Hockey is fun to watch
Hockey is fun to play
Shoot the puck in the clutch
Bat the cold pucks away

Skate down the smooth white ice
Pass to a  free teammate
Time together is nice
Don't shoot the puck too late

Fans like to view hockey
Who is the best player?
Kids like Sidney Crosby
He's a goalie slayer

I wish I was Canadian
so this could be my game
But here I stand in GM place
And scream and shout the same

I watch the puck, the stick the skates
and marvel at the skill
As gladiators prowl the ice
Hunting for the ****

Across the blue the offence moves
bearing down once more
A pass, a fake a sudden slap
it's in the goal we SCORE

The crowd goes wild and shouts with joy
our voices become one
And in that moment, I join their ranks
I am Canadian !!!

Oh Helena, how I doth know thy pain
Mocked is thine love when at love's feet thrown
Love hath looked upon thee with disdain
And yet still for him thy love hath grown

Do not despair Cupid's arrow at thine door does knock!
Upon thee, loves eyes an awakening will be placed
No longer can  love's spiteful eyes see thee and mock!
And to thine love will he quickly rush in haste

But first know before one is to have thy way
A comedy must first be struck upon
Alas Puck! Disaster hath struck and a game we must all play
Before order is once more restored and the past foregone

Oh no! Now a love thrown upon thee unwanted
Mockery suspected, no more of this dost thou deserve
Evermore another feeling given to thee daunted
But now sit back, let the story unfurl and observe!

Finally soft words to thee spoken so craved
At once entranced but then felt thee a fool!
From nowhere sweet words so spoken must be depraved!
And in thine heart feeling loves sting ever so cruel

Now thy dearest friend! Intertwined within such a conspiracy
Such betrayal! Dear girl know it is a mistake
Albeit twisted and buried in the cruelest irony
Thy dearest friend, thine love she does not wish to shake

Through troubles and trials thou maketh thy way to a beautiful field
Fast asleep next to the love thy value ever so
Puck, fix thy mistake, give Helena her love to finally wield
And at last house a mutual love to forever grow

aerial ladder truck, amok, amuck, awestruck, bad luck, black buck, black duck, bruck, buc, buck, by luck, canuck, chuck, cluck, cold duck, collet chuck, cruck, dabbling duck, delivery truck, diving duck, donald duck, druck, duc, duck, duk, dumbstruck, dump truck, dumptruck, fire truck, fish duck, fishbach, fluck, fslic, garbage truck, garden truck, get stuck, give ****, gluck, good luck, grucche, guck, hand truck, hockey puck, huck, hucke, icing the puck, ill luck, kachuck, kluck, kruck, kruk, kuc, kuck, kuk, ladder truck, lake duck, lame duck, laundry truck, luck, lucke, luk, mandarin duck, megabuck, moonstruck, mruk, muck, musk duck, naugatuck, nuque, panel truck, pickup truck, pluck, potluck, puck, queer duck, raybuck, roebuck, ruck, ruddy duck, schmuck, schtik, schuch, schuck, sculk, sea duck, shmuck, shuck, sitting duck, smuck, snuck, sound truck, starbuck, starstruck, struck, stuck, stucke, suc, ****, suk, summer duck, thunderstruck, trailer truck, truck, tuck, tuque, unstuck, vhsic, wild duck, wnuk, wood duck, woodchuck, wruck, young buck,chuck-a-luck, yuck, yuk, zuck, zuk

At the mailbox, again:
“Who loves me, baby?”
Well, let’s see: there’s a flyer from Mercury Insurance,
Reminding me that most middle-income customers
Save an average of $4 million smackaroons when they switch too.
The Penny Saver USA.com is here,
Thank God, almighty!
So now I know that Thomas Roofing & Paving
Is having a special on 20-year leak-free flat roofs;
"All work guaranteed & insured.
No job too big or small.
Free estimates/Emergency services/License # I8U-69."
And thank you, Jesus,
For another $4.99 Farmer Boys 3-Egg Breakfast
Combo with Coffee coupon, and that
Little Caesars Hot-N-Ready, $5.00 cheese or pepperoni,
Mae-West-“why-don’t-you-come up and see me sometime?”—mailer. And, of course, another technology Siren’s song:
Verizon FiOS delivers entertainment this big,
Dish me up some dish NETWORK, $19.99 a month . . .
Are you ******* me?
For 12 ******* months?
AT&T;: whack me off on 120 channels.
DIRECTV.com - DIRECTV® Official Site‎
Worry-free 99.9%  . . . cue Joe E. Brown,
"Some Like It Hot“ Osgood:
"Well, nobody’s perfect!"
Time Warner/Sprint/T-Mobile;
And ******* Leather, Polk Street, San Francisco.
******* leather?
Must be for my neighbor: that ***** ****!
And here’s the weekly 8-page color fold-out from Stater Bros:
Lowering prices every day, large cantaloupes
(Jessica Lange, are you back?)
10 for $10.00, 32 oz. Gatorade
Or 24 oz Propel in 30 assorted varieties @ 79 cents
+ CRV: California Redemption Value?
Nice euphemistic cover-up for a TAX.
Nice, nice, very nice, CA elected state officials;
Nicely done, Sacramento.
Everywhere else in the country you get real money—
A fixed number of pennies, nickels, or dimes—
For your plastic bottles and aluminum cans.
But in California, the licensed recyclers
Get to pull the market price out of their *** each morning.
California Redemption Value?
What ******* genius government kleptocrat thought that one up? Conspiracy Alert: who gets all that CRV money?
And what are they doing with it?
Feeling plain, Jane?
Marinello Schools of Beauty, want you,
Offer you hands-on training in cosmetology,
Skin care esthetics, manicuring and vaginal deodorizing—
Just kidding, Babaloo.
Food tip for the Third World:
Never try to write poetry on an empty stomach.
Sizzler 6 oz juicy & succulent.
RENEGADE DEAL:
El Pollo Loco guacamole chicken sandwich,
Coupon free, small drink and small chips,
When you purchase a guacamole or jalapeno sandwich,
includes pepper jack cheese and a southwest sauce.
Gardenas sandia con semilla, 7 lbs 99 cents.
GARDENAS: “en precios, servicio y calidad, nadie nos iguaia.”
Bud Gordon’s Quality NISSAN:
One at this price after a $1500 factory rebate.
TERMINIX: get them before they get you!
The Kingdom Animalia, Phylum Arthropoda, Class Insecta
Bug up my *** again.
And a form letter from the VA
Asking me to please update my whereabouts.
And a form letter from the VA asking me
To please update my whereabouts.
And miles to go before I sleep.
Bite me, Mr. Frost!

