The Poetry of Bernard Alain

The Oceanview Resort

noreply@blogger.com (Bernard Alain) — Mon, 25 Jul 2011 00:17:00 +0000

This is another photograph I took at the resort where I stayed for the week, a peek at one of the many capes and inlets found in the Grand Barachois region of Shediac N.S. The weather would change on and off during the day, warm sunny periods cooled off by kelp scented wafts from the Northumberland Strait. The seasonal residents were honoring the tradition of the snowbirds by hanging decorations in celebration of a July 25 christmas, estranging at first but any excuse for a party ...eh?

The Grand Barachois

noreply@blogger.com (Bernard Alain) — Sun, 24 Jul 2011 23:09:00 +0000

I left for Shediac N.S. to escape the heat wave in Ottawa this week, the air was as rejuvenating as the hospitality and well worth the 14 hour drive. The high point for me was the Duschene wharf, a great little spot where you can wait for fresh lobster to be delivered straight from the fishing boats or grab a bite on the patio of the local restaurant looking out onto the marina.

on power groups

noreply@blogger.com (Bernard Alain) — Sun, 28 Nov 2010 14:53:00 +0000

so I called my broker back in Toronto
said I wanted the black Avenger
not the gray one
the one with the tinted glass and moonroof
to go with my black mob suit
and pointy shoes
that I wanted to go
like Thelma and Louise
spinning my tires
racing for the edge
steeped in premium audio
[em]powered all

and he said ok
but it would be the sum[s]
and substance
of more meager means (not the cops)
that chase me down

faster than a
speeding bullet

sure to hit
before the crunch
and final impact

fer sher and the thing

noreply@blogger.com (Bernard Alain) — Sat, 20 Nov 2010 23:17:00 +0000

the mortgage personna

and I thought I'd read them
all

creative
sure
and I continue to keep an
open mind while reading poetry

but I think it was the way
it ballooned
that made me think
he didn't know

what

he was signing his
name to

tarantula

noreply@blogger.com (Bernard Alain) — Wed, 17 Nov 2010 01:54:00 +0000

when I go back to volte-face and that guy I recall the door shutting after
every disturbance every second away from peurta del sol then out
for a beer drinking back every deficiency as a long-legged
nemesis buzzed in my tavern like gypsies and packsacks and belize and
borderless prints of red-eyes on my amp top
the snap and twang like boomerangs and slingshots the
old me my nemesis never excusing always accusing
I knew you well before you died you hairy legged sticky foot spittling on my wings
you want me come and get me
but keep in mind
I know where you live
and where you don't

romeo y julie ta

noreply@blogger.com (Bernard Alain) — Mon, 08 Nov 2010 02:32:00 +0000

it came from cuba
not the best
not second best
but the third best
my son said
a gift from a corner
of the world maybe
that understood
the dilema of a commoner
like myself
I'll smoke it again
sometime
to remind me
of that fact

the veritable excursions

noreply@blogger.com (Bernard Alain) — Sat, 30 Oct 2010 18:15:00 +0000

we don't have possesions
just attachments
equity eventually redeemed
for the boarding passes
of a shipless cruise
destiny a port
not totally in view
until the last
leg

and the euphoria of endless
free camels and bacardi
dissipate
as exotic dreams
and travel hype
bury themselves in
the commonness of
baking sand
and photogenic
palms
you'll have the same
as everybody else
when you finally lie down
the deepest of tans
won't stay with you

and living
is the risqué
of a double-entendre
the unexpected sequel
of unraveling fiction
the intellection
of wide-eyed amibition
and whimsical
dreamscapes

and tonite
the protagonist
Henry Pelham
a berry pickin' pro
a mogul expert in the science of the
slopes, nurturer of bunker crops
and breaking boughs
and I stretch again
for the next notch in the vine
a drunken swivel
of red tape leading up
to imaginary blue skies
(or
maybe to an imaginary certificate
of full performance
or
maybe an imaginary vineyard of crashing jets
and tabloid paparazzi
who knows ...*!)
surrender to a bouquet
of fermenting rare
(but still pickable)
picks

last week it was my brother Tom two eggs
over easy at Moe's
the Elvis paraphernalia on the tavern walls
overdone and spicy but the conversation
simmering and palatable

this morning it was danishes
and upgraded bandwidth
thunder and rain periodic
the dish outside on track as a brandless mouse
scaled the face of virtual nirvana

