About Harry:  A member of Words Aloud poetry collective, the Headwaters Writers Guild, Writers Ink Alton, and Associate Member of the League of Canadian Poets, Harry is the author of five books, including poetry, novels and short stories. He has written and produced five spoken word audio CDs, and will be publishing his third novel THE AUROCH UNBOUND in the spring. Harry’s books and CDs are available at He lives in Caledon, Ontario.


Where Is Our Howl
(for Allen Ginsberg)

in this digitized punch drunk
parched and pixilated webcast of a dream world
where is our Howl
our jesters outing bare-assed kings
who’d eat our hearts for hors d’oeuvres
fling the leftovers into toxic rivers

where is our Howl
our shape-shifting shrieks
our screeching vultures
wheeling through the machinery of night
our fight or die hips belted with clips
filled with killer queries
our Moloch hunters
the connectors
the love junkies immune to IED’s
buried in the sands of samadhi

where is our Howl
our driving beat jazzed with horizons
songs that turn data-drugged minds away from cranked-up cities
away from who gives a shit
and where is our anthem for peace
John and Yoko dans une chambre Quebecoise
folded into the question mark of each other
naked in the pool
sitting seiza in the matrix
goin’ down the road like a tripped-out fool
and all we are saying

is that we are mad as hell and we’re not going to take it anymore
where is our hundredth monkey in the Octagon
choking out Hector ‘The Doomsayer’ Crivo
where is our chance for atonement
for letting down a generation
born into 9/11 and Rwanda
fed cyberfood and cyberthought
logo-dressed by corporate hacks
and where is our chance to admit that we failed you
in our acts of blindness

where is our Howl
our penultimate fate sluicing down concrete culverts
sentences dancing dangerous in air
words to inspire an unbending will
to galvanize steely truth
to incite the flare of incendiary devices
tossed under the body of the Beast
as it slouches towards Midnight
dragging our souls like tin cans
behind a funeral car’s farting buttocks?

where is our Howl
our prayer for a new millennium
our secret wish incanted from cliff tops
decanted into the sacred chalice
evolutionary Soma
proto-cultural psilocybin
the high so high that down is up
and the lies of the governors
float away like milkweed puffs
on the winds of change

where is our Howl
the new language that crouches in the cracks
like Nietzschean ninjas in the bush
waiting to drop onto muscled backs
and with a silent flick of blade
cut throats bloated with contempt
bury them hide the tracks

where is our burn-song
our take back die Nacht der Langen Messer
the one key moment
the play of ideas in the lock
that unhexes and dezombifies
that shows us that we could be
as brilliant as whales
as bee hives
as turtles
as wise
as owls
and as relentless in the hunt

where is our Howl 
our now-song bleeding red
our heart-sick warriors sacking another Rome
our artists making millions
while marketeers beg for bread
on the craven streets inside their iphones
and those who pass by the hungry
suddenly lose their looks
and the world is seen for what it is
a wall of pretty anaesthetizing meat hooks

where is our Howl
our here is what is
our migration-ready wings
buzzing like reeds in a sax crazy bebop band
where is our music, the new currency
our quality of mercy
our well of good will
and who will stand up
and speak for the Moon goddess
grow a Jewish beat poet beard
wear androgynous sandals
become the black wolf swaying
to the swoon of civilization’s discontent
take Gaia’s battered face in his hands
kiss her full on the mouth
make love to her voluptuous lands
and bray through her orgasm
into the concupiscent darkness of our times   

harry posner