Archives for posts with tag: Toronto

gonna lay down my sorrows and woe
tell me someone’s more miserable than me
’bout ready to lay down my burden of living
tell me someone’s more tired than me
tell me someone hurts worse than me

I’m listening to this fountain
crying the sound of my tears
just let me stop aching for an answer
one more tear drop in a torrent
how much more Lord how many more

Lord, pray my child get’s better
don’t let my boy die this way
I’ve been talking to this fountain all day Lord
and it don’t hear how I pray
No, it don’t hear a word I say

Got to cry, ‘cause I feel like water
got to cry, so I can still feel the pain
Let me turn into a quiet little fountain
take me go back to the beginning again
Lord, take me back to the beginning again

someone once told me suffering will end
someone who never suffered at all
look at this water, it’s got no troubles
just wash away my hurt like little bubbles
wash away these troubles, end it all

gonna save my tears in this fountain
so I know where to find them again
only reason I’m sitting here crying
this fountain‘s in need of a friend
Lord, let each tear drop be its friend


That guy is looking at me funny—he just moved all his groceries closer to him—jeez man it’s No Frills fr crissake—he’s looking at me like I’m Chinese and he can’t trust me—goddamn bastard hates me cause I’m Chinese? Hey! I’m Canadian, moron, Fuck you!

Look at that woman—she is looking at me like I am a terrorist—I can tell it—goddamned Arab they call me—utterly unaware I am from India—fuck them.

That guy keeps looking at me like he’s waiting for me to do something—like I’m going to jack his car or something—fuck him—fuck you all …

Each of those guys looking at me … they wish! What a bunch of losers—leave me alone!—I really wish I could walk down the street without losers like that saying stupid things—FUCK OFF!!

I am utterly without hope, without redemption, without friends—I am going to have to start begging to make ends meet—I am worthless and can’t make enough money—I’d like to tell the world to fuck off, but I think it beat me to the punchline.

It all started when the fucking squirrely Puerto Rican guy just laced the Guatemalan guy in the back of the head when the Brazilian guy told the Greek guy the Italian football team was just a bunch of wives for the Germans. Fuk’n’jeez—people get worked up, eh?

Island beckons bestreamed with umbrellaed bicycles, endless breezes,
city forgets itself, beside itself, admires itself, reflects upon what
it is and what it is to become; what is the price of healing in this
place of regeneration; what is the size of being, written in the
sound of the wind in the freshwater sea that laps at your door;
what is the name written in the sand by your toes as we while
away these summer hours; let it all go, let it all go. This is what
turns the wheels as surely as the chain, the spoke, the hub,
each in its place and this part is easy—look out across the water—
that’s the island, that is part of it, part of what makes the city,
separate and still part—just like you and me, beribboned and
streaming in the wind of the making of what is and what will be.

<Toronto is blessed with a natural harbour created by the island that forms  it. Our island is a source of beauty and respite for the city. The native tribes considered it neutral ground and brought their elderly and infirm to the island to rest and recuperate in its beautiful environment and waters. I can attest that the swimming at Hanlan’s Point is as good as it gets.>

1st chant

gimme a dime, gimme a quarter, loonie, dub-loonie, coffee, cigarette, token, some money

hey mister … I ain’t gonna hurt yu, please cn yu help me; hey mister … cn yu help me please, cn yu help me …
hey mister … down on my luck, chief, down on my luck

2nd chant

gimmus sum, please need sum, gotta get sum, can you spare sum

hey you—fat cat—you’ve never seen hard times
hey you—rich lady—just gimme what’s in your wallet—you’ll never notice—help you lose weight—yeah
hey you—you who’s ignoring me—how would you like to be in this place, you think I want it?

