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Tuesday, May 16, 2017

A SENSE OF POSSIBILITIES




"That'd be wild!"
I heard a girl
call out across
the street
and I remembered
amid the chime
of downtown bells
what it is like
to feel
a sense of
possibilities

how could I forget?
I wondered
how good I used to
feel, when I was
younger

and each day
offered some
new
alternative

or at least
the possibility
of something new
and exciting
a hope, an idea
an escapade
to build a dream om

"That'd be wild!"
she said, agreeing
to some night's
assignation...

and when you
have lost it
that sense that
anything
can happen
that something
new and entirely
different
will walk in
through the door
of your streetside
cafe...

some glimpse of
skirt
or scheme
to smash
the tedium
of the day
like yesterday's 
glass
we toasted
our hopes
in
and then threw
against the wall

still I dream of
my motorcycle
moving through
that forest path
the trees arching over
high, like cathedrals

the spears
of sunlight
through the
leaves

and you beside me
to raise that dream
again

of adventure
on the high seas...





(C) 1990 by W.G. Milne

HARD OLD ROAD (CRASHING THE BLUES)



                This song is about growing up in Jamaica.
My parents were throwing rather luxurious parties, and they were gone a lot.
        So I was under the care of Miss Gwendolyn Dickens of St. Ann's Bay. She took care of me and told me stories of how the police disciplined people and other tales of Jamaican lore.
        Most of all, Miss Gwen could laugh. And she knew when I was lying, which I did quite a bit in those days. Even then I was telling stories... Ha! Ha!
       About shooting snakes in California... I was six at the time.
       "When was this?" the portrait painter asked me.
        "Oh, a year or two back," I said confidently.
        The guy must have been a pretty good artist. When my mother saw the painting
and saw the expression on my face Antoine Verpilleux  had captured. She said:

       "You were lying to the man, weren't you!"

        There was no way out of that one. I was caught.
        Miss Gwen was the person who told me every week, "A man's strength is in his hair, Bill."
       Logical or not, I now believe it. I've had long hair ever since. And I do feel stronger with it.



(C)2017  by W.G. Milne

Sunday, May 14, 2017

AS THE DAWN COMES AND MAITREYA COMES, TOO



May, it just drifted away on the wind;
April disappears like a poet's dream.
Philosophers think of what is and what's                        becoming,
Mystics hear the blood in stone five miles
           deep.

Shakespeare both thought and dreamed and                  knew what is;
Ministers need lessons from the artist's eye,
The seasons roll by inexorably -
Not one day can be slowed or hurried by.

The same is true of youth and age and sight;
Rational understandings disappear;
Visions of dawn are best learned in endless                     night,
And what you know, it's best to keep it near:

As the dawn comes and Maitreya comes too,
My deepest heart-mind turns to 
          dreams of you.





(C)2017 by W.G. Milne

Friday, May 5, 2017

COUNTRY VIDEOS ...





I love this tune! Wrote in on returning from Toronto, having played the clubs there for five (six? seven?) years, needing to relax in the Bay. Spitting up things in pails and needing a few good friends and a hideout. Well, I found both, and it was a magnificent, purifying period of time. Was I ever lucky!






Took a while for me to find this out out of my notebooks & music files, not so well organized, after all. There's something magical about this song. Maybe the magic comes from the friends who saved my ass & soul, way back when..


I remember sitting by a river with her, relaxing on the flat smooth granite rocks.
With the sound of the waterflow in our ears,we smoked a joint, breathed the free air, kissed a bit and drank rye whisky.
Free from the dirt and the power lines and the smog - free from the stage for a while and the pressure to perform.
Free to laugh and watch the firelight,
see the sparks disappearing up into the night.








((C) 2016 by W.G. Milne and John Rock Corporation.

