Another Winter's Day

Another winter's Day
-William Hay

Rainy, cold, damp, my crotch wet where the leather's leave off.
Where does a biker buy a cod piece in the 21st century.
Man with cellphone driving death car blind,
Captivated by conversation,
As I go hoarse screaming, horn bleeting and brake to
Where he's intimidating driving halfway into street.
My words horn and the motorcycle tire on his crome
Stop his car and conversation.
I thank God again for saving me from the living brain dead
Cellphone zombies.Woman passing cheers my expletive tirade.
I move on as another killer car changes lanes saving effort on signalling
The economic times adding to Strange.

I found the galley baskets I needed in
The blessed Oriental kitchen store across from Sun Yat Sen Garden,
The feng sui influencing the genius and beauty of her selection.
The Blenz Cafe lasagna tasted real good microwaved by the young European
Her sexy tones reminding me of the sauna nudes of my ancient youth.
She is thinking of her father and elder uncle.

The newspapers say the winds shut down the ferries.
Now how can I hunt if they won't take me to the island deer.
A conspiracy of Franciscans and vegetarians.
There's partrige in there too.

I worked today ,the kind of day any salaried worker would have stayed home
To worship bed and feign H1N1. The Darkness at Noon has stayed.

She asked if I'd come to the writer's circle in December.
I said, "maybe", committment phobic in this passionless cold.
Minimalist in misery.
My Strathcona friend celebrates his cake of sobriety
I will attend his 'experience, strength and hope'.

The 60's Loving Spoonful and Cowsills in town,
But where is John Sebastian?
And what are we doing alive?
I was supposed to die by thirty.
Borrowed time. Only the good die young.
The Royal Winnipeg Ballet are dancing here tomorrow
But where is Arnold Sporr? I must listen to Pelestrina.
Poet Tempest Grace Gale, aged 25, was murdered on Hornby Island last night.
And I hadn't finished reading Leonard Cohen, older and younger than Moses.
I shouldn't read the paper. Too many fractual emotions.

Glistening streets, vehicles headlight, flashing red emergencies and left turns,
Umbrellas and black stockings, short skirts and wool coats,
Men in blazers drawn close, bowed heads
Scurrying. More stores open late.

I don't want to die. Aging being better than dirt bedding.
I love my comforters, down and duck, with cat fur in my face.

"I live for meals and bed," she said. I thought I'd never feel the same.
How stupid are the young and I was even stupider.
There are surgeries I would not want to know.

What I know now would go well in a svelte young body.
No Christian reincarnation till heaven.
Can I prodigal son my inheritance, return for heaven later
Pre Mortgage my pre morbid temple?

I've faced too many guns. Swat teams. Military units.
Stabbed intentionally and unintentionally shot.
But hurt myself worse rolling cars, flying motorcycles and racing horses.
I'm my own friendly fire.

Who would have thought they'd put a man on the moon
Then settle for space suburbs?
I thought we were crossing the galaxy
To find why blue alien women anal probe.
Halos and black holes.
St. Francis, St. Augustine and Buddha all were degenerates
Before they gave it all up to Essene.

Where should I be headed on another winter's day?