How to Protect the Unconditional Heart

From your first breath, the possibility of unconditional love lives in your heart.

But as you move through this life, various conditions are placed upon this love.

This unconditional love becomes conditional;

And over time, the inventory of conditions become what is known as a heart condition,

As they act to harden the heart.

These conditions are self-imposed upon our hearts, 

with the false hopes that they can protect our hearts from breaking.

In reality, these conditions themselves work to harden the heart,

with the end result being the heart becomes more brittle and subject to breakage.

In this digital age, we fall in love with the new and the novel,

And in a continual effort to remain current, we install software programs 

to what we will call “the heart drive.”

And we come to believe that these applications will help to make us more efficient,

allow us to go faster, and to help make the images of our life more clear,

or less clear if that is the desire, what we call fading in or fading out.

This is why our “heart drives” can become cluttered, 

resulting in usage of too much memory, freezing up, or endless buffering.

Over time, a frozen heart drive will cause your system to crash or simply shut down.

Put Me Down Like Your Favourite Pet

In my part of the country, there are clinics with signs that read Walk-Ins Welcome.  I have often joked about a not too distant future, where the signs will read: Walk Outs Welcome.   In Canada, we face a future where the vast majority of the demographic is made up of aging Boomers, and many of the Boomers, like myself, have not planned well for a future.

Issues of declining health and lack of wealth, rising rates of Alzheimer's, and the usual suspects of Heart disease, Strokes and Cancer, may push some of us aging Boomers to choose to check out.  As my song Freedom 85 states " I can't afford a hole in the ground, Hey Buddy, got a match to light me on fire? I told my wife," Take me to the vet, and put me down like your favourite pet."

This last week, local artist and musician Elizabeth Fischer made the choice to end her life with assisted suicide in Switzerland, where assisted suicide is legal.  She had been told recently that she had stage 4 terminal lung cancer.  She also recently put her beloved pet down, and remarked on the way our society views this action, as something that is acceptable for humans to do for pets, but somehow not acceptable for humans to do for other humans, or even for humans to make that decision themselves in regards to their own life.

Elizabeth was an extremely talented visual artist, songwriter, bandleader, lyricist and singer.  Her work with the D.P.s, Animal Slaves and Dark Blue World was intense and compelling.  She was a dark, but humourous person; she was a difficult person who did not suffer fools gladly.  She could be judgmental, and I think I fell into the "fool" category for her upon many occasions. She was someone who challenged me, and my concepts of friendship for many years.   We were not "friends" when she made the decision to take her life.  While I regret not taking the opportunity to remedy that situation prior to her exit, it was something I could not bring myself to do.
But for all our personal animosity, I never lost my respect for Elizabeth's art or her music.  She was an important artist, with very unique voice and vision, and she was always true to that vision.

She had relationships with some of my friends, including close friends Ross Hales and Greg Reely, but I could never say I was particulary close to her. We were colleagues and competitors in a small scene.  We worked together many times, my bands playing with her bands, we were co-founders of MO-DA-MU, a musical collective that included 54/40, Rhythm Mission, Animal Slaves,  Junco Run, the Work Party and Tin Twist.

Tin Twist was fronted by Elizabeth's cousin, Judy Kemeny, who was tragically taken from us when she was quite young with cancer.   Elizabeth and Judy both came from Hungary, and their parents were concentration camp survivors.  Obviously, that experience deeply affects the children, and children's children for many generations.  This dark history informed Elizabeth's art and music, it fired her anger and fuelled her art.

She was a strong person, she was a person with a dark sense of humor, she was a performer.  As performers, we  love a stage, we seek drama, we look for the statement or opportunity to make a statement.  Elizabeth had just had a book release and art show Orphans and Dogs, which was a culmination of her life's work; yet how would anyone know that would be her last work?  With someone so creative, I am sure there would have been much more work if only there had been more time.  With the pronouncement of stage 4 cancer, she knew her time was running out, and she decided to end her life on her own terms, the same way she had lived it.

I suppose it is ironic for me that all of this took place in the month of October, normally one of the darkest times of the year for me.  My good friend Lenore Herb died a few years back of stage 4 terminal pancreatic cancer.  Lenore was also a very talented person who was very challenging, outspoken, and not universally loved.  I sat with her on the day before she breathed her last breath, and can only say that cancer is one of the most cruel ways to die.  At that moment, I totally understand why Elizabeth would choose to end her life the way she did.