Wednesday, May 3, 2017

SONGS FROM THE MORNING.... MAN'S QUEST FOR HOME...... with an ADDED EDIT

      The town raises its spires to the
heavens in the evening light;
he enters the harbour at last,
released from the sea
       to find a sailor's home,
sheltered on the beach
       a voyager resting, he speaks:

       "O wind, soothed, soft-spoken
silent wind, won't you blow my love
to me
        O night, dark-forgotten lonely
night, give your breath to be
         through the trees and ships' lights,
harbour, speaking wave-crests on the sea
         through the streets, lost-lighted
orchard keeping her leaves"

          speak, speak the circle opening
of grief and joy to be
          hold, hold within the water's bowl
a trace the wind will leave
          when the houses are gone here
and speak her love to me...

          for the moment we did not seize
and let breathe
          has passed and is gone


          so speak O you silent one,
soothed forgotten quiet one
           and give your breath of peace
to me this short while

         For home is the sea, bell-ringing,
sounding sea, curling waved
          low rising the tossing surf falls
the day
          O sea, soft watered shining sea,
be to me as a wife is, warm
to her lover
           and lull me, pull to me, cleanse
me with soft words
          
          I have seen your long-haired
women of the rocks, call, watery bowers
          and I have known your peoples,
never still, been with me
          O sea singing shining sea be
with me still in the evening.


********************************
       





(C)2017 by W.G. Milne

taken from a much longer poem
of several books,  this writing uses
a long line, more internal rhythms
and rhyme - and really, I think
should be read aloud. So I'll be
looking for a microphone to do this.


I did an edit at 4:00 A.M. this
morning. I took out a few wasted
words... and phrases that messed up
the rhythm of the lines...

Check out the following - after a week
of two we'll see if the edit is an improvement.




 "O wind, soothed, soft-spoken
silent wind, won't you blow my love
to me
        O night, dark-forgotten lonely
night, give your breath to be
         through the trees and ships' lights,
 the harbor,

         breathing wave-crests on the sea
 through these streets,

the lost-lighted orchard keeping her leaves"
speaks  the circle's opening



       speak O you silent one,
soothed forgotten quiet one,
            give your breath of peace
to me this short while

         For home is the sea, bell-ringing,
sounding sea, curling waved
          low rising, the tossing surf falls
on the day
          O sea, soft watered shining sea,
be to me as a wife is, warm
to her lover
           and lull me, pull to me, cleanse
me with soft words
          
          I have seen your long-haired
women of the rocks call, bowers watery,
          and I have known your peoples,
restless still, they have been with me
          O sea singing shining sea dance
with me still in the evening.

                                 *******








THE RAVENS NEAR ME





the ravens near me
feed their babe,
then it grows and
does not stay

where has my youth
      gone?
flown away
50 years pass
like the month of May

the wild geese fly...
Where do they go
      so far away?

the ice is closing
and winter comes
      upon its way...
where did summer go?

trees are bare and
gone to grey.






(C)2017 by W.G. Milne

Thursday, April 27, 2017

I HAVE DISCOVERED THE TUNNEL PEOPLE; THEY DRINK THE GREEN CHARTREUSE

THE DESCENT IS EASY TO AVERNUS,DESCENT INTO DARK ROSES, LAND OF HEROIC PSYCHOSIS , GLANDS OF METAZOAIC THROMBOSIS; THE TUNNEL PEOPLE, THE LIZARD EYE; THE TUNNEL IS LUSH, SLICK WITH THE GREEN CHARTREUSE…
|||||||  weirdness alert||||||||!
over 18 only please





I’d get farther away from myself 
most days……… if I could!
I judge myself –it’s called the negative
script — and the disdain you can feel for
yourself is quite surprising. Self-hate abounds.
That’s one of the reasons I drink….
*
When I have a brain clawing hangover, as I have now –
LAO TZU says: “START WITH COMPASSION FOR YOURSELF”,
then the world will follow in harmony 
around you.
*
Now…. this morning, things are a bit
different. We had a “chartreuse” party.
Dexter and Nicodemus, chief brewers of the Tunnel
People always did look a little green…
an unhealthy hue, both men have.
*
Then again, they’re afraid of the sky –
so that puts a crimp in their tanning… 
Tanning? Tanning? Don’t tell big fibs –
no one tans up here, cept in mid-May when the
snow’s still two feet thick – hence, no flies!
Bertie, Artie, Matilda & Hanks,
and him who I call “Double Dexter” — he
of the praying hand, 2 praying-blessing
hands, like a praying
mantis…. Except his routine’s not quite so dark…
his female doesn’t eat her male, at least not yet
anyway – not today, but the morning’s young.
Maybe after they pray?..
That foxy little,
full-buttocked blonde vixen with the pixie
cut – she looks like she could eat something
all right.
I’ll give her something to chew on
any time she likes!
(Whoops!  Lost
one thread and pulled another…)
Hank is making a clanging noise
at the end of the bunker…. which is extended
by about ten feet after last weeks chewing and scraping
into the cement construction… he chews something and
licks the wall to set the  re-bar. What it is I have no idea!…
*
So we pay Dexter $20.00 for just two quarts
of “chartreuse”. We call it that only because
it’s green; and it does have a sweet aftertaste of
sugar and decay…
*
“You got tree roots in this stuff?” I ask
the brew masters, who look like the less fortunate
people in a Brother Grimm’s fairy tale.
*
“Aye, and mushrooms of the rarest
variety picked under a waxing crescent moon…”
Double-Dexter and Nicodemus sing together in unison
Did they just sing that? Have they been rehearsing?
*
“Oh, no!” I mumble…”No one would rehearse that song. Dexter,
where does the green come from?” I ask him.
I’m on my second glass.
*
” IT COMES FROM THE SWEAT OFF THE ARSE
OF A TREE TOAD!” he answers loudly.