3rd chant

can’t you see me, you look right through me like I am a glass bone

1st thought/inaction

how can they get like that, how can they get there, could I get there, what would put me there, how close am I to the brink; what separates us? please don’t ask me, please don’t bother me … it all started with … don’t mention that word: “they”

1st letter to the editor

they are worth less
they are less than worthy
they are trash
they die in the street
and no one notices
because they are less than trash

2nd thought/action

here’s a loonie—buy a hot lunch
here’s a loonie—get yourself a shower
here’s a loonie—buy some new clothes, you smell
here’s a loonie—get a life

4th chant

we are—the city
we are—the silence in the streets
we are—the shadows
we are—your incomplete

2nd letter to the Editor

something should be done so people like that … something should happen because people like that … people like … people like … people like … let’s make a law so that people … let’s make it illegal … let’s try to control … let’s stop this flagrant abuse of the generosity of our society … so that people like that … like that … like that … like that … just stop being … like that … stop being …

Love can be found in the city if you look
around corners. Running, a shadow, across
architectural whimsies.

Love can be found in a boy, a girl, dressed only
in gossamer, nude in their clothing, naked
in their intent.

Stand aside from the concrete block feet of the towering city marching by, safe in the rut of its solitude, its quietude; watch as so many run by, chase the bulls, hunt the bear, ride by ensconced on escalators, monarchs of the up and down, while others surge ahead of everyone chased by slavering manic dogs with the scent and taste of blood on their tongues.

There is a dance
throughout this tumult,
fairy rings of fireworks,
sustained burn of home fires,
sparks that cartwheel
through the high and low of the air,
past every obstacle,
to discover
another Catherine Wheel.
Ignited, constant ignition
that has nothing to do with
the traffic jam on the four OH one.

You should know,
the only true commerce
of the city is invisible, cannot
be counted, nor can its index
be assessed, this has resisted
all take-over attempts
and still remains priceless.

It is it, it is love.
It is the illness that cures
itself. What fits it is
it, and only it, until you admit,
it is the bit that makes
a bit of it into more than a bit.
The it and only it—
it fits, and that is what makes it
Love happens—it can be found

In the gust of the wind before the thunderstorm
how does the bird land on the wire?
A billion billion water molecules in a snowflake
how do they find each other, make that flake unique?
I can trace a flare of energy from the sun
across an incredible distance of void,
tell you about the heat and light tomorrow,
whether the weather is cold or hot,
trace the highs and lows expressed by heavy cloud,
but how do I make it rain in someone’s heart?
How is someone’s static charge attracted to me
so the lightning happens and they say “love,”
or do I just cast my sigh upon the breeze
that ruffles at a light twenty-two degrees
looking forward to a comfortable low of fifteen
easy sleeping weather for those with someone
between the knees.
And when dawn begins at six oh three
and the sun rises in a clear blue sky and a glorious high
of twenty eight, will it smile for me? Will those clouds
threatening to dampen the weekend fun, break for a moment
and shine a special ray to point out someone who will say,
“My almanac’s full of years and years of forecasts
so I’ll make a prediction that will last forever– I’ve already fallen
in love with you.”  Is it too much to ask – or is it
always stormy weather, global warming with no passion?

<Well folks, this one was written before Rob Ford, but I think it is even more appropriate considering the Mayor we in Toronto are currently subject to, and hence, herewith, hear ye, heart ye — the Mayor’s Song:>

Each day
another great wheel
raises me up until the lights shine
beneath me like stars reflected in Lake Ontario.
Lowers me into unimaginable depths
of misery and pity,
whose smoke and confusion
brings tears to my eyes.
Must I witness all that is good,
all that is wild and savage?
I continue to rise
and fall until I rise again,
as if I were master,
not slave. As if I
could control the passion,
the need to demonstrate
the best that never can be;
the truth about what lies beneath
the stable of the beast.

First, there was Alex
who had long scraggly grey beard
loaded, liberally encrusted with snot
which was readily added to, without
warning both nostrils blasting, full
tilt, the look in his eyes
the definition of insouciance.
Alex would sell postcards
thrust out by grey knit gloved finger, grabs
of scenes of the Island ferries and Princes’ Gate
possibly Summerside Gardens,
while steadily blowing his nose
like a whale surfacing, spouting
picturesque views laced with eruptions of mucus.

