Birth of a Notion

The Church of the Daily Pragmatist

I have started my own religion.  Being as capable of faith, hope and love as any, I thought, I should impose my blind adherence to such on you.  Outlined below you will find the basic tenants of my Church, and with them the feeling you are small, insignificant, and wrong about yourself.

Every Religion has its COMMANDMENTS.  Since empirical evidence has observed that the modern human attention span is shrinking, we have only THREE. 

THE 3 COMMANDMENTS: 

ONE-      Be Honest

TWO-     Be Polite 

THREE-  DON'T be Stupid

FOUR- (BONUS COMMANDMENT) Make things BETTER

 1 Be Honest, 2 Be Polite, 3 DON'T be stupid, 4 (bonus COMMANDMENT) Make things BETTER

@@@

Religions must mark the major events that occur to all of us.  Some refer to them as the "Hatch, Match, and Dispatch".  Others might know them better as BIRTH, MARRIAGE, and DEATH.  The Church has a simple, easy to remember prayer for each of these often "BLESSED" occasions.

 My RELIGION'S birth prayer... 

(after suitable gifts are given) "It gets colder than this... I doubt you will ever understand..."
My RELIGION'S funeral Prayer... 

(after suitable gifts are given)"We were all better for the experience... here's mud in your eye"

My RELIGION'S marriage vow... 

(spoken between bride and groom)  "I DO".. (spoken to the congregation)  "Live with it!"

My RELIGION'S Prayer of gathering...

I (we) don't care... They can GO FUCK THEMSELVES. 

sacrament (chosen by the individual) must be readily available, bring the user comfort, be inexpensive, AND consumable
tithing The Church of the Daily Pragmatist does NOT tithe ... instead, bring something to every occasion... (wine, a hot-dish, a song, a joke, love)
porn The Church believes there is no such thing as PORN, merely stimulus that allows us to better define our personal choices and preferences
sin any NON-consensual act between persons that eliminates choice and freedom

THE BIBLE MY Church's Bible is ANY book (chosen by the individual) that encourages and allows for the efficient eventfulness of The 3 Commandments

@@@

Most people who have a religion don't know what they believe.  Their lives are filled with the insistent, incessant, chatter of stale thoughts and the crumbs of illusion that pass for salvation.   The Grapes of wrath make for bitter wine.  The wages of sin can't  keep up with the rate of inflation.  At the Macy's Day Parade of faith, Under Dog has developed a leak and he is pissing on the fire hydrant of our unconscious dreams.  The Church of The Daily Pragmatist, eliminates confusion by simply making indifference a recognised part of our lives.  We welcome Haters and Players, because if the 'game' exists, then we write the 'playbook' with our innocence and naivete, not our stupidity.  

Religion tell us we are alone and are judged constantly.  MY Religion makes us, not judges, but constructive critics.  The Siskel and Ebert of the film fest of existence.   So a hearty 'thumbs up' to those who doubt and deserve.  We are not alone.  We are human, we are alive, and at least we don't make things worse.  

Spread the word, Brethren and Cisterns...

I have a religion, what's YOUR excuse?

DaBuoy

@@@

If you have any Questions or Concerns about The Church of the Daily Pragmatist, feel free to contact me at dabuoy@gmail.com

Yes, I know... another poem

Bob's Your Uncle...

When You write 

all the answers

to things that 

you've wronged

And the wrong

 answers seem

not worth

writing

All the soldiers

are dying for

left on the cross

with the sweet

common touch 

left for crying

and a million

is half of the 

two that you lost

When numbers 

mean nickels

and dimes

Can you honestly 

Answer

Who suffered a loss

or are you left

Only with lying

DaBuoy

Is this a Dagger I See Before Me...

death calls us all

October is drawing to a close and the veil between worlds is at it's thinnest.  All Hallow's Eve looms before us.  An occasion comprised of  the curtains of our desires, where we are tempted by the sugary delights of existence.  We thrust our passions deep into the unblinking darkness of our nature.  Each of us hopes for a trick that treats us to the delicate kiss of  blood and bone, while weaving a tapestry that illuminates the things we never realized.