*
Did I hear that right?  No, couldn’t have!
Did I hallucinate it? I hope so. I’m on my
third glass… and I hope I’m seeing
things… Maybe I’m hearing things, too!
*
IF THIS IS REAL THERE MAY BE
NO ESCAPE!
_________
*
A whole sheet or iridescent white light
sweeps like a sheet across Hank’s
glued and re-barred wall… It’s beautiful, really…
“What the fuck was that?” Foxie asks. (She must
have seen something move.)
*
Good going, Hank. You put
some sparklers in the wall also,… very
clever,” I say. “Better than clever, 
it’s CUNNING architecture….”
I call out to Hank. 
*
Dexter,Bertie and Matilda are lying on the
mud floor…unmoving…. Wait, I just
saw Matilda make a squirming motion,
like a snake… She’s crept up over Dexter 
now and appears to be sucking one of his digits…
or is she trying to digest it?
“Ye gods, no! Is this some ancient
ritual? Is everybody part of it but me?
Oh God, situations like this… ancient
rituals… chanting and making hissing
and sucking sounds — tribes who indulged
in such practices have never been
kind to outsiders…”
“And… … I AM THE
OUTSIDER! …….
In this… situation…”
*
What? What atavistic
primal twisted thinking is this?
“This is MY BUNKER MOTHERFUCKERS! 
And no genital-sacrificing lizard people
are going to kick me out!”
“NO WAY, JOSE!”
*
There appears to be a long
green tunnel, rather like a vagina 
THE RELEASING OF THE WATERS!
or a throat…..extending and twisting
off into infinity… slimy, green, and
glistening….
(snatch/twat/ cooze/ vulva!
HOLY VULVA! —– cause of the rivers that flow…..
CAUSE OF THE RELEASING OF THE WATERS!
or a throat, extending and twisting
off into infinity… slimy, green, and
glistening….
*
Dexter stares into my eyes
with a look of prescient understanding…
he knows the tunnel… he is beckoning
to me… he wants me to walk towards it….
“CARE FOR A LITTLE STROLL?” he says
with kalidescope eyes…or were they lizard
eyes… I can no longer remember…and that
little detail might be essential for my
future survival…! 
*
Too weird. It does not compute.
“Hey Hank, what does KUNTz have to say
about situations like this?”
*
Hank laughs, a long shivering laugh
that he CAN never repeat in 1000 years,
I hope… 
He says (Kuntz says): ‘THERE’S NOWHERE TO GO
BUT WHERE YOU ARE.”
*
It makes a strange sordid kind of
sense… is this man some kind of genius?
Did he anticipate this meeting already???
Did he know what we’d be doing here??
Dexter grabs my arm, reaches out
to me from the direction of the morning star and
says:
‘RELAX, IT’S TIME TO PRAY.”
Dexie doesn’t kill ya with his prayers
and imprecations…. he makes you
want to kill him. I particularly don’t like it
when he puts his hand on my head! 
*
“The lord has not created the earth: THE
EARTH AND SKIES, GALAXIES AND STARS
are being created by the ONE WHO IS CREATING
US… The LORD IS NOT SOME jealous DEMIURGE
WHO CREATED IN THE PAST TENSE! NO! ”
Double-Dexter proclaims loudly, his fingers
clutching in my hair
*
“Get your hand off my head before I crack you one
with a blunt instrument!” I say, “Stop trying to push me
back down on my knees!” I say. And I mean it.
*
“DO NOT TAKE ME TOO SERIOUSLY,” he says.
… I AM GOD’S ROUNDER, a drunken messenger
“BE my companion in this rollicking
dance that splits the atoms, circles the globes
and pierces the galaxies…..
Only one Mind is at home here,
and there, and millions of light years away,
AND THAT MIND IS MINE!” he shouts
over his congregation… all of whom
are turning from pale faces – to
constant green hues.
*
I notice Hank over off to my right
digging his own tunnel once again,
in a snit…
I think of a hound dog digging, kicking out with
his hind paws, throwing out sand beneath
his ass – as frantic as if he were humping your
leg. Which means he has to dig fast…
Hank is digging fast. As always, when he
has another panic attack – he digs towards the east.
Don’t ask me why…makes no sense to me.
*
This method of building
cement reinforced beams out of re-bar and cement
in order to support the muddy sand ceiling as he digs
deeper his bunker with urgency…towards the East.
All the while to the light of these
candles that burn like toned-down sparklers….
I can only assume the black flecks in the nasty
yellow of the candles are tiny dots of gun powder…
*
What’s so funny now?” I call out. Over the