An outing, at last.
I am going for a walk around the inside of my gates.
I live in one of those gated over-55 lunatic asylums.
There are gates. It is gated. Get it?
GATED! We feel safe here.
Probably a good thing at our age:
Self-imposed institutionalization,
Putting oneself in an asylum to ferment and die.
The fact that so many of us
Need it so bad at only 55
Says something itself about the current state of
Baby Boomer metal-fatigue.
I am now standing at the far end of the golf course.
I wait at the far end of the 18th Hole.
A ball bounces past my head and
Rolls off past the green into the far rough.
The 18th Hole is perched atop a small plateau,
Out of sight, far above the horizon for anyone teeing off.
I am Puck, invisible and impish.
I pluck the ball up.
I scamper to the green.
I pop the ball into the hole.
Which is better than popping a hole in the ball,
Surely, kind of a drag,
As we were once fond of saying.
Deflated Ball.
Deflator Maus.
OPERA can be ****.
Bodice-ripping corsets, whorehouses and naked ******!
Hardly what you might expect from
A night with the Welsh National Opera,
But they found their way into this production of "Die Fledermaus."
Ripe language, contemporary jokes and
Toilet humor thrown in, adding immensely
To the pleasures of Strauss’s operetta.
"Die Fledermaus," or The Bat’s Revenge,
Is all about drunkenness and adultery.
Despite being written in the 1870s,
It remains equally pertinent to today’s pub culture of excess.
Daring; Colorful; ****: PGA golf.
I steal a golf ball on the far end of the 18th Hole.
I pick up the Titleist and stick it in the hole
(Steady Jessica, not yours.
I hide behind your bush.
(Cue up PSA, First Lady Bird Johnson’s 1960s
Nationwide Beautification Campaign:
“I want everyone in America to plant a tree,
A sherrrr-rub, or a booosh.”)
The golfer now searching frantically:
Why is the cup always the last place they look?
Then, wham, bam, he looks:
A legend is born.
A hole in one,
His name forever immortalized
On a plaque over the bar, the proverbial 19th Hole.

