Rosy Cheeks in Times of War

golden goodness,
ripe corn,
screaming through fields,
wind streaming through hair,
through fingers;
we run and we scream
and we steal
(a silent overview in the divisions of our human soul.)

frisking with you,
young sapling,
good envy;
i will pluck you,
and breathe you,
fresh myself with you,
raping and reaping.

fresh youth,
great blue,
your blaze and vitality,
your fear,
your graceful form,
(your sense of my sinister smile.)

you are gorgeous:
snapped in grey,
snapped in mud,
snapped in blood;
and you are beautiful
despite unkemptness and tatters,
(in spite of the ill-fitting),

queer
and in blood
but
beautiful.

Resting

You sit,
rather patiently might I add.
Your eyes are searching, rather patiently.
At least here, if nothing else,
you have let me see your sadness.
You cock your head and stare,

rather patiently, perhaps wondering,
if there is something in of me to settle
something restless in of you.
Have I mentioned I am here for resting?

You are beside me,
and you are patient as you let, the contours
of my body, settle over yours.
Your tall and lanky yours.
You sit, with patience in your eyes,
and cup my hands in yours, and rest my body
with your hands, your arms, your breathing.
Your patience.

Two different worlds,
for resting.

************

"You can't sleep eh?"
And suddenly I can't sleep at all.
Didn't know you were so aware.

Why am I dreaming,
of my mother,
here?

"You can't sleep eh?"
I didn't know you noticed.

Sticking my Tongue Out in your Direction

coffee and cigarettes,
ok, i get it.
you are a tortured, gorgeous girl,
with a soul so beautiful
that it is snapped in black and white.

i am in colour, ok?
and i have skinny legs in my jeans,
because i learned that they were cool,
long before everyone here did.
do you get it?
i am original and i should be
more treasured than you.

coffee and cigarettes, ok.
and seven jeans and fidelities.
don't you see the contradiction
in the beauty you claim to be?

i am in my citizens
and my rock and republics
and i made them cool long before
the world saw them that way.
i am original ok?

you cut yourself open,
and you bleed,
and then you look to the side,
to see if anyone is noticing.
i get it ok,
you live off your inadequacies,
you want to live on stage.

come and get it ok,
because i am just the same as you,
and maybe even better.

Not Like You

my gums hurt
and i'm scared i'll end up like you mom

your world is so muddled
and you can't even tell
but i can see over your head

all you wanted was love
all you wanted was a family
and then you got it
and then you got it

and all i want is a perfect balance of my face at both ends

Such a Stupid Boy

Shut up boy.
I didn't expect to see you here,
Hidden still amongst the crowd.
We stop and we pivot,
And we talk.

Be quiet boy,
I didn't know you wanted
Something more from me,
"Are you going to class?",
"No I am just walking in this direction for no reason".

Shut up boy,
I don't care to hear your sarcasm,
Though I love it.

And I also love
The way my body moves towards yours
Without my even trying.

Shut up and don't punch me boy,
Because you are stronger than you think,
And you may bruise my tender skin.

You are such a stupid boy:
"I like your hair", I say,
"Thanks", you say.
And you smile
And then we walk away.

You are such a stupid boy,
And its so stupid that I love you.

Rainy Days and Bakhtin

god i love the rain today.
i should be thinking about Bakhtin,
and all things heteroglossic,
but instead i am thinking
of you and me
and this room,
and everything we could create here.
i am thinking
of getting out of here,
and not having to be someone
on the street
because today it is slippery
and today it is paved
with people whose heads are down.
and they will not see me
whether they are looking or not
because the wind will pull their
eyes in other directions.
i am thinking of deadlines,
and of how i will make them,
and of how i have ever made them.

i am thinking of kingston bars,
packed yet lonely,
where there is noone i can trust,
and i wonder if i can trust you
or if i ever will.
i am thinking of you
being present far more often
than i assumed you would be,
and of why you do not want me.
god i love the rain today
because it allows me to set aside
my sadness,
or at least blend it with the background
here.

the voices here are endless,
and they stream in and out
of my words,
and Bakhtin,
he would oppose me,
because this is not unitary as it should be,
this is heteroglossic.
and i say,
there are many examples of this here,
and in other places,
just as there are example of sadness
in all the strangers on the street,
in all the people bowing their heads,
and reflecting their soul in the weather.
but then again we have learned to bare it,
and we have learned to live through it,
because in a place like this,
we don't have a choice either way.