hissing, cackling sounds… the staccato hissing
is the candles burning…. the cackling is what passes
for Hank’s laugh…
*
“What’s  funny now?” I ask him again.
 
“It’s what he says,” Hank answers.
What who says?” I ask.
“KUNTz!” he shouts, a bursting laugh
passes thru his nose.
“We are too late for the gods but too early
for TOUCHY FEELIES!”
“You can’t fall in the same shit house twice.”
You can take a train; you can take a car:
But “THERE’S NOWHERE TO GO BUT WHERE YOU ARE!”‘
( p.s. That’s the name of a John Rock song) .
Kuntz has started to make rhymes. He is living in the upper Amazon, and has been taking a number of ayahuasca  vision trips…
with a shaman guide…..
He’s doing it the deluxe expensive way. With me
there was just a fire, the jungle, night birds, fruit bats
and some inquisitive snakes… (I’m not even going to
mention the Little People.)
*
Now he wants to talk. Now he’s getting
lugubrious. Now he wants to express himself. He sings:
“There’s nowhere to go
But where you are
You can take a plane
You can take a car
And you might go far
But THERE’S NOWHERE TO GO BUT WHERE YOU ARE!”
*
The song seems strangely familiar.
That’s because you wrote it, fuckhead!
(It refers to the fact that each of us travels with his own neurosis, obsessions, complexes, and negative script derisions….
whereever each of us goes, we take our whole troubled psyche with us….
so we can go to Lima, go to Alexandria,
Bucharest, Bangcock – sit in a cafe in Paris, sit in a dungeon
in Toronto —- and it’s the same old brain, the same old
habits of seeing… but slowly we change, slowly we
learn…? Don’t we?)
I SEEM TO BE DESCENDING INTO DARKNESS
on a green hallucinatin chartreuse train…. dark
memories….
Ninety days butt-naked in solitary confinement,
wearing an asbestos fire-proof top… getting my
meals from big-hipped jail matrons… through a slot
at groin level….
In other words, you want to eat – you stare 
at her big-hipped groin or her, magnanimous butt
right thru the eye slot – aye! aye! I got to like it… 
More than this I got to need it…
BUT…. why are we talking about this? How did we
get here?
*
..WE WERE in WAIT-A-BIT! now we’re in a dungeon
in Toronto…..
Oh, No! No! 
We don’t got no grip at all!
*

“Two things are infinite – human stupidity and the
universe…. and I’m starting to have doubts about
the infinity of the universe…”
*
“GIVE ME YOUR HAND, LITTLE LAMB; I’LL
SHOW YOU HEAVEN AND HELL IN A GRAIN OF SAND,
and I’ll take you to the EDGE of the Universe,
THE QUANTUM GROIN OF THINGS!”
*