As you know, I speak for all mediocrities,
Safe in my 55+ gated-community.
I go next to the Club House,
"The Lodge" as it’s called.
Each afternoon, the usual suspects
Claiming first come/first serve tiered mini-theater seats
Where Netflix matinee gems are screened.
It is two minutes to DVD show time.
I walk to the front of the room.
I stare at my audience.
I count the house slowly,
Making meaningful eye contact with each wrinkled face.
I cup my hands behind my back and speak:
“I assume you are all here for my lecture on Kierkegaard.”
No one reacts.
I turn to leave but do a double-take and smile.
One old woman in the top right corner of the amphitheater laughs, Perhaps the one other human being within the gates
Who has also smoked a joint today.
For an instant, I am overwhelmed with paranoia,
Perhaps I’ve gone too far over the line:
No longer “oh-he’s-a-character;”
I am now “that creep is ******* nuts.”
Is it time for someone to approach my family,
My next of kin, my “who-to-contact-in-event-of-emergency” number? Who will make the call on behalf of the HOA—
The Homeowner’s Association—
The Tsars, the Duma, the Supreme Soviet in these parts?
They are the power inside the gates;
Those who determine the state’s enemies,
Who govern its community norms.
Power within the gates.
Law within the asylum.
Little Hitlers one and all.
Hopefully they reach my sister first.
She’s been briefed.
KEY POINT IN THE NARRATIVE:
The new narrative is non-linear.
We can no longer sustain a narrative understanding of ourselves;
We are each an individual stream of consciousness,
All of us random, non-linear and disconnected.
We grow more and more disconnected from others.
We may be neighbors in space and time,
But we remain deprived of any significant human contact;
Any spiritually significant human contact.
Our social circle narrows to what can fit in The Telescreen;
We become more intimate with a legion . . .
Did someone say a legion? SPQR:
Am I having some sort of genetic-linguistic seizure here?
Am I channeling Benito Mussolini again?
Il Duce speaks to me from the grave,
Still blowing smoke up my Hopi-Jew-*** ***,
Filling in my insecurities,
Plugging the holes in my character
With delusions of classical Roman grandeur, glory and empire. Hmmmm? Quite an appetizing pitch for the average *****,
A message so completely, so ethnocentrically slick,
Olive oily, and so seductive.
A non-Italian would have thought
American Legion or Legionnaire’s disease,
Or The Foreign Legion, The French Foreign Legion.
The French: a virulent, promiscuous people.
Do you want fries with that, Simone?
No, I don’t get out much.
Only an occasional brisk walk around the asylum,
In and around the golf course, around but inside the gates. (LINKS) Bill Gates. Daryl Gates. Billy Bathgate’s Gates? Ghiberti’s Gates? The Hot Gates? Thermopylae? 300 Spartans/700 Thespians:
“The noun causing idiots to think of
Two girls sloppily eating each other’s mighty vaginas,
When they hear mention of someone being an actor.” http://www.urbandictionary.com
Not even close.
No, I rarely venture out.
This is Hemetucky.
There are methamphetamine-stoked
Teenage zombies at the gate.
Note to costume control:
Perhaps camouflage clothing is the safe choice?
No loud red Hawaiian.
No garish Indonesian batik.
Fleet of feet are these Hemet tweakers,
These cranked up Riverside County teenage barbarians,
These Huns & Visigoths,
These amped up, ravenous jackals.
And why stop there?
These Vandals & Vandellas.
A Motown flashback:
“Nowhere to run, baby, nowhere to hide.”
With or without Martha—
They remain dangerously lethal.
Yes, let it be camo clothes for me.
Those **** heads may be young.
They may be fast.
They may be able to run me down
On a dry grass dog-legged fairway savannah,
Tearing the meat from my carcass.
But the sons-a-******* have to see me first.
Besides, we know who are real friends are.
Hooray for our media peeps!
We become more intimate with a legion
Of television personalities on 125 different channels.
Most of these we know by name and context.
We know their families, their friends,
Their histories, their tragedies,
Their favored hyperbole and manner of speech.
Sometimes we establish intimacy with celebrities
Strictly on the basis of universal body language.
At times–in the absence of any other
Empathetic facility of identification–
We connect on instinct alone.
Instinct: perhaps animal at its core,
An animal kingdom affinity group,
Connecting on a bio-linguistic level,
Particularly when the Korean, or Spanish,
Mandarin, or Arabic,
Japanese, or even Hebrew language version is broadcast.
All languages cryptically alien,
A dense boundary, a barrio border wall,
Undecipherable, impenetrable concrete.
But we’ve never spoken to our neighbors,
Nor do we know their names.
Celebrities are the neighbors we know best;
Although the intimacy is an illusion,
Permission to invade their privacy presumed,
Tacit in the relationship between celebrities and their fans.
I am an independent contractor now,
An outside consultant to the NSA.
Try as I might I cannot crack the enigma,
Kim Kardashian remains far beyond my code-breaking prowess.
I repeat myself:
We can no longer sustain a narrative understanding of ourselves;
We are each an individual stream of consciousness,
All of us random, non-linear and disconnected.
We are more and more disconnected from others.
We may be neighbors in space and time,
But we remain deprived of any significant human contact;
Any spiritually significant human contact.
Our social circle narrows to what can fit in The Telescreen; we become more intimate with a legion . . .
Back to you, David Ulin:
“Sometime late last year—I don’t remember when, exactly—I noticed I was having trouble sitting down to read. That’s a problem if you do what I do, but it’s an even bigger problem if you’re the kind of person I am. Since I discovered reading, I have always been surrounded by stacks of books. I read my way through camp, school, nights, and weekends; when my girlfriend and I backpacked through Europe after college graduation, I had to buy a suitcase to accommodate the books I picked up along the way.”
Thank you, David L. Ulin.
I cannot help myself.
I grow more eccentric each day.
My eyeballs glued to that flat screen!

Cosmo Kramer: "The bus is outta control.
So I grab him by the collar, I take him out of the seat,
I get behind the wheel, and now I’m driving the bus."
Jerry: "Wow!"
George Costanza: "You’re Batman."
Cosmo Kramer: "Yeah, yeah, I am Batman.
Then the mugger, he comes to and he starts choking me.
So I’m fighting him off with one hand,
And I kept driving the bus with the other, ya know.
Then I managed to open up the door,
And I kicked him out the door, ya know,
With my foot, ya know, at the next stop."
Jerry: "You kept making all the stops?"
Cosmo Kramer: "Well, people kept ringing the bell!"
(Share this moment with a stranger.)