later on it'll be Rickard's Red
and sirloin tip with my son and fiance
and we'll probably talk about silly things like poetry
and dream homes, other fictitious structures
and I'll pick up the tab make another
installment against my future cruise to paradise
knowing, as in most destination packages
even though the price of the hype seems out of reach,
the blowing smoke and bottomless jugs
will somehow be accounted for
in the cost of the plan

e'steam and the (loco)motive

noreply@blogger.com (Bernard Alain) — Sun, 17 Oct 2010 16:52:00 +0000

and he said she
was a bookreading
freewheeling tart with an occassional
fetish for weekend meter checks
a tease for adolescent woodies
an NJ swinger; in hot pursuit
of bon jovi look-a-likes
orgasms in a shot
glass

and she
sure (he)
was the victim of circumstance; a small diamond
left between the crack[s]; overlooked
by the monicles of more discerning
cuts

and sympathy poured out steadily
to sweeten the oats of old lumpy
thick and syrupy shoulda-woulda-couldas
coating the mush of overcooked grain
and jagged edges
and like a suicidal die-hard
she wore old lumpy wisdom
like a tnt belt, finger near
the [smithereens] button; ready
to obliterate
anihilate
eradicate
lumpy or nothing
lumpy or else

and today no
different from the others
as they yap incessantly like
allies in the dmz comparing notes on whatever
cowlicks and ironed curls
mating with ooh ooh oohs and
yeah yeah yeahs
small wars forgiven
for another truce
in yup-amity

and I
never in view long enough for real consideration
but visible enough for dimissal
a UFO in the no fly zone
the target of heat-seeking missiles and prolonged monitoring
another insignificant moment of brightness
destined for tracking by circular
low-luster scope

and she'll never know
what he says when she's not around
he'll never remember
the last jab

myself
I'll never risk exposing
the real blips here in the
dmz

anything too dubious gets shot down
long

before it has a chance
to drop

a
bomb

on reaching puerta del sol

noreply@blogger.com (Bernard Alain) — Sun, 11 Jul 2010 23:38:00 +0000

I think steve
had it right with mood for a day

the occasional rasgueado
slipping off the end
of his fingertips
skipping over
nickel-plated rungs

on the way to an apex
the correct
intonation a
matter of a
small bend

others
doing the talking

clinging to a shard

noreply@blogger.com (Bernard Alain) — Sun, 04 Jul 2010 00:18:00 +0000

titanic my ass

it was gargantuan
the way all the band members
slid into the ocean
tooting their
horns

my sympathy
to the remaining
groupies

marvel

noreply@blogger.com (Bernard Alain) — Sun, 04 Jul 2010 00:17:00 +0000

as a comic character
I don't know
how many times
he zoomed in
and saved Lois

the only thing I
could say for a fact

was that in real life

he didn't exist

about the hole thing

noreply@blogger.com (Bernard Alain) — Tue, 29 Jun 2010 22:31:00 +0000

the gps steering us in and
out of Montreal a few
times
the radio sputtering
the ample-breasted biker girl selling
hotdogs at the roadstop
all mercilessly out of range no less the
prospect of the Cabos, Rosalita, any-thing
remotely exotic
and it's hello to a few hundred miles of
moose barricade until we feed on a
a dozen or so re-boiled poutines
$2 to see my mother
$5 to see my aunt $10 to visit
Parlee Beach and $45 for the bridge
back from P.E.I with the possibility
of deep-frying toll fare at some
ocean-front clam shack

so my thanks go out
to Anne's country kitchen and the
town of Crap-o

at $5 a plate

it'll be well worth enduring the smell
of a dairy cow's ass

a definite 5, coulda been a 7

noreply@blogger.com (Bernard Alain) — Wed, 23 Jun 2010 22:30:00 +0000

my cage was really rattled today
I wanted to step off
call Otis or Thyssen in,
to duke it out with a couple of antiquated
gearheads

but the rumble was so large
it filled the adjoining hall
and I realized the contender would
have to have a much larger billing

and the Doomsday march
played in my head with startling new revelations,
that I didn't want to be in that number
(or any number close to it)
and that if I ever fell off the top
I wanted the exclusive movie rights