40 below Celsius = EQUALS 40 BELOW FARENHEIT

Either way it’s freeze the balls off a brass monkey time.
Got a small generator going….powered an old TV set…
the only thing on is a zombie movie,
“Die! Die! Die” the blonde
heroine is screaming….
Better turn the volume down… in this silence
the tunnel people will think it’s an invasion….
oh I haven’t mentioned the tunnel;
people yet , have I?
*
The population of wait-a-bit is 18
I bet you’re wondering where the other 14 are…
These are the folk who were most disturbed by 
Incineration Day —- seeing everything they’d worked
for all their lives disappearing in flame and smoke….
and then came the second flash.
Bombs come from the skies.The tunnel people
do not trust the skies
so much…. when they are exposed, they rush 
from A to B…..to the D TRAIN… deeper
and more deeply TRAINED to TUNNEL
into the night.
*
No need to FEAR THE WEIRDOS HERE.
They is us.
*
Finally I get to meet the Tunnel People.
I had heard of them once before… only in a dream…
of green Ice-cream….
LOOK AT THE EYES ON THAT ONE!

What is the green in that latrine again?

The green in that drink? It is swirling, circling…
OH we’re going deep deep deep — no blue at all
here…. only green.
*
THE GREEN EYE OF SOMETHING OBSCENE!


It’s a friendly lizard beckoning… waving

me down the green undulating twatish highway
of a nostril snorting me up into a new
reality…
Something I’m not at all sure I want to see.
*
A friendly LIZARD takes my arm
and shakes me… green comfortable slippers,
green eyes….. now Alice meets the TUNNEL PEOPLE.
I am Alice
*
Down, down, down – darker still
the undulating Hershey highway brown and green,
green and dreaming EYE….
IMMORTAL EYE – no blue at all.
Cold grip of his friendly claws, grasps my wrist.
My, my , my: it’s the TUNNEL PEOPLE, at last.
…In green and purple smoking jackets,
smoking a heavy WEED, handing me glistening
mush-goodies. I eat. I am giddy and 
blue-eyed…. under the UNDULATION OF THINGS.
IMMORTAL IMMORAL THROBBING…so it seems
to me when I look at the floor, my neighbours, green
bodies writhing, excreting wahoo!… Yipee!
*
Tunnel People at last, just like in
undiscovered earlier dreams I had bye and by.
Here they are at last, with green martini
glasses —IMMORTAL DELIGHTs in the night:
CHARTREUSE IMMORTALS STILL…
WHO FEAR THE SKY.
*
“Dexter! Put that Bible down and give me two more glasses
of that green shit. ”
I raise both goblets and toast the room. I take
a gulp out of one and long swallow from the other.
I call out to the room: ”
*
I SAY, “As Your Mayor, this is the essence of my job. You
don’t want a mayor who won’t explore….! Not here. Not
now! No way!”
” You know me:

“I’LL PUSH FORWARD ALL THROUGH THE NIGHT
INTO THE RISING EYE OF MORNING!”

Gutteral cheers rise up from the floor.
“Those are my people. What do I do?”
“I dive down headfirst into the fragrant, palpitating twat
of the unknown.”
*
“Hey, Hank! You catching this?”

*
Posted by William Milne at 5:29 AM
*
(C)2014-2016 by W.G. Milne


Wednesday, April 26, 2017

GODDESS ON A HALF-SHELL




In my end is my beginning
As lilacs bloom
      by my door,
 Certain deities
Live again who have
      lived before;


And an ancient face
Passes by my window, three
At a slow celestial pace
She walks once
Again to grace the age

With a glimpse of Her,
No poet ever descried her
      nature
Or was able to describe her,
Hard as he tried
To capture Her golden
      light upon the page.

Yes, she walks now,
She comes up from
      the sea...

And what she leaves
In the minds of Mind
Is not relaxed contentment,
      a lazy peace:
But a prick to the testes
And a ball-kick
      above the knees...

Yet she is adored always.




(C)2017 by W.G. Milne




Tuesday, April 25, 2017

AH, THE LOVE

AN EYE CROSSING WATERS



Moon three-quarters in a dark night sky
Pavement black equally beneath 
      my gaze
I think back of all the many ways
We've stepped and trod
And the many days we rest
      beneath the sod;
Only to emerge again, an eye
Crossing waters
To a new land and hand
And Journey again...

How to tell our sons?
How to tell our daughters?




(C)2013 by W.G. Milne