Soggy, wet, broke and homeless - Vancouver is a poverty paradise...

The BC Liquor Store has a new policy.

No busking.

For centuries musicians have made a living outside of drinking establishments.


But to these people
a hard working musician
fingers sore from playing

is just another bum
begging.

I do not beg.
Playing music is a form of work

and this is a policy of

NIMBY


It's not like anyone cares
It's not like anyone reads this

ranting of a starving madman

smelly and dirty

The extra can of dog food is starting to look good to me....

The Butcher's Block

The Butcher's Block
- C. Taylor

"Go on then,
tell me the story,

show me the poem...”

your eyes say,
challenging,
as they speed along
looking, hurriedly,
for the "good" parts.

When you are faced
with the glaring nakedness
of malicious acts
you will doubtless turn away
as most pious souls
usually do,

equating the Truth,
the description of evil
with the evil itself.

And who am I ?

Mongrel man,
slum-house dweller,

who thinks,
who dares to think

he can write Truths ?

You have surmised,
in this quickly scanning fashion,
that this poet,
filthy and poor,

is not going to tell you

of peaceful streams,
the souls of tranquil flowers,
dreamy eternal lovers,

and sweet memories of loved ones dead.

No.

on his knees as he begs

for food,
and a place to sleep,

he will tell you,
gently

what happens

on the butcher's block.

----------------------
From the book
"The Butcher's Block: Poems of Poverty" (1993)
by Chris Taylor
-------------------------

The Value of Art

The Value of Art
- C. Taylor

Art is worth nothing in our society.

Artless people scoff loudly,
to them
it is an idler's game,

shameful and useless.

The hours I spend,
the months
the planning

just little scraps

of "useless" paper.

I stand eight hours working
on a ten inch square of a ten foot work
I have planned so carefully it will take a year to finish.

My feet scream in pain
my fingers and eyes sore from the strain
of being so careful
to get it right

or I must redo it.

It is only one of many.

Yet no one believes that this is work.

I sleep awhile
eat
a bowl of rice,
some cheese,
and work on writing

I work on many books at once,
many paintings,
many songs,
carefully planning

the structure, shape.

it must be done a certain way
to communicate the "idea"

to the observer.

That communication,
transferring the concept

from the canvas, tape, page,
is my only real payment.

I will die hungry, and poor,

of that I have no doubt.

I cannot stop my work
it is my only way
to change

the world around me.

My tiny influence

might affect only a few for the better,

yet it is all I can do, so I must.

The moody notes of my saxophone,

the unryhmed words of my strange poem,

the forms of near-madness
that call from my canvas,

they instill something in you,
evoke feelings and thoughts.

These are worth more
than nothing.

----------------------
From the book
"The Butcher's Block: Poems of Poverty"
by Chris Taylor
-------------------------