It is with this in mind that I have compiled a series of images and sounds that point to a tale that beckons and follows us all.  For your consumption and consideration, I present "Love Denied", a very short film based on nothing, and the ghosts that live there.

Take a minute if you will.  Find your most comfortable mask.  Don your grooviest clothes.  Let the spirits flow and the imagination that warms us all, quench and slake the thirst that drives and denies.  Teach yourself to be scared, you are just THAT human.  Learn to HOWL, you are just such a beast.


Happy Hallow e'en


DaBuoy



P.S. Remember, in Hell, you are never alone.

Present and Accounted For

There are people in the world who have gifts.  Michael Phelps can swim fast.  Stephen Hawking can think of grand notions.  My country's Prime Minister can make the world smell like a taint.  Each of us has a set of skills that can allow us to be better than we are.  An Olympian, a physicist, a butt kisser - all different, all famous, all known for something.

People learn to be what they are.  Someone had to take Michael to the pool.  Someone had to teach Professor Hawking math.  Someone had to acknowledge Stephen Harper is a douche.  Natural talent can not just be assumed, it needs to be, like the mushroom, given shit to do before it becomes part of the cultural salad that we toss each and every day.  

Of course, we all realize that not every salad has mushrooms.  The Waldorf salad has raisins and walnuts.  Coleslaw only cabbage.  The pipe dream that is a Cobb salad has no toadstool upon which to rest its laurels.  Ambrosia contains sour cream, as does the nature of encouraging ability.  Ultimately, the classic Three bean salad, begs the question, who the Hell would ONLY use beans to make a salad?

Gifts, like the appetizers we only pick at, are what we decide to make of them.  We are all very well aware that 1+1=2, but anyone who has ever had sex on a regular basis knows, sometimes 1+1 means you have to pee on a stick and panic for  5 minutes.  Einstein taught us this, he called it Relativity.  It is upon some of these very basic principles that men and women like Stephen Hawking have re-invented how we see the modern world, Thanks to him we now have new and more varied things we can do with our urine.  
We write our names in the snow that is civilization  and so create a new and pissier future for our progeny.  Our genius and bladders help mark the path of destiny.  We wet the appetites of society with industry and plumb our potential with the crap our ancestors left for us.  We hope to be flush, while avoiding the septic tank fullness that makes us all seek refuge in politics.

A great man said, "we stand on the shoulders of giants".  Anyone who has been to a rock concert is grateful for those shoulders and the boob flashing women who sit on them.  When a politician sits we know at least he can't bend us over his desk, and we find comfort.  When a politician takes a stand we wonder who he is going to get behind, and what bed they will share.   When a politician makes a promise, he/she prepares us to live with disappointment. 
In much the same way as we invented insane asylums and prisons, we invented politics to protect us. Politicians are a shining example of society solving the problem of what to do with people who have little or no idea of how to fit into society.  The gift they give to us is a cautionary tale.  An epic of greed, betrayal and incompetence that reminds us there are easier ways to be assh*les.  

So, enjoy your crap, use it to grow, and just remember, when you get that fecal feeling and you think there is no hope... there's always someplace you can share your sh*t and be somebody.  Just remember to wash your hands.  

DaBuoy

50 Shades of OY VEY

If we live in a world that invites us all to have sex, yet only lets us look at porn, I figured I'd sell the bucket and join the flag bearers.  I will not only be a purveyor of porn and the like, I will take a modern work ethic and get dirty with it.  I will join the mental masturbation of modern masses into a string of words and sentences that will tug at their genitalia and give CPR to their nipples.  I welcome you to the first notations of the fictional new non-existent book, 50 Shades of OY VEY.  A creation of the entity known as Meet Rabbits


The men volleyed insults about sexual gormandizing and

crooned like songbirds as she approached. The branches of 

family trees long since dormant wavered nervously as she strode 

forth with the abandon of a schoolgirl who had known pleasures 

and losses in equal measure. Only the presence of courage, luck, 

and bravado would turn the tide of current favour, and like the 

lipstick she refused to wear, they were sadly lacking.