I speak for all mediocrities.
I am their champion, their patron saint.
Boom Chaka Laka. Boom Chaka Laka.
Boom Chaka Laka. BOOM!
Isn’t it time Salieri tempted Constanze–
Frau Mozart–with a plateful of Capezzoli di Venere:
“******* of Venus.”
You had me at hello, Kidman.
I know you too well, Nicole.
I knew you from before,
Way before Tom’s Oprah couch freak show.
Listen to me, Nicole:
We are face to face
With the most profound question in American literature:
"What is the grass?
The flag of my surrender?
The flag of my disposition?"
I resort to Socratic maxims: Know yourself;
The un-****** life is not worth living.
Is it stress? Is it lack of conviction?
Everything Jeff Lebowski neither wants nor needs in his life?
I watched you *** in "Eyes Wide Shut," Nicole.
Now I know you with my eyes and your legs wide open.
Thank you, Sidney Pollack.
Sidney knew.
Sidney dealt us cards
From his Hollywood Tarot deck.
We are intimate, Nicole.
I watched you squat.

It’s New York Fashion Week, and there is a frenzy backstage as models are worked into their dresses and mob the assembled engineers for instructions of how to operate the technology that magically transforms a subtle gesture into a glowing garment suggestive of the bioluminescence of jellyfish. I know there’s not enough time for them to do their work. Almost instinctively, I find the designer and bargain for 20 more minutes.

While I wonder to myself how I got here, backstage at a runway show, I also know I am witnessing what may be the harbinger of how a fourth industrial revolution is set to change fashion, resulting in a new materiality of computation that will transform a certain slice of fashion designers into the “developers” of a whole new category of clothing. By driving new partnerships in tools, materials and technologies, this revolution has the potential to dramatically reshape how we produce fashion at a scale not seen since the invention of the jacquard loom.

The jacquard loom, as it happens, inspired the earliest computers. Ever since, textile development and technology have been on an interwoven path — sometimes more loosely knit, but becoming increasingly tighter in the last five years. Around that time, my colleagues and I embarked on a project in our labs to look at “fashion tech,” which at the time was a fringe term. These were pioneers daring to — sometimes literally — weave together technology and clothing to drive new ways of thinking about the “shape” of computation. But as we looked around the fashion industry, it became clear that designers lacked the tools to harness the potential of new technologies.

For a start, all facets of technology needed to be more malleable. Batteries, processors and sensors, in particular, had to evolve from being bulky and rigid to being softer, flexible and stretchable. Thus, I began to champion “Puck [rigid], Patch [flexible], Apparel [integrated],” an internal mantra to describe what I felt would be the material transformations of sensing and computation.

As our technologies have steadily become smaller, faster and more energy efficient — a progression known in the tech industry as Moore’s Law — we’ve gone on to launch a computer the size of a postage stamp and worked with a fashion tech designer to demonstrate its capabilities. In this case we were able to show dresses that were generated not just from sketches and traditional materials, but forward-looking tools (body scans and Computer Assisted Design renderings) and materials (in this case, 3-D printed nylon). At the same time, we integrated a variety of sensors (proximity, brain-wave activity, heart-rate, etc.) that allowed the garments themselves to sense and communicate in ways that showed how fashion — inspired in part by biology — might become the interface between people and the world around them.

Eventually, a meeting between Intel and the CFDA lent support to the idea that if technology could fit more seamlessly into designs, then it would be more valuable to fashion designers. The realisation helped birth the Intel Curie module, which has since made its way down the catwalk, embedded into a slew of designs that could help wearers adapt, interpret and respond to the world around them, for example, by “sensing” adrenaline or allowing subtle gestures to illuminate a garment.

As the relationship between fashion and technology continues to evolve, we will need to reimagine research and development, supply chains, business models and more. But perhaps more than anything, as fashion and technology merge, we must embrace a new strand of collaborative transdisciplinary design expertise and integrate software, sensors, processors and synthetic and biological materials into a designer’s tool kit.

Technology will inform the warp and weft of the fabric of fashion’s future. This will trigger discussions not just about fashion as an increasingly literal interface between people, our biology and the world around us, but also about the implications that data will generate for access, health, privacy and self-expression as we look ahead. We are indeed on the precipice of a fourth industrial revolution.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/black-formal-dresses

Like bladed birds of steel they glide and wing,
Across the ice without any dismay,
Fearing no hard body check or cold swing.

They circle the net in frozen ballet,
Flitting about like puck-handling mice,
Tenacity drips from each ounce of their play.

They dazzle with grace all over the ice,
With a jump, a spin, and a pirouette,
Always ready to pay a high price.

They give it all ‘till they’re soaked through with sweat.
We watch with joy from our perch high above.
Our yells, their chirping—it’s quite a duet!

These men change the game with the drop of a glove,
And so, bloodthirsty, we give them our love.