Another friend of mine took her own life last year around this time of year.  Her suicide was not assisted, she organized it herself.  She was in a very dark place, and we will never know why she did it, or what events in her life led her to that decision on that very darkest of days.   We are left with shock, and sadness, and anger and confusion.

Death of any kind leaves a hole in the lives of those left behind, the people who were friends or family of the departed.  It is a very sad moment no matter what the circumstances. But our reactions to death are very different depending on age and circumstance.  When a person is much older, we say "they lived a long life, and it was time."  Or if they were in much pain, we say, "it was a blessing, now that pain is over." If a person is very young, we say "how tragic that a life is cut so short, when there was so much promise and future."

In the case of assisted suicide, many of us agree that a person has a right to make the choice.   We may say how brave they are to make that choice.
But in the case of suicide, those of us who are left behind can only ask ourselves, why?  What more could we have done?  While there is a general acceptance of assisted suicide, especially when the person has a physical illness,  there is a general non-acceptance of suicide when the person who commits this act has a mental illness.

I have no answers to this.  Personally, I hope that when the time comes for me, it happens fast. I do not fear death as much anymore.  Every year brings more death, and within my circle, there is not so much birth, but there is always opportunity for new friends and changed relationships with old friends.

What is known for sure is that we have no shelf life.  We are born to die as my friend Frank Ramirez said.  There is much work that has been done, and much more left to do.  I would end this with a shout out to Elizabeth.   I am glad that I had the opportunity to know you, to view your art , to hear your music and listen to your voice.   I have no clue what happens when we leave this life, but I honor the life and time that you had; you made a huge impression and you leave behind a body of work that will live on.  Next time around, perhaps we will be better friends.

Shadow from Days to Come

by Alejandra Pizarnik

For Ivonne A. Bordelois*

Tomorrow

they’ll dress me in ash for the sunrise,

they’ll fill my mouth with flowers.

I’ll learn to sleep

inside the memory of a wall,

on the breath

of a dreaming animal.

OPEN UP YOUR HEART TO SARAH WITH LOVE

Step in the sun
Step out of the shadows
and be who you are
Everybodys got something
that really matters
Use this life for love

You only got one shot out of this barrel
We only ever come this way but once
If you love someone, then just don't fight it
All you got to do is open up your heart.
Open up your heart.



Sarah Wheeler
https://youtu.be/ggaK4MTNPZg

I Will Work For Words

The white page begs for words.  Got words? Spare words?  Hey brother, can you spare a word? The white page holds a sign, scrawled in the blood of poets, asking for the moon in june, begging for a dark and stormy night, mumbles what me worry, calls and responds with call me Ishtar.
The white page is literally starving for verbs to fill the barren expanse, bereft of subject or predicate. The white page will not be satisfied with mere words, as the real craving is for something better, something bigger like a complete thought that turns into a perfect sentence, a sentence to end all sentences, a sentence that shouts to the world, I WILL WORK FOR WORDS, until word after word, the white page fills with words and is not longer blank, no longer void of meaning.

Still this is not enough for the white page.

A half page mocks the writer, whispers in his ear, taunts him with doubt. After all, anybody can draw up a list.  This is not talent, it is typewriting; these are not hits, but only the shell casings of bullet points!  The white page deserves a blow job of full blown romance, craves mystery, invites nods to the masters, wants originality, not secondhand words lifted from the latest bestseller.  Can I get a punchline that will leave them screaming?  Please don't even consider stopping here.  It knows you have more to give.  Just acknowledge that the page has needs too.

The writer proclaims to the page, I will spill my words upon you, and they will grow like seeds upon the ground, gathering hubris.   One day, I will be known as the Johnny Appleseed of Words.  Yes my words will propagate, they will fuck each other hard, spreading far and wide, pushing boundaries and pushing buttons.  They will tear the buttons off the blue bloods, ripping bodices with abandon, filling the air with a gothic sickness.  Single words will beget more words, until sense finally comes out from the dense undergrowth. Is it too much to dream of meaning?

