoulder." "You offered Me shelter," He said in this kind of droll voice that you usually only hear in places like Atlanta. "Yes," I confirmed, "but I thought we could share it equally." "And you think I'm taking up too much your space?" He said softly but with just a tiny bit of a snicker under the words. "Well, to be honest," I threw back, "You're a little bit bigger than I expected." "A common misconception," He said sadly. "I will leave you to your umbrella, I can stand a little rain," and, with that, He stepped out from under my umbrella and back into the downpour. I felt terrible, of course. I mean, I felt like I had just disappointed this very important fellow because of a little rain on my shoulder. "I'm sorry," I offered. "Please come back under the umbrella." He turned and looked at me. He had something of a haughty expression on His face, and to be honest, I never expected He was quite so human. I always sort of imagined Him to be kind of above all the human frailty stuff. In fact, for the briefest moment, I though I was in for a huge bit of drama, when all of sudden, the pouring rain stopped like someone had shut off a faucet, and the sun began to shine brightly in a clear afternoon sky. "Well, that's a better solution," I said to Him with as much sarcasm as I could muster, because, really, what He did made me feel small and just a little insulted. "Nothing like a little miracle to solve a problem," I continued. "Just think how great it would be if everyone had that power. Just think how fabulous the world would be if every time things didn't go someone's way, that person could just whip up a little miracle to make things right. Why the divorce rate alone would plummet deeper than the stock market." Then the strangest thing happened. I was about to fold up my umbrella when He reached out and put a soft hand on my arm, just above my wrist, and said, "I could use a little shade ..." Copyright © Kennedy James, 2009 All rights reserved.