He was large as frogs go
Fist-sized happy rotund dweller
of backyard pond
Garter snake large, too large
with his ominous yellow stripes
and jaws to take
a larger than average mouthful
Choked by abdomen's girth
Legs drooling from his glut
Before the victim's even hit his gut's
digestive juices

Kid with hockey stick makes him puck
for his sin
Frog makes  desperate
slim swim for rocks
Where he lies in recovery
from shock and
teeth marks on his belly
Underdog gets defense from phone call-- Eve
150 miles away
intercedes
Frog gets mercy of a transport
to another backwoods pond--
to find his life
forgetting trauma
Suns himself and swims
Eats the bugs
and ***** the froglettes
of another day

Faulkner's comment, I imagine him
tossing it off like Yogi Berra between games
of a doubleheader. The hero, the expert, the virtuoso
has no real control, is going to feel
unmitigated, unsparing forces, a mighty sun
swallowed by a black hole, coughed up into a big sky.
The past isn't dead. It isn't even past.

Versus Wayne Gretsky's formulation.
When I think of my death, I think of returning
the chemicals and microorganisms I borrowed.
If my plane goes down, when we hit the ground
fruits with names will be waiting - squawbush if
in the desert uplands, rose hips on a Vermont farm.
The past is skating to where the puck will be.

I realize I have a religion, a science fiction
the size of Jupiter which is, as these things go, small:
Chardin's theory unifying physical matter, rocks
and all sentient beings into one - here's the catch -
conscious organism. Having said that, why not claim
the same for the entire universe? Rock + DNA = soil.
The past isn't dead. It isn't even past.

These trees cannot feed me.
Self-sufficiency is relevant only in context of community,
      economy.
Every drug, every vitamin is wrung from plants,
tools and shelter are ore.
A tincture, infusion, decoction, a ******, a compress,
      poultice, a salve, a syrup.
A war president needs war.
The past is skating to where the puck will be.

5 a.m., first of Spring.
Robins still in flocks, not paired off. But crows
mating on the sky - two couples dating
a sign of luck, that Celtic god passing Peter talked about.
8,000 generations, I reach only to my grandparents
but history and the naming of things extend our vision.
The past isn't dead. It isn't even past.

I was handcuffed but not beaten. Humiliated but not insulted.
And when I came before the judge, he was uninterested
in vengeance or restitution. He had his own death before him,
probably. I keep wanting to go back
to before the big bang, reading books about the cosmos,
FLO, LUCA, the texture of reality, consciousness,
      God-seeking.
The past is skating to where the puck will be.

For the next 5-10 years my goals are: geographically
compact and contiguous Congressional districts, term limits
for Federal legislators and judges, election of the president
by direct popular vote, public financing, spending limits and
      free
air time for candidates, abolish UN vetoes, consent of the
      governed
before governments can sit in global councils.
The past isn't dead. It isn't even past.

No greater tragedy than the death of your children.
Yet you live on, eyes drained of color. Old,
you make plans. To know the names of every flower
in the temperate zone. Every bird by its song.
Just as you're about to reach your goal, a tipping point
comes along: a nuclear detonation or it gets too cold.
The past is skating to where the puck will be.

I stand apart from the rest, I stand at the last line of defense, I stand in the way of what every player wants most, I am a dream wrecker, A monument killer, every puck is a threat, every puck carrier accomplice. I defend my net on the principle that it is my home and that nothing comes in uninvited, every save I make fuels the next, every crease I protect is my own, I am satisfied only after I stop everything.


              I am a goalie

1279

The Way to know the Bobolink
From every other Bird
Precisely as the Joy of him—
Obliged to be inferred.

Of impudent Habiliment
Attired to defy,
Impertinence subordinate
At times to Majesty.

Of Sentiments seditious
Amenable to Law—
As Heresies of Transport
Or Puck’s Apostacy.

Extrinsic to Attention
Too intimate with Joy—
He compliments existence
Until allured away

By Seasons or his Children—
Adult and urgent grown—
Or unforeseen aggrandizement
Or, happily, Renown—

By Contrast certifying
The Bird of Birds is gone—
How nullified the Meadow—
Her Sorcerer withdrawn!

There was no joy in Mudville,
The air was cold that night.
For the hockey team was losing
And shorthanded, following a fight.

With 5 minutes on the penalty clock
And 1 minute left in regulation
It seemed as though the season was over
And the team would be heading to the unemployment line by the train station.

The next face off was won by Mudville,
And they dumped the puck down the ice
Wilson raced down after that 3 pound puck, and out of nowhere came Johnson, a pass to score as he fell down the ice!

Tied with about 30 seconds to go,  the crowd gave an almighty roar
Because they tied the game shorthanded,
Johnson, a defenseman had scored.

The teams headed into overtime, and you could cut the tension in the air with a knife,
For in hockey overtime is sudden death, the next goal would win the night.
And after a 10 minute intermission, the teams returned to the ice

The referee skated out to center,  and dropped the puck between two anxious Sticks.
The duel was on,  and both goalies were tested
But neither one would fall for the forwards tricks

With overtime ended, we went to a shootout,
This seemed to be the only way to decide the game.
And after Wilson stepped back onto the ice, he scored giving Mudville a chance to win the game.