Slowly the white page disappears, as the writer consumes snowy fields, drinks blood from polar bears, gives the albino a black eye spewing out an alphabetical algorhythm of avuncular albacore albatrosses actualizing an autumn abbatoir, bringing on bloody botox bell curves that burble with Bourbon, calling out corrugated crustaceans, come on my cummerbund! I create danger pay for this doggerel day.  Do pardon my dense dream, darling. Excuses excuses excuses. Flogging florid folderol for feckless felons.  Gets gushing over gaberdine gin gimlets, as garrulous giblets begrudge Godhead. Hurry Hurry Hurry.  I- I- I.  The alphabet stops at I and the writer passes out in parentheses.

In the morning, he wakes with paper in his mouth, pencil shavings and eraser rubbings like sand in his sheets. He cringes as he remembers his lost weekend of words.  Then he crumples the foolscap, and reaches for his coffee and another white page.

 

The Fire and Light of Howard Rix

On September 17, 2015, the fire and the light that was Howard Rix went out leaving a vacuum in many people's lives and hearts.  According to my good friend Chris Crud, "Howard Rix passed away at 7:09 pm on Sept. 17,2015 at VGH.  He suffered a severe asthma attack followed by two heart attacks which lead to devastating brain injury. He passed peacefully with loved-ones at his side."

Howard Rix was a singer's singer; he had a voice that was a true authentic gift.  His sinewy presence on stage was always "on".  I never saw him give a half-ass performance.  Make no mistake, he owned it when he was upon it.  He gave us his all, and then some everytime, from playing on the street to the largest stages in our little town.

We know that a great voice is needed to make someone a great singer. Some people are born with great voices, and some people work and train to further develop their instrument. And some people like myself, try to do the best with what we have.

But Howard Rix was seemingly born with a voice that recalled many giants who came before him- greats like Elvis, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Iggy Pop. He brought a snarling beauty and depth to what he sang, because unlike some others who may have good voices, Howard was real.  He walked the walk and lived the stories in song that he told on stage.

My very good friend and former drummer,  Steve Taylor, who is a band leader and perhaps the epitome of cool,describes Howard Rix as the best singer that he ever had the privilege of drumming behind. Given the extensive list and range of superb singers that have graced the stage with Steve Taylor, and knowing Steve's unchallenged judgement in this regard, his praise of Howard Rix is genuine and notable.

But Howard was more than just a great singer.  He was a great performer.  He brought darkness and fire to life, His range of performances, from the Stingin' Hornets, to GI Jive, to the Scramblers are legendary.  I had the misfortune of trying to follow him one night. I remember the night at the Chapel Arts with JFK, which also included the legendary Brian Goble. I had to follow Howard and my youthful hero Chris Arnett, two riveting performers if there ever was. I blew my voice out on two songs, and did a double knee drop and hearing them both snap at the same time with some ligament stretched beyond its limit as I hit the stage. Those knees were extremely painful for about 9 months.  But in a town littered with so much talent, and with so many great performers, Howard Rix stood out.

But what makes someone a great performer, not just a great singer?  Is it the way they control the stage, they way the band becomes one instrument behind them?  The way they look at you while you are watching them perform. You think you can see into their soul, and you also feel that maybe, they are looking right into yours?  I find it interesting that some of the most dynamic performers that I have known are also the quietest and sweetest unassuming individuals off stage.  Howard was that way.  He was a kind, soft spoken man who wrestled with his own demons, but he kept those demons private and locked inside, giving us just a glimpse of his darkness as we watched him prowl the stage like a Bengal tiger in our living room.

There was no denying the power or the ferocity; Howard Rix was dangerous. You could feel that with one swipe, he could knock you out.  But he had the grace and inner knowledge that gave him that edge on stage.  We knew he would kill it, but while we were doing that dance of death, maybe he would take time to play with us a bit before he took the big bite that would bring the curtain down.

In the past while, we have lost three giants- Dave Gregg, Brian "Wimpy" Goble and Howard Rix.
Our time here on this messed up planet is brief, much too brief at times.  Those people who burn the brightest will sometimes burn out faster that others, leaving behind shadow and smoke where once we only saw fire and light.  But our memories fill us with incredible joy when we marvel at their greatness and lives, and how we were so fortunate to know them, if even so briefly.  We are filled with so much grief and sadness at their passing, yet we are all just passing through,
Here is to the Fire and the Light that was Howard Rix.  Like the song he sang, "He lived fast, loved hard and died young, and left a beautiful memory."