Now, there’s—
he’s written it across his 6-pack belly
with felt pen and is under a restraining order
not to go near the CITY TV building and its irresistible live cameras.
He does 2,500 pushups a day.
He corners a young woman at a bus stop,
has her feel his biceps, she’s smiling, doing it to be polite,
leave me alone is what the smile is saying. asks for some money
deranged escaped Chippendale dancer
pants, red suspenders, red shoes, no shirt,
Christmas elf hat fire engine red.

Hands down favourite—the Swedish Social Democrat:
a statuesque woman wearing a Wagnerian Valkyrie wig
including Brunnhilde braid buns like Princess Leia/ Rapunzel/ Lady Godiva.
She would stand, majestic, on the River Street bridge, over the Don Valley Parkway
in a blue satin evening gown and a golden blue sash that read
“Swedish Social Democrat”—you had no idea whether she was ranting or
asking for money or being filmed—’cause you were racing beneath her in a car
going somewhere and this blue Swedish phantasm saluted you
like a perfect dictator, queen of england, pope-ess of socialism,
her citizen’s pulpit a bridge that stood astride the world.

And there’s Clark—he’s out in the west end
running for Mayor—you can tell ’cause he paints in whitewash
or charcoal, or chalk, big lettered signs at prominent intersections which read
“Clark for Mayor”—when you see him he wears colorful rags and sings and
dances, rattles a tin can at pedestrians who manage to walk by his
gyrations, pleading, biblical curses, beguilings, flummoxes,
testimonies, apostasies and apostolizations—the endless tirade lost
upon us—we who live in the city of madman, saints, fools, sinners,
and those who sell postcards while blowing their nose.

trapped in the nine to five, nothing but an excuse in a cubicle, everything is going downhill, this whole company is on the skids, over there Lois was fired last week, anyone could be next to go, times are really tight and I’m just keeping my head down, waiting for some kind of break or maybe I’ll just go to Crete, anywhere but this dead end didn’t ask for it really live to hate it job

putting things up, taking ‘em down—that’s pretty well what we do and business is good either way you look at it—rapidly expanding, strong backing, best men in the industry and just give ‘em their lead is what I say—people like that appreciate you backing them 100% —it’s the only way things get done

looking for a deal, looking for a deal, what’s that worth, what do they sell that for, what can you do with that, where can I get a thousand like that, looking for the high rollers, looking for the money ladies, looking for the man, where is the man, are you the man? cause I am looking for the man, looking for a sweet deal, something to make it all better, looking for where it’s at

it’s just the sheer pace of it, when you’re on the floor, and it’s happening and you know—you know—at that moment you are at the fountain of what is happening in the world right now—right now—it is like a pulse, like a fist grabbing your nuts—you’re faint and you’re scared and then you realize—you’re feeling it, the flow, the making, the veritable manufacture of wealth—breathe it, pound it through your veins, you aren’t looking at the motherlode, my friend—you are the motherlode!

People get in my cab and the first thing they do is play let’s make a deal—as if I don’t got enough to contend with—look on the back of the seat buddy, it’s printed there plain as English—you pay what’s on the meter, if the meter ain’t on, the trips for free. This town nothing’s for free. You want me to turn on the meter, or not?

Timothy E first blew a melody
on the corn husk hymns of his forefathers
and one hundred per cent satisfaction
guaranteed and consequently made out
admirably – sea to sea – and built a church
for posterity.
Toronto may change but
its capital comes naturally, religiously.
The Meeting Place resonates with the
printing press of MacKenzie, of Bassett
and Pelideau – everyone wants to print
money in Toronto.
Roger me that communication
commando, Maple Leaf, Blue Jay, Raptor,
Argo! the sweet spot may lose, but the cash
registers sing; Reichman bank towers, Heintzman
piano bowers, croon to each other, “This
is our golden hour.” CN stockyards, rails stretch
West to East, whisper coast to coast “More for All,
the Best for Least,” and everyone hears lease
and imagines it can be theirs for a song – in time,
make it rhyme, Money and Me, making it easy,
making it big, taking a bite of the Big Apple
and stuffing it right in the mouth
of the roast pig, Hogtown here I come.

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