But Jeralds would tie the shootout in the second round, and Johnson, following him would do the same. So after a miraculous stop by Mudville's goalie,  it would fall onto Casey to win the game.

A hush fell over the crowd, as Casey stepped onto the ice, he took a deep breath and started on his way,
He skated wide left stick handling down, his head up at the goalie trying to get him out of play.

Oh, somewhere in this favoured land the sun is shining bright, The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light; And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout, But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey was shutout.

I saw Jim at Two Amigos
Sitting at the bar,
Stick-handling a coaster.
He was a hockey star,
Showed it when he smiled;
His nose a puck.
He tells stories
Of blood freezing on ice,
Jersey pulls and sweat,
Body checks and corners.
He drives the zamboni,
Making the ice sheet a giant mirror.
The crowds cheer Jim
To get off the ice,
Let the game begin.
He speeds his machine
To the far end doors,
Vanishing down the tunnel.
He's just ordered a double boiler-maker,
Stirs his whiskey with a swizzle-stick,
And slaps back another shot.

The child alone a poet is:
Spring and Fairyland are his.
Truth and Reason show but dim,
And all’s poetry with him.
Rhyme and music flow in plenty
For the lad of one-and-twenty,
But Spring for him is no more now
Than daisies to a munching cow;
Just a cheery pleasant season,
Daisy buds to live at ease on.
He’s forgotten how he smiled
And shrieked at snowdrops when a child,
Or wept one evening secretly
For April’s glorious misery.
Wisdom made him old and wary
Banishing the Lords of Faery.
Wisdom made a breach and battered
Babylon to bits: she scattered
To the hedges and ditches
All our nursery gnomes and witches.
Lob and Puck, poor frantic elves,
Drag their treasures from the shelves.
Jack the Giant-killer’s gone,
Mother Goose and Oberon,
Bluebeard and King Solomon.
Robin, and Red Riding Hood
Take together to the wood,
And Sir Galahad lies hid
In a cave with Captain Kidd.
None of all the magic hosts,
None remain but a few ghosts
Of timorous heart, to linger on
Weeping for lost Babylon.

Frozen Pond

Buried deep under a frozen pond,
lies a brunette, red head and a blonde.
The brunette lived a simple life,
her name was Mary and my first wife.
Got married young, at age nineteen,
I was a king, she was my queen.
Caught her sleeping with my brother,
so naturally, I slept with her mother.
In the winter we went ice skating,
drilled out a hole, while I was awaiting.
As she got close, I pushed her in,
if only the ***** had a fin.
Two years later met a red headed beauty,
she was a little nuts and a lot fruity.
Ginger was this psychos name,
once again my brother was to blame.
Caught them in his back seat,
he played tricks, she gave him treats.
On the frozen pond we took a walk,
smashed a hole with a giant rock.
Pushed her in till she was under,
she screamed louder than Florida thunder.
My brother the blonde, his name Jake,
loved to go to that frozen lake.
Playing hockey with his friends,
him and his fancy Mercedes Benz.
One day we were passing the puck,
a hole in the ice and he got stuck.
I said, sorry brother but you deserve,
to fall in while I stand and observe.
Now my life is complete,
girls now know better than to cheat.

"You're the Ariel to my Prospero"
He says grinning
with dagger pearl teeth
that could nibble my ear
or easily rip out my heart.

Ignorant of his mundanity
He does not know of those
who came before.
Names are relative.
"You're the Puck to my Oberon"
"You're the Tink to my Peter Pan"
Heard 'em all.
Plight of the Manic Pixie
Not Dream Girl.

Charming Sassy Childish
girl.
Sidekick Extraordinaire.
But lower than Robin to his Batman.
Messenger, Trickster, Mischief Maker.
Companion.
Adventurer.
with a temper ten times his size.
A power unnamed. Unused.
Never Enough.

Never enough
to Want to challenge her master.
ProsperoOberonPeter

I will drink the poison for you.
I will sink the ship.
I will find the ****** flower
and enchant the Fairy queen.
Follow orders, then twist them.
With some glittler and a devilish smile.

Crazy Tiny
girl.
Too pixie to hold on to
Catch me Boy!
Alreadycaughtnoneedtocatch.

Little ****** Manic Pixie
Yearning for a kiss
a touch
a word.

When you're a manic pixie
there's no trio
no male sidekick to choose
over
the hero.
But the hero gets the girl.
Manic Pixies live to serve.

Not dignified or wise enough for Royal Athena.
Not ruthless enough for the Dangerous Diana.
Without the darkness of the Morrigan.
Virginity isn't a choice.
It's part of the job description.

Could I be your ladybird?

There was something about that memory of that sunset from like 10 years ago
With the summer cold closing in on my parent’s old bones
and the summer bliss embracing my naive young kiss
I just want to go back sometimes,
Sometimes, I miss the lights, sights, frights,
The bruises, blood, and peroxide,
Young minds sanctified by pure fun outside.
I remember playing roller hockey in the street
But I got grounded for throwing the puck at some teeth
Nobody got hurt, and the next day
We were back at it, finding random exotic leaves.
It was fun.
I remember playing video games when it was raining outside
And fighting over who got to be player one
Now I remember when there were perfect clouds in the sky
and we were playing video games until the stories were done
that was yesterday.