NOVEMBER 16, GOODNESS GRACIOUS

there are drops on the window.
they are small and many,
and i can see that they are wet,
and that if i were to wipe my hand
across them
they would smear across the pane.
they distract my eyes
for some time,
before i notice the storm
about to brew in the background.
i am nervous about going outside,
about fulfilling this obligation
this morning at 6:47 am.
it really is an obligation,
you know,
because i don't know
if i'd survive without it.
the tree limbs outside are long and skeletal,
and they stand stark against the sky,
which now that i notice it
is not a normal stormy sky at all.
it is lavender,
i was going to say another colour,
but it is lavender,
the colour of my best friend's
favourite flower,
that used to grow in my backyard
(or was it the neighbour's backyard?
either way, i thought the tree was mine).
it is strange that lavender,
something so peaceful
could mean something so dangerous.
this room is white,
and it is stark like the tree,
but in a different way
because it is bleak.
and it feels almost medicinal.
my teeth look white in the mirror
and i am pleased,
because they must be white
if they match the colour of these walls,
and that means the money i spent
on whitening products must be working.
i almost feel like i am naked,
about to feel the spitting of hot water
against my hallowed skin
but then i remember these obligations.
your daddy is running out of money
because he has a sickness
that is soaking through his limbs,
saturated in his body like the drops on the window.
what would he say if he were here?
what would he think?
he would think,
this room is hollow,
and so am i,
and this room has little comfort
to offer,
and he would not think
of his teeth against the wall.
when i walk outside,
expecting the wind to throw me aside,
and the storm to grab my throat,
holding back the breaths i want to make,
i am thrown aside instead
by the stillness of the morning,
and the brightness of the stormy sky,
lighting my way
even though it is only 6:53 am.

You Come to My Door

You and your guitar,
You and your music,
If only they knew me.

I am a child.
I am sad and disjointed;
Small and lost
Because I don’t have someone
To guide me,
Or tell me what to do.
I cannot form real thoughts
(Just crappy sentences
Says the adult beside me.)
I have read the words on the page,
And I love them
Because I cannot form real thought,
And I am crappy.v
Strange and beautiful women*
And words and words.

And this is here and this is now
And all I want
Is one conversation.

I am a child.
My eyes are wide,
My heart is hurting,
My hands are small and my feet are cold.
There is something somewhere,
That I should learn to do
But there is no one here to guide me.

I am a phantom
Because I am static here,
And I have no intention of leaving.
I am beautiful to you,
And invisible to you,
And I am transcending.

I am Victorian,
And I think it all the time
When I see my body in the mirror.
I am a heroine and a muse for someone else.
(My breasts would fill your hands
And they are supple.)

You come to my door:
There are roses that fill the window
Right before you enter.

I am Métis
Because I am cultivating
And my love for you is natural
And I am real.

I am Métis:
I am indigenous
And I am free and spirited
And I am terrored by this culture.

I am romantic,
With fashioned, weathered hands
And naked limbs beneath me
(And I am sad).

You come to my door
And take my street away,
And you leave.

I become iconic:
Unreal, untouched, unknowing
And hounded by the things
That tie me to this place.

“Always writing these silly words
And I won’t have a thing to say
Until you go.”

You'll hand me poetry and I'll take it
Because that’s just what I wanted.

You come to my door,
And I am gone.
(You never were a real good lover),
And I am gone.


*Reference to Katherine Mansfield’s Bliss.

The Course of Him Undone

This is him,
And he is crying and screaming,
And scratching at my back.
He is desperate
And lonely, and grasping at something,
At anything.

This is him,
And he is not happy, and he is not pure,
And he is killing me,
With every moment he does not give me,
What I want.

This is him:
Three strikes, you're out,
Three strikes and you are hanging
By what little you've got left.
Three strikes and you are dead.

When a person hangs,
You cannot be sure at first,
Whether they did it to themselves or not,
Until you find a note, or some evidence.
There is no evidence here to be found,
But there are motivations.

This is him,
And he is leaving marks on my body,
And he is wreaking havoc on my skin,
And he is suffocating me,
From above or behind.

I am stretching myself thin,
Working my body while wasting my soul.
I am losing feeling in my fingers,
I am losing breath, and I cannot tell
If i put me here or not,
But I am hanging,
And there is no turning back now.

And him,
He is wandering,
And he is trying to make sense of things,
That he finds sad.
And he will cry
And he will look with worried eyes,
When he discovers what has been done,
When he discovers, where I come from.

My Inspiration for this Space

what sort of work do i have hidden away that compares to you and your beauty?
what sort of lies can i make into truths today.

i thought that i was something, someone hidden behind this rubble i call home.
i thought there was someone somewhere that knew where i was coming from.
the air in this room is heavy,
and it holds me under sheets long after you are gone.
it holds me in positions i once saw you in,
curled and calm, sprawled and grabbing,
and i've never slept so well since you slept beside me here.
(i've never slept so well).
and today in the heat, under the weight of it all
i slept and i dreamt of things that have never happened,
of things that i don't ever want to happen.
you pouring things on me, and then leaving,
right after life was perfect.
and you have poured yourself on me since the second that we met,
and i have appreciated your goodness
and your catering to my needs
and your calling this a beautiful day,
and me thinking it while you said it.
and i have forgotten you the second you have left.
but now you are here whether i am or not,
and you have no intention of leaving, at least not for the next couple of months
(though you told me once that you missed living out your dreams);
and i have every intention of making this last,
even if it is just me making goodness out of lies again.

i don't want to be you, i swear, but there are things that you are that i am too;
there are places you have been that i have experienced;
there are words on your pages that i know are on my own.
how do i compare to you,
(you and of course your beauty).