and the sequel wouldn't have been called 'Treme'
but maybe 'Current Affairs' or 'I'm not Shore Anymore'
and there wouldn't be any actors
because our peace of mind
came from a river view
whose noisy ducks
only appeared to be
harmlessly migrating

and our core understanding
would've ended near the market area somewhere
where the hos would continue to
provide lip service to a depleted economy

the House of Commons
having to cool down regardless

all this just mighta

because today

(June 23rd, 2010)

somebody

didn't give a
nickel

to our seismologists
on call

..oh, tHAt kind of peace

noreply@blogger.com (Bernard Alain) — Mon, 21 Jun 2010 16:41:00 +0000

the percussive
slap and twang
the squeaking and
squawking
index finger
groping
daisies lining up
along the bar-rail
duped and
swaying
crude
but infectious,
could've almost
been Arlo
except for
the designer
jeans

back then it was only a childish revival for me
the rebellious mid-range of a vintage Rhodes
playing Woodstock in another town, long after
the notion of being proactive, peace and love
just a faddish remake taking place every now
and then outside of Toronto, and the barrios at
El Avila the only thing sliding in the mud,
the only electric anthem played, seared the
spires of Baghdad

and I wanted to tell the guy
it's already been done
we tried that and it didn't
work
but the acoustic thump
like tribal code to a silent army
the petalled tiaras
untamed carrot locks
young and creamy skin
and ...

...*!

who do I have to be ... Mickey Rooney?

noreply@blogger.com (Bernard Alain) — Sat, 19 Jun 2010 21:43:00 +0000

it's this pain
made by a little man
stabbing the inside
of my stomach
sometimes having the duration
of a short email or the word
"no" but more often
spans days, weeks and
years
punctuated
by overly complex
analysis

and they say it builds
character, makes you
stronger, helps you ....

...pf*

pretzels please!

noreply@blogger.com (Bernard Alain) — Sat, 19 Jun 2010 21:40:00 +0000

and
I think it must've
been a
drunken mistake
an induced
state of mind
that made me
believe
for a moment
that
I could spread
those milky wings
on a slice of bread
and swallow
knowing
what they
do

a vixen
in the dreams
of many
sipping on my
beer

and I ask

"would you still love me in the morning? ..."

"no."
she says

"but I'm a helluva lot cheaper"

when the U and I are miles apart

noreply@blogger.com (Bernard Alain) — Sat, 19 Jun 2010 21:39:00 +0000

she was surprised as hell
when John told her his brother might've
skied Mount Fuji and she was quick to point out
how dreamy the islands might look
while peering down through the clouds,
the resistance of a corporate being
maybe, wanting to elevate her preconceptions,
flee the mundane long enough to kill the
obvious but not long enough to test
the steepness
and again substance driven
like unwanted white snow
further into obscurity

and John, shattered like stalagmite might
after the red rocks in Colorado,
the next natural phenomenom blade
grooming or retarring, maybe Hummers
with a roofrack to get away from the
outrightly rocky but never slipping away
to Aspen

and escape becomes relative
with the random knocks
of more spontaneous being
spitting up in the wheel wells
as lapping bus tires drown a
panorama

roadworthiness a question of
stamina
and even though John really didn't ski

sure she meant Fiji
another kind of trap

closer to a monet

noreply@blogger.com (Bernard Alain) — Sat, 05 Jun 2010 17:44:00 +0000

today I leave for the east,
the fabled peals of a
returning coast play like a
child with model long boats
and preened gulls,
far away from the bare feet
where dried kelp nips on
pristine dunes, photogenic
beaches cry barrenness
at low tide

and Panini won't be a great architect or
painter just a simple tuna melt I've grown
to love
and Socrates just Socrates,
the only hemlock ingested
there along the treeline,
where auroras die,
when I arrive

someone else's dog, not mine

noreply@blogger.com (Bernard Alain) — Tue, 01 Jun 2010 20:38:00 +0000

of course chihuahuas
are always hiding behind the master's leg
when they say come and get me,
the instincts of maybe a mexican fighting dog
tethered together
with the bone mass of a chicken

and today my little hairless huitzilopochtli
is yapping about infringement on a
domain that's no greater than
the step ahead
and the same step behind

and the old dogs in the park
don't know what to think
sure they've had a shrew or two
and that size not so long ago

we dance around
hubris (hubris in a much less classical sense)
careful not to step on
the little thing

