Archives for posts with tag: thief

it is Sunday and there are a thousand voices singing, in every key, in every known language, the churches of Toronto resonate with the song of the faithful, especially women, a 5:1 ratio of women to men, what is it that women know that men don’t get?—that’s the question I ask myself as I make note of their faces, ready to write down their license plates, follow them to their homes, ready to come back next week, praise the Lord that the mistress of the house is away and there is plenty of time to look for jewellery … and things. I have a collection of the items I have stolen from the households of the faithful—fetishes, forbidden books, satanic images, cookbooks from the Ladies Auxiliary of Aynesbury, and all the usual sexual devices, creams, jellies, incriminating photos and once I felt it was my duty to kidnap the family pet and transport it into witness protection—once that dog learns to talk, those bastards are toast! The faithful are no better than you or me, and no more sure to practise the Lord’s way than I follow all ten commandments. Mind you, Jesus hung out with prostitutes—so he must have known at least one thief—wait a second—scratch that thought—far as I remember he had a memorable meeting with two thieves.

morning rises with a wind of pipes, a breath of columns of sound that rise into concrete and steel

bleary eyes open and bright eyes jog, single threads of multi-melodies rise to fugue with each other, unseen—felt, but unknown—echoed, together/alone

tip of contact two fingers meet sine waves coalesce into pulse of white joy that tsunamis into pale coral remnant of the dawn, like I want into that girl’s pants;

paths rise before each footstep, bound to the train of their lives, I see them, I feel their thrum, I watch them, as I am outside of it all, but even I am bound to the tracks and that oncoming train;

voices rise like pigeons tossed along with newsprint and fast food plastic detritus all whipped into tiny tornadoes by the passing of each note, each little melody humming to itself;

and so many do not hear it/ so many do not hear it/ so many are not listening/ are you listening/ are you listening?

I listen for those who hear the song.
I listen for those who can only hear a note.
I listen to the conductor as I get on the train.
I listen to the heartbeat dictating the time.
I listen to the thrum of men and women, bound to each other,
always fending each other off, I listen
to the beat, can’t you hear it, sweet, the beat, it’s complete
here on the street, pattern of footsteps GUH BANG
the shuffle of the lunatics GIMME A QUARTER
melody of the streecars CLANG CLANG CLANG
the treetops starting to flower fractally
It’s all so frantically,
Aspiring to scantily, lay bare
The bride, we ‘re all …

too afraid to tell the truth.

Listen to the silence that follows the rush of the dawn, morning when everyone surges to life, the following calm of midday, low tenor notes barely audible, the scat of deliveries and school children chattering as they learn by travelling;

through the city, the song, the castles and the hidden doorways we must walk by resolutely, quickly, do not show the children hypocrisy, not yet, the hesitation of the soloist, the fear of baring all, we hide our shame, or failures, from them, the little squeaks out of tune—the drunken guitarist falls over;

the chirp of the sparrow, the kick of the pigeon fluffball into pleasant disintegration, the shat of the seagull, the rape of the starling, chatter of the blue jay, Mae West breast of the robin—the birds sing, the city sings counterpoint;

the scrabble of the raccoons, the howl of city coyotes, the swagger of the skunk and the smack jab jaw of the rat, all low long on bass and high on tremolo; the silent scrabble of one million leashed, muzzled, de-clawed, castrated pets;

can you hear the silence that precedes the storm that will release one minute before Noon, the atonal choir all agree: more food—here’s money, food appears, order beers, lunch hour engulfs and gobbles and money, silver, paper, gold, plastic cross the table, everywhere;

except behind doors no child should see, except for those who cannot bang out the money beat, except for those that are far away and forced to survive—do not complain—no one will listen—do not expect…better for your children—no one will tell you the truth.

that explains the whistle, the cocky melody of self-assurance, the pierce through to the heart of the deal—just another brand of thief—only difference is … I hear the beat, I hear the song, listen to the rhythm, there is the sound—of the city—of the dawn—of the start—of day’s singing.

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