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ROUTINES by Tom Wayman

ROUTINES by Tom Wayman, read by Victor Enns, with permission  

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STARTING AGAIN by Tom Wayman

By Tom Wayman, with permission read by Victor Enns Photo Credit: Jeremy Addington  Canadian Poetry Online  

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Body & Soul

I’m listening to Chris Potter’s version of “Body & Soul,” first given life on October 11th 1939, by Coleman Hawkins whose improvised solo comprised most of the 3:00 minute take, soon to be a hit. That’s right! The first jazz hit, still released on a 78rpm disk. Unheard of! Two music books arrived yesterday including

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New Year’s Eve 2020

“Wait Now” written and read by Victor Enns New Years Eve 2020

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FOR THE YEAR THAT WAS

Published today in Jerry Jazz Musician (Online, Portland Oregon)  in response to a quick call for a piece of music and some words about how it helped get us through 2020. THERE IS TOO MUCH DEATH A new poem by Victor Enns Time does not care whether it’s Covid-19 Or covert militias that kill, funerals

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A DIALOGUE

God writing the Bible As told to Nebbish the first Phoenician God was sure he had a book in him. He wanted advice, in moments of self doubt he felt like an imposter, and needed reassurance and some help with his selling um spelling  and grammar.  They were very new. God:                    Hey Nebbish, come

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MURRAY TOEWS AND LETTERS D, E, F

Thanks to donors I’ve been able to contract Murray Toews as Art Director for video casts D, E, F, (for episodes 4, 5 and 6 if you prefer counting) by the Mad Phoenician, namely, me. A single  letter from my Abject Alphabet launches  up to seven different elements, running 10-11 minutes an episode  in total.

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Last Night I Dreamed I Was Two-Faced

Last night I dreamed I was a reluctant lieutenant  in the Russian Army in Moscow in WW2. I was a two sided personality, a toady that always seemed to comply with every order to give me latitude to steal the art works that were being “saved” from cities under siege. Nobody really knew what I

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RIDDLE ME

Published: October 4, 2018 | Edit Published in Transition 2009 like a wet dahlia in the rain like the trace of a purple felt marker like hammers hitting the strings of a badly tuned piano like the echo of boots stomping downstairs as if it mattered like a no account derelict with an open hand

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BLUES IN THE WATERFRONT

A forgettable day, except for knocking my coffee flying. Unrelated. Probably need to purge my cache.Unrelated. My kitchen smells like a kitchen back in the day; pork chops, potatoes, carrots. Related. A pear for desert, the exception. Unrelated. No soup today. Listening to Holger Peterson CBC Blues show. Related. The blues I write are too

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