The General Retires

The General retires.
amidst all the hullabaloo,
it just slips out:
"My boys are hard wired,
they couldn't make a choice
anyway boys will be boys"

On a cold football field,
a young girl screams.
We divide and pick teams.
Many boys and one girl -
a pack of roosters and a pearl

"Whose chicken now?"
says the mermaid on the prow
When the girls and guns are passed around,
the young boys go to town.

They hardly had a chance,
they didn't have a choice.
They watch their feet as young girls dance with each other
because boys will be boys.

The General retires to his boudoir,
his grip is getting soft,
He was simply following as Generals do
the chain of command.
His pistol now cold,
lays in the holster waiting,
dripping with sarcasm.

Fresh Twisted Wolves- Obama's Deadly Curse Predicted

This is SPAM Poetry. Not a poetry slam, but spam disected, cut and pasted, created, disembowled for mass consumption.       

Men taste small with side bar eyes

thus the management show us cozy croquettes

fabulous pointed driving music

hot excited democratic monosyllabic Chicago heritage 

districts never publish their price

look north, found reasonable man

family bare received tacos

madman ribs establishment

desserts there hairy

this jersey vegetarian visiting ignorance

10 steaks returned  

No doubt Mr Big has cooked

flabby though looked violet

dim beat friday

welcoming one percent windup

boys were hard 

come fantastic

let's keep talking 

man sentenced to 6 years 

63 counts, dozens of victims

happy friend forms universe exactly like book 

martini lunch experience absolutely authentic

chicken cream increased

suddenly England sauce- tasty deferentially mince 

Great! Amazing! It’s minutes, seconds with bacon

collapsed potatoes, rotty marble flora 

"Awesome news," says anyone 

extra lingerie where cheese spotted 

Between eating everything, the hungry world treated extremely 

Go gentle wife - dream often 

entire hours 

ingredients for glowing stupidity 

second quality mess 

future’s  brightened volume makes life bigger 

accommodating pit vibrating open, too spicy 

alluding god knows what christlikeness 

Created different daemons  

lost public feeling 

survival score raw and stuffed 

society traveling south without taste

your perfectly upscale  chinese script 

Grab this broody summer beyond surprise 

Bubbling death economy clouds magic love impending 

almost rural wolves finally minced 

crowd disappointed with the fresh twisted wolves 

a scream swallowed

a scream swallowed
the storm before
the calm could breathe
an urge to spit out
every moment
word
thought
deed
expression endlessly parsed
examined and exhumed

it is a palpable hell inside here
a bitter metallic flavour expunges
tomorrow is on hold
today is cancelled

What reason? Rain would be preferable.

Instead a fear of sighs and shallow breathing
I question myself
will today be the day
my frozen feelings are found out?

there is no thawing of the cramps
my pauses become paralysis
my muscles clench
panic is paramount
it rues the roost

I remember the words of caution
if the muscles do not open
do not consume
they must be bad
do not consume
you risk further poisoning

Best to breathe
put one fret forward
but for today there is no way
to relax
or relive
to relieve
or believe
that the acid which accumulates
in the pit of my depression

the panic that pools
cannot be stirred shaken or strained
only swallowed
choked down

a swallow screams
and longs to fly

12 inch Judy

Who doesn't love a 12 inch Judy?
With blonde white yak hair.
This is the question I ponder on a sunny February day.

