she weaves her face around a nose
protruding like a sundial
and lips dance like fat gypsies
and fingers dressed in golden rings
flicker on the tethers of love,
stealing kisses.
age again
today is the day before my 31st birthday, or the first day of my 32nd year.
its a grey day outside and bits of rain spatter about
the trees are garish in their true behavior.
i am happy to report, to those who request
that my mood now is a somber and quiet as the day i was born.
ask my mom about it.
i will continue with my duties
the observation of birds
the dulling of bristles
the whisper of romance
the chopped rhythm of a drunk poet.
the night i moved to Cholet.
it had been a week full of dust in Alegia
though it felt like a month or more.
i slept on the old mattress, that i'm sure ached with fleas
and i hadn't experienced allergies before this
and it was early in july and i had nearly succumbed to heat stroke in Seville the week before.
though here now, i loved this little goat farm in the basque hillside
Txindoki peering at us from the distance
here
we sat in the garden and ate nasturtium flowers.
i know i wanted to be in paris, for god knows what reason, depression probably
but it was the hay fever and fleas which drove me back to France.
so we left late in the night, they put me in the back of the van and i sat quietly
and i slept.
we passed through bordeaux in the early hours on the morning
i could taste the french country side and dreamed of bathing in a tub of wine
we sipped passed Cognac and La Rochelle sank into the sea of darkness as we left the night sky.
there were many traffic circles and the grasses of the roadside wondered of my soles,
i waved to them from my vinyl seat.
there was an invite to lunch and a table full of french amenities
i ate and thought of trains and cigarettes and dark liquid
they left me in town
and i wish i could remember our goodbye,
but all i see are the streets of Cholet.
poetry for the winged.
there is a dead fly on the studio floor.
wednesday song. 4/22/15
she enjoyed her old age
she took pictures of it and sent them to her friends
she fed it with smiles and kisses
and when she went to bed at night she tucked her old age into bed next to her.
and dreamed to wake up with it the next day.
poetry for the branches. 4/21/15
when the trees dance
when the leaves flip around on the ends of their branches
the branches that swing about bending at the nodes
when the trees dance like this
i know myself to be one.
a tree that shakes from the tremors of mystery
my branches are boneless arms caught in an infinite updraft
yet my leaves will only leave me with the change of season
and in the winter my branches sag to the ground, like worn out knees.
there are corns which grow from my feet
i call them my hopeless roots and i drag my feet to the store to buy cream.
poetry for the loner 4/17/15 9:30 am
it seems that words came stronger and with little searching
sitting in front of that kitchen window,
the house next door, peering back at me.
how often can i think about eggs and the morning thickness?
everyday.
do i miss it?
that small table i built, patchy and wild
i had to hold it down with my greasy elbows
with the sun trying to burn holes in my eyes.
to hunger, to lust, and envy. poetry for the listener. 4/16/15
the spindle that connects one leg of my chair to the other creaks
i can feel my hip bones shift as i raise one leg over the other
its not as early anymore, but i try to find time to listen.
my neighbours commute to work,
bike chains turn
car engines heat up and stereos repeat news stories and agonizing chart toppers from the past.
i am listening though.
for the wiz of the pigeon's vinyl wings
for the slip of the hummingbirds tongue
for the buzz of bees and the whisper in trees
i am listening for the cat, licking its silent paws
his eyes who mimic, watching the sparrows hop between lilac leaves.
the forest is empty.
a poem for today. 4/15/15
when we stomp around like large beasts in the morning
i think about my friend who has size 10 feet and wears them like a 13.
every inch of his foot meets the ground in one step and we know
its time to be awake, or disgruntled.
existence as futile.
what could have been a space to be filled with questioning
like these little infections:
but why? and how? where to now? and for what cause?
i'm sorry world, i will never understand you
i never find ease in being within you.
so to vision, i give my life.
with observation, i am drugged.
with color, i am fulfilled
and with distortion i am relieved.
i am thankful to the hog, from his hair to his hooves
crust
white flowers are stunted, one day more, on the cherry tree that stares at me through the kitchen window.
grey mounds in the sky
django rings through my eggs which take the shapes of springs blossom and i wade into a leery mug.
we occupy the table and i see you lay across of it.
hoho, a merry fantasy. yet each movement of your tongue splashes over a syrup of soft words and i can't shake my eyes from the beauty mark on your lip. we think of marilyn and there is a room for sadness on this rock which slowly drifts away from the continental pulse.
you give me a smile and i give you bread and we chew on the sweet and brittle crust.
again
may 21.st 2011
sitting on the beach on the east coast of canada
waiting for an interview with the most important man in the world
one thought
i am the most dynamic person on this beach
there is no one else here.so i chase flies
i herd them towards a pipe spewing the murphy's excrement into the sea
and they swarm into it.
ah, but the seagulls.
sitting on the wind
that is rippling with each crashing wave.
that is where i will go. . .
selah.
10:01
the chemical imbalance which causes this ongoing ambivalence
which to say is as enjoyable and comparable to sitting on a throne.
here we are.
within a moment as pure as defecation i rise to greet another day, which may or may not be of any importance, but it's here and we slide through it.