 At a Local "Men's drinking establishment" (meet rabbits)

Would that the whalebone of her corset held so true a

course as the blood pulsing within her nether regions. 

Each drop promising to leave her bereft of moist 

sanity, yet so easily replaced by the heat of each 

embrace. Lips pressed upon each other, insistent that 

the heights reached could only consume them and 

build hostility and illicit stares from the crowd.

Later that day... 

...and when he looked at the grace of her countenance, he was

consumed by a passion that did grow a husbandly bulge in his coin

purse.

can porn replace love... of course it can.  and a horse can replace a helicopter... briefly.  The important thing to remember is that to do so is to disrespect all horses who work in the porn industry.  They are the glue that holds the money shot together.  They are the MEAT in the kibble of desire.  They are the mane stay of our life's blood.  Feed your Love a carrot, sure, perhaps even a sugar-cube, but remember - NOTHING replaces good old fashioned foreplay.. or is that whores-play...  (can I get a Fluffer on the set, please)

Dabuoy

First kiss again

I met this young girl at a bar, and she says to me, "you write poetry, how hard can it be for you to write song lyrics.".
  Admittedly at the time, there was drinking, kissing and a VERY disproportionate flow of blood to places other than the part of the brain that warns against these things, but I thought - at the age of 45, I have very few virgin experiences left and this might just be one of them.  Sure I have rhythm and music, but was she right?  Was something else lacking?
It was then we decided to create a band known as Meet Rabbits...
After meeting again, and seeing each other naked, I told her I would see if I could write a song lyric of the ilk that kids groove on today.  I wrote several versions of Sugar,Sugar, I'm a believer, and I am a Lineman for the County, before finally creating the word salad that appears below.
So NOW with a heavy hand, and slightly sore junk...

The Lucky One

I only left a little scar

No one will hardly notice

Simply apply the make-up 

and smile like a clown

A little lip and lifeless

You could be dull and grey

cover up the truth and live as if,

you never age

I remember a ghost of a hand

where only my wrist is

and I'm not sure if the blood on the floor is mine

Was that a knife

a gun

a bomb

or did you just think that about me

Actions speak louder than words

Fear speaks LOUDEST of all

Can you see the tears of joy

behind the sorrow...

at least we have tomorrow

Chorus

All I wanted was Everything

you could only give me love

All I needed was Everything

you could only hold my hand

I gave you LOVE

and you kept asking me for EVERYTHING

Dabuoy

ADDICTION

Standing in

a phone booth

The numbers 

sound the same

A dial tone

A breath

A touch

To hear your voice 

again

I want to RIP

 my clothes off

I want to

change my ways

I need to leave

I need to fly

I need to know

you understand

Standing in

a phone booth

my fingers 

do a dance

for a call

that doesn't come

I can see

through you

I can soar

above you

I can live

without you

Dabuoy

This Isn't My Hat...

Every cool job has a hat.  Astronauts, firefighters, high paid prostitutes, these are all professions requiring complicated headgear. As children we dream of finding the perfect chapeau.  We fill our days and nights trying on the cranial haberdash of our parents and peers.  We grow up and begin to see that we are more than the contents of our hair bucket.  We are in fact a body of work to be considered.  Why then the ubiquitous nature of the baseball cap?  Where now the fedora, boater and beanie of better days?  Is the ghost of the millinery as dead as the dreams we once wore under his brim.

When I was little I was told the hat I wore defined me.  I was a Construction worker because I wore a hardhat.  I was a soldier because I wore a helmet.  I was funny because I wore my Mother's Easter bonnet all summer.  I had a beanie with a propeller, not because I dreamt of flight, but mostly because I kept trying to talk the neighbour kid into jumping from his roof.  The cowl of our formative years shaped our play and helped us interpret our desires.  To this very day I have a deerstalker hanging from my wall.  A reminder of my love for Sherlock Holmes and that with the right hat, you can cause a girl to lose interest almost instantly.  Only by donning varied and decidedly different hats in my youth, could I realise now, how hard it is to find a hat that doesn't make my other body parts look small.