One Too Many

ONE TOO MANY

I wake to push the limits of a dream
to confront my fears and demons
to put the night back in the box
to capture all the night weasals
add color to empty easels
overcome cholera and measles
you must learn to fly in your dreams before you walk
before you talk you must move
from the center of the dream
to the edges of waking and wanting and having
to the edges of believing and living

Do you have to believe in something
just to want to live in something solid
to love somebody fluid
that is the essence of desire
the wanting and the having
the mystery of the other
it's mind over mother
pushing both farther and father
stretching the lie, blurring the lines
forgetting the story losing the script
making it up as you go along

you cannot troll the surface
you have to dig deep to find the meaning
to get the the cherry the prize in the box
so you search only to find
just another tool in the box
a curling iron and ironing board
bored and ironic
irony curling and curing
the lines keep on blurring
there are limits to living
there are limits to believing

others  may be living outside the law
even mothers can be outsiders
dads are no different
they live outside the law
outside the womb waiting
fathers are always left wanting
like strangers in a crowd of crows

famous words of wisdom that I told my chickadee
: don't eat anything bigger than your head:
this was my sage advice
Only to have my daughter tell me, on one sunny day
we see two men walking down the street
arm in arm, one bare chested with nipple rings
and a pair of sunglasses dangling from the ring,
"Dad, this is where I draw the line."

childen must be taught but they also must be listened to
same wise daughter reminds me to color outside the lines
Outside the lines outside the dream,
I want to retaste the candy of my youth

to go all throwback thirsty

gorging on memories and
pictures filled with beauty
marks moles, but in the end we are just meat
different cuts of meat

there is the  beauty and there is the butcher
carving out a piece for only themselves
baring their souls then serving with pecuniary permission
souls with cutlery and culinary peculiarities
it is sweetbreads and cod lips
only petty cash and peonies

slavery and solving puzzles

ointments and unguents

salving and having

this is how we feed the imagination

This is how you open a life
baring your soul in public

it is learning to live with your heart wide open 

it is deciding just how open your heart can be and still be living

can you live with your heart open?

Are you ready to receive ready to be ready to live to love

 are you still hungry for food and friends?

there are too many hearts yet to break
to crack open to attack with a pen a pole
a poke a roll in the sack
Only you can decide the laws to follow
it is not without consequence
But you get to be honest or not
you can push away the loss and dross
you can journey to the hole of the donut
to expand upon the soft gooey center
you must make the rules to break the rules
there are sorting decisions there are edits and incisions that can be made
in the end there is only one question that matters
how far can you stretch your heart
how far can you stretch your holes
to receive love and life and madness and sadness
before deciding that you can only have
one too many assholes in your life?

Before and After

Before and after.

RCA- not the dog listening to his Master in the megaphone, but the
Right Coronary Artery.
May 21 2007.
100% blocked.

May 22 2007.
RCA - the river runs through it.  Through the miracle of modern science and a deal with God struck up in the air above NY on the way to Atlanta.
God, I said.
If you are there.
I have had a great life.
But if there is a reason for me to still be here, if there is still more for me to do, please get me to Atlanta.
And I arrived.  And I made a joke about the widow maker, and ended up in an emergency room, and I survived to tell this story.  A story of how a small piece of chicken wire opens my heart to an expanded life.
I'M ALIVE!!!!

Flash forward 8 years.

Some friends of mine are no longer here.  They did not have the opportunity or fortune to survive.
Dave Gregg.
Brian Goble.
There are more.
Wendy Dobreiner.
My love and best of the best of good thoughts go out to all of them.
Christ, I miss them.   Too young.

2014 was another year of growth and wonder, and death and beauty.

There was a time and it returns from time to time where I feel I have a time bomb in my chest.

Rather than making life seems more dear and precious, I feel the need to push.

Push myself to new adventures.  New music.  New relationships.

Because to stay still to stay constant to not change is to die a little each day.

And I can't make time for that.

I am grateful for this bonus, this extra life and I am grateful for all the friends who I have seen in the past week who reignite memories from our past.

These beautiful people who are real people with real lives, who without any help from me, without any attention or contact from me, continue to live and breathe and make their own memories.

Which makes me feel insignificant and special - all at the same time.

And we have a new year upon us.

Who survives?

Who finds love?

Who becomes a grandparent?

Who loses a parent?

Who gets flowers this weekend?

Who gets to have such great fortune as I have had this past year?

Truly I wish that you all have an unbelievable new year.  That you have an incredible month, week, day.

Because at a certain point, like maybe the day after you are born, it is all a bonus.

Life is a gift.   Open it.   Take it home and love it.   Hold it close to your heart.

Listen to it's song.   Read it's story.  Life it like you will not live another day.

Because we never know.

Don't wait for anything.  Take it and make it yours.

Find someone or something to love.

And love it with all your heart.