. . .
after a lengthy conversation, some nonsensical news from north america and a walk to the beach, i realize that everything written before and after this will be perfectly true and drivel bullshit.
selah.
water drawn.
to who wrote a pop song
one in the nest.
a small heart beat and the warmth of down
why did you paint birds standing on trees?
birds eating the seeds
who is jealous of flight?
oh to see the pigeon fly
one who glides with wings pointed to the heavens
anticipation of the descent, man mocks the creatures of the sky.
try to rise before the sun and you will find the song more beautiful than thin air.
sheets of layers
aha!
i'v learned to hate my bed. i can't find rest there.
when i get in, i become aware of distance.
my arms are weak. they tremble.
and a room so dull, the entering sun feels blue.
i hate my bed
i hate my bed because it lacks a spray of colour, it lacks the red of your warmed cheek and the green speckles that hide in your eyes. i hate my bed because its in a room with walls that aren't draped with your pictures, those happy, those sad.
i move from my bed, my feet find a floor that seems brown with wood, but i fear its just dead plastic.
i love plastic, when it acts like itself, sharp and pretty, out of place on a beach like a fugitive flower.
outside my door i can look back into my room at my dead bed, pretending to float on its fake floor, wanting to be pretty, its blankets and sheets in a mound of folds and wrinkles.
i feel sad for my bed so i move closer to it, i touch where i had lain, just moments before
i see my pillow with a slight indent and i want my head to fill it. i put myself back into my bed, which i don't feel so sour towards and with my head sunk into the pillow i close my eyes and dream about a bed with sheets so white, they become any colour we want, i dream of a bed so warm in a room so full of light that the blue rain clouds outside shine with hopes of turning to a red and a pink that will find our walls as the sky fills with the yellow of a sun that climbs through our bedroom window so it too can lay in bed with us.
i loved my bed, but i left it a few hours ago.
i hate my clothes...
just kidding.
the tongue.
i'd like to compare the joy of food
i'd like to compare it to the feeling i get when i see my cousin emotionally volcanic in the midst of an old growth rain forest, his eyes shining and wet, reflecting that power and presence of thriving sylvan life.
there is a nourishment, in feeding from another's experience, be it fresh and true.
there is a joy in sharing, fearlessly, as the twinkle from a distant sun, which shows itself in the night sky
as old as light itself.
simplicity and with peace
i'd like to think about a new hat
i'd like to run from a bear, and do well
to have food and to walk where i need to get to.
i would like it if you had ease with what i wanted to do
and did with ease what you wanted to do.
i'd like to make love outside, then climb a tree and look to where my thoughts go.
i'd like to live as a mammal, with a nice hat.
why can't i?
more on longing. for those who have not grown tired.
to watch, as you walk out of the desert
which was supposedly dry before we came.
to feel the mud
smeared under eyes, so constant with tears, not happy nor sad.
this mud could live forever
you, with this mud on your hands, you vanish
a mirage?
the mind could not produce such a beautiful hallucination
i come out of hiding now, and to a sky so full of god, i pray.
only to be as close as to feel like mud.
addiction adoption.
it is uncommon to try to write something at this hour, 11:18 am on friday when the air has more water in it than the sea, when those with better judgement have been up most the night and are now, still asleep.
but i have a reason for my awakening each day.
coffee
coffee coffee
coffee coffee coffee coffee coffee
coffee coffee coffee coffee.
coffee.
coffee.
oooohh " he loves his coffee" you'll say with a smile. oh and how much you love it too, "ah" you'll say, "i do love my coffee too, i'v gotta have it. every morning, everyday. three in the morning and one every hour or so. mmmmmmmmm, coffee"
maybe you like to drink it, with a cigarette, yes, keeps you regular hmmm? or you'll have it after dinner with some chocolate. espresso, americano, latte, cafe au lait, and all this other fandanglement.
so i'v decided to start my day with a glass of whiskey, keeps me sharp.
whiskey whiskey whiskey whiskey!
scotch, rye, hooch, bourbon
bourbon bourbon bourbon.
bourbone!
mmmm
whiskey. and tomorrow rum.
goes well with a cigarette. keeps me regular. every day every hour and sometimes i'll wake up and have a quick snap to keep the nice dreams moving.
hell, i even put it in my coffee.
"ooooooh" we'll all say, lips pursed "he's an alcoholic. "
en plus de
early night, we set fire to the christmas tree and my hands are swollen. i can't remember what time it happened but lightfoot put me to sleep on the couch as the fire crackled on. i know when i woke up there was dough in the kitchen and goulash in my mouth. as far as feeling goes i'm no where further now than i was last year at this time and still pondering if i could get my skull through the gyprock. all the heartache and headache aside, there are paintings on my floor from the 5 year hunger and i miss the ones whom i love, and myself. maybe the only true happiness will come from standing on the side of the road in ontario, or playing cribbage on a picnic table beside the great lakes. makes me want to eat rotten cabbage and let the dog lick my face. someone inside of me still lives in the eastern townships and is in love with the photographer, but for every reason at all i am laying awake at 5 am on the western tip of culture thinking about the women who have signed a lease in my brain and moved out before finding a sublet. nobody is happy and who is making love? i mean not just fucking..
i'm in love with you, you know it, i know it and the cat seems to not give a shit, but he rubs his back against my calves and i wonder why, maybe he to, sees an easy target.
just wanted to add, kerouac may have had his day with handsomeness, and off beat "poetry" but he was a dick and died with a bottle in his hand, why? tell yourself why, you know, it's modern art. unhappiness, no, its not that, but the state of everything, i'm fine you know, everything is fine, think about yourself.
a poem for wednesday. god save us.