(to be continued)

My Country 'tis of thee
A footnote in history
Of thee I sing

I will dare to compare
for those who were not there
I will try to be fair
Of thee I sing....

My Country was very proud
My Country is full of PRIDE (Insert your rainbow flag here)

My Country was safe at night, you could leave the doors open
My Country is scarier, you don't feel safe until the deadbolts are locked and window bars are in place.

My Country was a place where you knew you could get a housecall from a doctor if needed.
My Country is a place where patients die waiting for a doctor, in the hallway no less.

My Country was amber fields of grain
My Country is Amber alerts and looking for missing children in Amber fields of grain

My Country was the CBC
My Country is satellite television with 400 channels and nothing to watch.

My Country was a place where our flag was respected world wide
My Country is a place where we are respected still....as long as it involves a puck.

My Country was leading the way into the future
My Country is always looking over it's shoulder to see what's coming

My Country was a great place to vacation with the family
My Country is The Untited States for at least 3 weeks annualy, because it's cheaper there.

My Country was strong and a world leader in science and technology
My Country is on life support.

My Country was my families first choice of a place to live
My Country is still my families first choice of a place to live...barely

My Country 'tis of thee
A footnote in history
Of Thee I sing

I hope you get the gist
There's not much I have missed
I loved, but now I'm ******
Of Thee I sing.....

My sister is a quarterback
I rarely catch a pass
and she can run a marathon
I soon run out of gas
she pitches for her baseball team
I pop up on her curve
and she's an ace at tennis
I can't return her serve
My sister dunks the basketball
I dribble like a mule
she swims like a torpedo
I flounder in the pool
she's accurate at archery
I hardly ever score
She wrestles and she boxers
I wind up on the floor
My sister catches lots of fish
I haven't had any luck
she's captain of her hockey team
I can't control the puck
her bowling's are unbelievable
I bowl like a buffoon
she says someday I'll start to win...
I hope someday is soon

I made it into Fern Land,
The deepest dark of the wood…
What's there that lies down here
They say we never should

Meddle or interfere with;
The nettle or the grub,
Not trees and not the ivy,
Not tick or grass or shrub.

"If people keep on meddling...!"
Shouted angry Puck,
And stamped his usually cheerful feet
And the mighty oak tree shook.

Puck continued, thunderous loud:
"You wait and see our luck;
Our homes will not long be exchanged
For flats, that them rich *****

"Like to keep all sparkling clean
And empty as a bubble...
For assets, don't you know, not homes!
This, my friends, is the trouble.

"Now, if money didn’t rule their world -
Our crazy human doubles -
They'd appreciate, like we do all,
That they don't need all this hubble.

"What a blindfold are these dollar bills!
That stop them seeing; all they need
To be happy, healthy and prosperous
Comes through strong communities.

"And not just ones of your own kind
Excluding other beings…
We've lived alongside each other
For tens of thousands of years!"


The crows and magpies, foxes, rats
The pigeons too, of course,
All shouted out in dear support
For their human friends and thought:

"Without those messy, greedy ones
Who buy more than they ought,
And throw the bits they cannot eat,
Our food stores would run short!"

"Whose news have you been listening to
My brainwashed forest folk?
You know **** well they tell you that
So that we here don't revolt!

"They treat you with disdain or pity,
Or want to keep you like a colt
Who lives but only half a life -
Unless they dare to bolt.

"Listen to each other now
And take in what you see...
Trust your fellow forest friends,
And you too can be free!

"It's something we must do together:
No man is an island, and nor is a tree.
All creatures here, we must have sign
That on this we agree:

That they must stop their tribal games
And fights for territory -
Terra is not theirs to own;
It belongs to every being.

They can't divide and conquer us
And if they try, they'll see -
The only option left to us;
Our wrath, on them, unleashed!"


Well I was in a sticky patch.
Oh, what was it to be?!
I did agree with Puck alright -
But what would become of me...

If I betrayed my human friends
For these ones to go free,
Would their blood then be on my hands?
What would become of me?

There was only one option left -
An obvious one really....
What if I could unite my people
Like these people in the trees?

What if they all thought,
And could picture perfectly,
That it was really possible
To have love and joy and peace?

And to have all that above without
The thing that we call money...
That there's more power in something else:
It's called community.

Let's stop those corporations,
With too much cheese already,
And distribute their gains
Amongst the poor and needy.

Let's think about our values
And not our property,
Let's take charge and make our own rules
Not live by others' shoddy,

Grim idea of what life's worth
Without having lived at all -
Or only a very privileged life,
So big that others seem small

As small they treat us, don't you see?
They WANT us all to fall,
So that they can pick us up again
And make four feet feel tall

Let's band together, all of us
United, organised,
To march on them and let them know
We're no longer satisfied.