The baseball cap represents many things, catching, pitching, getting to hit things with a bat, but the most poignant of all these is how it represents youth and promised dreams.  A pro-ball player stands among team mates, carrying on his shoulders distant ideals and fantasies.  The baseball player starts as rookie and blossoms until he is sidelined, traded, or forced to open a theme restaurant.  Each slide is a stirring of the dirt of our desires.  Each pickle and balk is a dance with failure and success.  Each stolen base is a chance at getting home and having sex with a woman who likes athletes.  The baseball cap embodies our defeats and victories, easily replaced yet always intrinsic to our existence.

It used to be you could tell a Man or Lady of distinction by their tam or stove pipe.  If you could afford to wear something dead on your noggin you were head and shoulders above others.  Ann Boleyn might have lived longer if she had sought more than a crown.  Perhaps the theatre patrons would have helped Abe Lincoln if he hadn't worn a hat that blocked the view of others. Marie Antoinette sporting wig of Twinkies and Ho-Ho's could not have fared any worse.  It would seem the fancier the lid, the worse the things you did.

I have a wall covered in hats.  Some I wear daily, while others I gaze upon as a reminder of jobs undone and unwanted.  Mostly I know, whatever mantle I choose, the heart fires of my own pleasure will provide the warming love that covers me at both ends.

DaBuoy

I Held A Grudge Today...

I held a grudge today...

I held it gentle

as a baby

Cooing

All the while

I held a grudge today...

I traced my love

Upon its furrowed 

Brow

and giggled

I held a grudge today...

I nursed it

I burped it

I changed it

I learnt from it

I held a grudge today...

I taught it to hunt

I taught it to protect

I taught it Respect

I taught it to Love

I held a grudge today...

It called me 'MOM'

DaBuoy

Insomnia - in verse

2AM

hits

and sleep

Is a Miss

Get Lost

In Lies

watching them do

THE

Infomercial Boogie 

Ahh Bra

Insanity

Fit

Veggie

Smooth Ease

NoNo

hair-free

NOTHING

RHYMES

when sleep

Is Lost

How much now?

Pay

The Cost

Losing

WEIGHT

While Maury 

Snoozes

Slumber

ME

Is all

I lose is

Where Are You Going...?

Sex is destiny.  We came from, and continue to come back to the same conclusion.  Our sex lives chart the flow of our futures.  We ooze our desired dreams and drip with the possibilities of dalliances yet to be. Social intercourse dictates our actions as it thrusts forward our advances to the ultimate goal.  If it weren't for nudity and friction, I wouldn't be writing this.  This is a fact of life.

A man's existence is based on accomplishment and the accumulation of things that make him comfortable. 

Men collect experience the same way a prostitute gathers clientele. We wear our badges of distinction on everything we do.  Spotty stains of achievement cling to us and invite prospective paramours.  Varsity letters scream of camaraderie and male bonding.  The savoury delight of men sharing action-packed moments on the sports field.  The fluid poetry of athleticism, flexing muscle and stretching towards ultimate reward.  Spectators looking on, drooling about 'stats' and exalting with each point scored.  All of us living for the pat on the ass that says, "you have spunk, kid".

As a man, I dream of a 'Jiffy Lube' life.  As needed, soothing moistness is applied to all my ball joints, in a quick and efficient manner, as often as necessary and as factory warranty allows.  Smiling politely as someone busily works beneath us, leaving us both better for the experience and satisfied with the servicing.  Best of all we know no one will steal our wallets or complain about our ride being inferior. 

I was told I was a 'love child', (I have no doubt a certain amount of chemical enhancement might have been involved).   This means, my parents were so hot for each other's bodies, they couldn't wait to legally formalise the agreement.   I also know whatever hunger, hatred, or love there was, I am grateful for this unplanned parenthood.  Rash as they may have been, I am the satisfaction of a libidinous itch.  A burning desire was quenched with the fervent heat of passion, and consumed with relish.