the yelp could be crucifying

no less
what other walkers might think

the iron cross

noreply@blogger.com (Bernard Alain) — Sat, 29 May 2010 03:55:00 +0000

ok so maybe I squawk a bit
but it's all those sycophants
that drive me crazy
showing up in their virtual cadillacs
shining fenders kissing ass
an elite gymnastic club
that could've been applauded
for unusual flexibility
if it wasn't for the fact
that they bury heads
in polyvinyl safety mats

you see real beef
is made of iron
draconian iron
hung like an effigy
for impailed super-egos
baring nipples
to flourescent light
dangling stinky feet
and precariously high

and the reward
for being able to sustain
the position
is persona non grata
abject poverty
and c-spine [med.] (possibly)

yay

'cause they only pay
for carbon copies of the Dalai Lama
intravenous feeds to lovesic addicts
and type AB blood (if you're dead)

real beef is made of iron babee
that's the way it is

of type ficus elastica

noreply@blogger.com (Bernard Alain) — Tue, 25 May 2010 00:21:00 +0000

schnapps on the balcony was never
that expensive
the sun
absolutely free
a few leaves bending
a little torn
overall effect
not too bad

on the inside the constant
rubbernecks
a contemporary ensemble
having outlived a few french provincial and
italian archetypes
simple geometry and naugahyde
never needing much water
syphoning minimums
of reflective matter
between the slats

a tiger lily
might blossom once and
a while with dull orange
wishing it was more
but it doesn't
it just hangs and
waits

not surprising others
survive the downpours so well
near the equator

hangers as well
they can take it either
way

silent clucking

noreply@blogger.com (Bernard Alain) — Sun, 23 May 2010 14:51:00 +0000

somehow
I offended her
and I thought fuck
another gesticulated ellipsis
maligned
by Maat's clone

and she's the type
that doesn't make mistakes
got mags that hang like clothing
on a verticle rack in her entranceway
and she waits like a cop
for the perpetrator to draw first
no question who's wrong
when the bullet finally pops

but there was no stealth intelligence
just unrehearsed spit
and I swear the smirk she abhored
was just innocent perioral reflex
and I could go on and on
about an obvious lack of diction
but there was nothing to listen to
nothing said

a case of one chicken

too much
like the other

out of line

noreply@blogger.com (Bernard Alain) — Sat, 15 May 2010 23:27:00 +0000

and like Gump
I sidestep the mud
system[at]ically pooh-pooh the elements
search for a coast
to plant wobbly feet

and everyone said it was great
that I'd found an outlet
a way to express whatever
it was they missed
when I said hello
a closer look maybe
at the gyros of the little dog
that aggravates
the hounds so

I could've gone on
about what never gets done
or who likes who
or even my passion
for the least exhaustive
path
but I leave bonafide trivia
to the coconut crackers
frankly
and not that complex
create wordy penises
yak about my lack of religion
spin the outershell of
a dormant yolk with
world-like wisdom
far reaching as tibet

and the marathon always like every other
long jog
nothing very touchy feely
no competitors except for the last edit

with all this practice
I'll be ready

when the blinders come off

ancient echelon

noreply@blogger.com (Bernard Alain) — Thu, 13 May 2010 02:22:00 +0000

po pi 7 moused the backdoors
of a military domain
warned papal nuncios
in realtime

apache servers made of
shaving mirrors
coded secure dit dahs
to the end-user scalps
of general miles

armies re-crypt
the silent
decrypt at the end of a stream
of disturbing molecules
reality hacks existing long before
the first shotgun blast
in seamless nirvana

newness of the matter
in which friction starts

arguable

only digital
if you saw it that way

she goes down easy every Friday night

noreply@blogger.com (Bernard Alain) — Thu, 29 Apr 2010 22:34:00 +0000

fantasy and the flu
squirming
in an office chair
trying to smile above the sinus ache
a survivor or a trooper perhaps
and she said it didn't help the sex at all

and the night
a heady mix of sticky bellies
bobbing heads and loud calls
ringnecks maybe

or maybe just victims of
alcho-kinesis
the homeless zeal of a lonely bard and his
drunken bride-to-[may]be
tangling dried out limbs
and fresh debris into transitory
spaces

maybe love never coos or cums
maybe walking on backs isn't about building nests
but more about rituals and habits

like this bottle of port
(hic) !*---