secrets from the deep

secrets

sure I got 'em

a little spell ago

I pulled them up 

from the deep morass

slathered in canal muck

I hosed them off 

took a look

poked them with a barge pole

watched as they dripped

black guck, and slime

on the boardwalk

and slowly dried

I kicked them 

hard 

back into the murk

sinking down

past bicycles

knives, guns, empty bags

and litter

...so much litter

to rest 

still

on the bottom

forever

 - for the record:

I'm very much pro surprise and very anti secret. 

church

nursing a slight hangover

in the back pew

boozy spirits waft

amidst some mumbled

yet earnest prayers

only one mid-sermon nip

from a battered flask

last hymn fades

jacket, scarf, and Irish cap

on quick

  a quicker exit out a side door

a short brisk lonely walk home

too Christian for the world

too worldly for the Christians

hearthside

my obituary burns

torn into tendrils

tinder to light the hearth

the flames move

consuming kindling

birch logs ignite

this old ghost sits

warm in the fire glow

gotta be the shoes

old monk knocking down jumpers

in the high school gym

his handles are tight

ball is on a string

quick crossover 

a flash

step back fade away

hitting all day

on his feet

well worn Jordan 1s

Closing Time at the Russel Hotel

stubby bottles cover the tables...
along with tall quarts and pitchers of draft

thick cigarette smoke plumes the air

Toronto power trio hits the stage

plugs in oversized (for the room) amps

buzzing barre chords wail

thundering bass and drums

they rip through some originals

gets the crowd cheering 

when they swing into some Zeppelin

in the corner by the bar

the manager cringes - too loud!

the girls can't hear the orders

he snaps  - rushes the stage

flicks off the breaker

Geddy and Alex laugh

and promise to turn it down

...a notch or two

the settle back in

wrap up the gig

with Working Man

the manager grabs the mic:

"Hustle Bustle - closing time in the Russel.  

This is a Hotel, not a motel.  

Drink up and get the hell out!"

monk's bridge

spare wood pulled out

from behind the shed

remnants of an ill built deck

carried piece by piece

down by the deep ditch

rusty hand saw

my grandfather's hammer

pocket full of nails

12 foot spans 

crossbeams banged into place

ugly but solid

new path

over this weedy watercourse

don't let 'em

a custodian mopping

in a dim basement corridor

beckons me over

usually he has a joke, 

or a wild story from the job

today a word of wisdom

"hey man 

don't let 'em steal your peace".

he looks at me real serious

and says "ok?"

I nod

respond "ok"

we shake on it

I hear him shout

"don't let 'em"

as I turn the corner