Ultimately, the question remains.  Is sex the pulsing, driving, lust powered engine that spins the wheels of our free will... or are we all just screwing around?

DaBuoy

Who Are You Again...?

Name calling is the world's oldest pastime.  We are compelled to label things.  Humans even have people whose career and chosen profession is telling others what they are.  I have noticed that certain of the monikers they have fashioned have come and gone the way of the 'toe sock' and 'rainbow suspenders'.  The most tragic of these extinctions is the loss of certain once familiar and comforting names for people.  We are entering a drought of  namesakes, and the repercussions are yet to be truly realised.

When I was growing up, I lived in a predominantly 'white' neighbourhood.  It was peopled with Irish, Scottish, Italian, Anglican, Catholic, and 'Canadian' folk.  I was known as the 'brown kid', my origins muddied by time and a people who travelled.  Some might say I am descended from 'Gypsies'.  I would like to think they were pirates and explorers.  I was told I was better at sports because of my higher levels of melanin.  Teachers warned me I would probably be above average, (my people usually are), but that I would never be as good as the Asians when it came to math and science.  Their experiences gave them the self-assured notion they could predict my future as accurately as a pendulum held over a pregnant woman's belly. 

I lived with that nomenclature for a while and learnt several important facts.
1- I suck at sports
2- There are Asians in the world who hate science and can't add
3- Those people were 'assholes'

Of the the tags they fasten to our feats as we live our lives, most cease to apply after a while.  There was a time in all our lives when the only handle that could hold us all was that we were, 'pooping, puking, gurgling, fussy, bundles of joy'.  Most of us are now merely bundles of joy and only passingly resemble the other sobriquets on long weekends and holiday celebrations.  As with all signage, they are only as good as the landmarks they represent.  Oakville must have trees.  Iceland must have snow.  England must have 'eng'.

 It is today I cast a flare to the heavens and hope you heed my warning.  Certain names are becoming scarce.  I looked about for a Hilda and found none.  The world was bereft of 'Iris's and 'Clara's.  I had an 'uncle' Adolphe I was very fond of.  Is there an entire generation who will never know a Dolph other than Lundgren?  Irving and Stanley are now becoming lost ideas.  Mabel and Bertha are echoes of a culture that may already not exist. 

I am a Robin.  A wanderer who is safe and predictable.  I am fierce and loyal.  I avoid commitment in favour of warmer climes.  I am not a Bob nor am I a Robbie.  My friends remind me of this constantly.  Names help us define ourselves.  We lean against them and prop them up.  They inspire us and mock us.  They help us decode our dreams and write our destinies.   There are those who consider them a brand, seared into our souls.  Be they epithets or epitaphs, what fate awaits us Tiffany, Dakota?

DaBuoy

Spotting The Norwegian Bachelor

Spring is fast approaching and the skies are filled with the flutter and flap of plumage.  Lately, however, a new creature has been seen walking amongst us.  Weaving amongst the slowly strolling undead, and stepping lightly through the traffic of endless minutiae, the Norwegian Bachelor brings a song of home and hearth.

Normally socially averse to interaction, warm weather has him seeking the commonality of community whilst respectfully declining the lures of the mundane.  A contradiction of civility and feral tendencies, he is often heard in the wee hours lamenting a past he seldom talks about.

Rumours as to his true nature abound, however the reality of his flight is obvious.  The life experience that has enabled him to take wing and thrive makes for a solitary soul, always searching and seldom desiring other than what he already possesses.

The feeding habits of the Norwegian Bachelor are as systematically chaotic as his mating rituals and vary from individual to individual.  All that is known for certain is that each encounter is deeply satisfying and leads to commitment avoidance behaviours.

Though once common throughout North America, sightings of the Bachelor are becoming infrequent and some anthropologists fear, the once verdant fields that they call 'habitat' may be insufficient to sustain the current population.

If you meet a Norwegian Bachelor, encourage his idiosyncrasies and remember to account for his nesting instincts.  You will not be disappointed.

DaBuoy