The Pooring Reign

to drink the hue from the hue-man,

and grayling leave a sheathe,

that shallows for it's shepherd's shape,

in powdered time bequeathed,

sanity is now sickness,

only sickness is sane,

to the trudge of trudging trudgers,

caught within the Pooring Reign,

the folding man caved inwards,

and lo...he sunk down high,

and the low...the hingy ruster,

of his collapsible I,

fondlings lost is a forest,

of origami trees,

where folding is "of chorus",

for both the hands and knees,

and fold my filchy brethren,

knowing not root nor shoot,

embalming weave can never leave,

to bare a branch of fruit,

it drags it's bony bendings,

with it's soul a bloated flush,

all cellulose dimplings,

scrubbed off with a wire brush,

the coughin' of it's coffin,

a wheezles phlegmatic rasp,

the throaty thrum of huckled hum,

whence gills no longer gasp,

and shucks the shriven shriveled,

himself the remorse code,

whose secrets crack, a don't look back,

as loaded imps implode,

the gaunting hymn all hallowed in,

hymnself the molting mane

his druthers drenched in clench of stench,

that hench the Pooring Reign

for the Pooring Reign was glutting,

upon the common cents,

who were serving up a spittle soup,

in subterfuged offense,

and me...I was my hero,

and sometimes he was me,

and he sang a song of rite and wrong,

so we sung a song, we,

it went:

"the worm's name is consumption,

consumption is the worm,

and the folding trees of as you please,

are an outmoded germ"

the Pooring Reign was feasting,

their tables set to Set,

the simmer of the spittle soup,

was whimp-purring and wet,

and me...I was my hero,

and sometimes he was me,

and he'd kick a table over,

so we kicked a table...we,

but one table hit another,

with a shimmy and a shove,

till it all came tumbling down,

like dominos falling in love,

then I heard pop music as mantra,

and I saw what it had brung,

my future self, a wizened elf,

spoke in alien tongue,

"huegin Fuegin Mah-tootin"

is what he said to me,

it means "only the truth is noble"

Pooring Reign


Magdalena Mirror was a saint and a seer,
 and a sin-eating scapegoat divine,
 for her sickness brought health and her need it brought wealth,
 and her love?... it brought never you mind,

With her mind over matters and her torn blessed tatters, 
 and her moth dusted garbage bag gown,
 will she hold a whole nation in rapt contemplation
 of the angles that fangle her frown,

She was swaddled in thorns from the day she was born,
 when they plastered her into the casting,
 in her stead it is said that the blood she had bled
 was bestower of life ever-lasting,

At the cleft of her cough, cadavers became soft,
 and her sneezing caused freezing to warm,
 with a vomiting wretch, true life's breath did she fetch,
 through the puking rebuke of a charm,

The reprise of her cries could unpry blinded eyes,
 so they kept her in burdens bereft,
 and they opened their ears as they drank from her tears, 
 which could heal both the dumb and the deaf,

the refrain of her pain could make one young again,
 so the Everyone lent her its ear,
 and the song that she sang was a high-hunger-pang,
 from a place beyond hatred or fear,

A place where the There, from the trees to the air,
 is calling, clothed in your own thought,
 again and again, the familiar refrain,
 in a language the tongue has forgot,

Jain Vangles 



Before you realize real eyes, first empty out an eyeing,

Before you're given leave to live, impart thy art of dying,

Hang thyself upon my tree to grow against thy graining,

Hang thyself upon my tree for nine days, wan and waning,

Sacrifice self to thyself, impaled upon thy spearing,

Light the pyre of phoenix fire, endeared to sear a seering,

Burn away thy bonds of clay till from the ashes bud,

Thy branches barking, human harking...was not made of mud...


Walking the row where the human tide frays,
and breaks on its shores like the nights on the days,
amidst all the gristle I happened to gaze,
an old woman walking lower east sideways,

upon fetid feet did she heel cross the haunting,
her clothing a loathing, a new day was daunting,
beneath the light's blight all her flaws would be flaunting,
back bent beneath of a wan wanton wanting,

the pale horse pulled rig, down the dirty dirt track,
that did lead through the need to the riddled in wrack,
and all in she'd fallen, down a smoking crack,
now the day seems to say "you can never go back"...

once long ago how her blossom did bloom,
and her sight did a-light the gutters glutted gloom,
now her petals hang hoary, like the panting of tongues,
that did drink from the brink of the song she had sung

She sang

"Innocence, innocence, all's beauty to ME,
for the heavens above they reflect in my sea,
from the stars strewn above to the slummings below,
Innocence, innocence , wherever I go"

She sang

"innocence, innocence, wherever you lead",
and in daring uncaring had she payed it no heed,
until wearing their staring, she drank of their need,
and little by little... agreed to a greed,

so they made her the Queen of a nape of the night,
they hung her a halo of jaundiced yellow light,
sowed a sign to her skin that said "Beauty for rent"
and she yearned and she turned and she earned every cent,

rank how they drank and they gorged on the gore,
how they knocked on the door of an opening sore,
She sang "come in, come in,oh come in one and all,
there is beauty for rent and an autumn to fall",

and this beauty she bartered, for powder and paper,
till her stars were just scars marred in ichor and vapor,
till a little by little belittling molder,
blighted her light, it ensconced to enfold her,

till the dopings and gropings would no longer glut her,
till her petals did settle to rot in the gutter,
for a fix-it-all fable and a flower's conceit,
immortal beauty became hand me down meat,

and a girl's eyes still glimmer behind a toothless smile,
growing dimmer and dimmer with each mottled mile,
and a sweet voice still stammers behind that growled grin,
sacred to me...she's suffered for our sin,

so sacred to me, her sepulchral spires,
wherein the suits loot in their text book attire,
her valleys of alleys, her mortified mires,
where the rags practice dying crying "lower is higher"

the cheap neon glint of her salable waste,
stored and adored by all the lower cased,
Vancouver, my city, they would call her a whore,
but I've witnessed her worst and I love her the more,

Our lady of the concrete, so sacred to me,
for the heaven's above still reflect in her sea,
though she hobbles the cobbles of lower east side,
with a hunch in her back that says "lay where you lied"

Our Lady of the Concrete, so sacred to me,
somewhere a springtime is still singing thy plea,
down on Hastings and main, in wastings and pain,
"innocence, innocence" refracts her refrain

Pooring Reign

face the music