Nor will it ever be enough
To eat the crumbs of their pie;
Not even a big fat slice
If it's not a fair divide

The energy of Puck
Ignited my insides;
For my efforts, courage
And certainty inspired:

The truth I must go out and spread
And nevermore shall I hide
Behind my privilege,
That sees the facts denied,

That forgets about so many,
Not noticing the lies;
Those convenient untruths
That turn our blind eyes.

And if the truth is difficult
And my humans, they deny,
And say they rather like
Eating the crumbs of that big pie…

That crumbs are the best part!
And if we beg we might get more.
Why cause trouble, rock the boat -
What you're saying is war!

War is not an option,
And that we'll see first-hand:
The wave that takes us there will melt
Their castles made of sand.

I'll say not war, but peace
Is what we will demand.
And if you doubt our human strength
Then with the forest we'll band:

I ventured into fern land…
And at that I'll hear them gasp!
The lure of the forest
Is something some can't grasp.

But if they went, they'd understand,
When the woods take off their mask;
The leaves, they whisper in the wind
And the magic, it would last.

I'll tell them how the forest
Is angry and upset
That those who go to visit there
Rarely show respect.

They worry for our humankind
That we're too easily led,
And silenced into endorsement
Of all sorts of crazy ****.

Their homes are due to be destroyed -
Imagine if that was you?
And not to house the needy, no!
But to keep governments blue,

So their rich friends can own yet
Another piece of cheese.
They don’t care about us, no!
They'd rather see us freeze.

We suffer here with no safe homes
while they live a life of ease,
And the forest creatures, just like us,
Will have to scavenge on the streets.

Their trouble is the same as ours -
We all want the same things!
So why not join with them
And see what change it brings?

Let's trust each other, take a chance...
It has to be better than this!
And if not for you, then think of another
Who's suffering you missed

One who suffered prejudice,
Whose hand at the deal was worse;
Let's join all as family
And together lift this curse

We can write a new story
Where life and soul come first;
The soul is always equal,
No matter how big your purse.

Let's put our heads together
And try some different things
We'll get it wrong, sure! Once or twice,
But our aim is to have wings…

Let's keep that always in our sights -
Freedom to dance and sing,
And be ourselves in harmony -
Back to life us we will bring!

Why pucker the Doll which does not puck back
Was what they told me through the Window Pane
A-thinks they see Clear, keen on what they Lack
The Gauntlet needed to smash such Glass again
That dare you cut your Friend's supposed Line
Just because he saw the Animals play
They are only Plastic; And Air inside
A Harmless Chapter your Youth needs today
Do you think I will Sing? And rend your Shame,
Whose Salary you know I won't enjoy
Good Lord, Man! Why must you label my Name
Like those Land Sharks who bite you out of Joy?
What do you need to tie the Ribbon Blue
That is your Colour; That should have been you.

The dark winter sky was draped with stars whose dainty shimmer
mimicked the sprinkle of snow
caught up in the crisp winter breeze.

The white flakes winked as they came to rest upon a silent sheet of ice,
accumulating on the sleek surface until abruptly–

a clatter of loud and excited voices interrupted.
Skates slashed and
                            sticks crashed onto the cold, hard ice.
A black puck cascaded haphazardly across the rink, bombarding the once settled snow.
Chunks of ice catapulted recklessly,  
the smell of sweat rose relentlessly into the wind.

Furious and frozen wisps of breathe were choked,
as bitter cold filled eager lungs.
The ruthless weather, however, could scarcely graze the laughing dimples on rosy cheeks.

But just as hastily the clatter was silenced,
the commotion halted.

Footprints crunched softly away, their noise secretly swept away
by the sprinkle of snow
caught up in the crisp winter breeze.

The flyers facing there cross-state rivals Pittsburg Penguins
Backup goalie emery in net starts of good then it turns for the worset
3-0 penguins i am wide eyed and mouth open stunned
then second period flyers score 4 goals
one by the capten, two by a deffense men, and the last by a rookie
Third period flyers get puck with one minute left the pensguins
Pull  there goalie and sean couturier shoots it down the ice for
a empty net goalie game over flyers forge a 5-3 victory for the record books and prove they are better then the flyers

Call me such the liar and fool this is true, give no notice of the kindness and careful actions I have given you; but if still you feel cheated and swindled by my small offense, then I offer up in recompense. That while you sleep and so soundly slumber in your bed, behind your dreams I visit you in your head. A more clever prankster there never was to prey upon your petty needs, only to guide you through your misled deeds. However you may have strayed so far from these your gentle homes, I will have you back before the sun arose. Call to me not before the midnight hour for from your lips my name will hover, and roll along your awaking tongue the name Jack Underhill will be far gone.

Only half watching the Sochi Olympics and
     wondering why all of a sudden ice hockey
without brawling gap-toothed players
      seemed so captivating as the puck was blocked
effortlessly by a graceful skating illusion
      did I realize that behind that face mask and
and billowing raven hair was a bright-red              
       lipsticked beautiful face that totally shook
my floor. In my state of inattention I found    
       myself attracted to a hockey player
Scared the hell out if me until I realized that
       it was women's competition

r ~ 9Feb14