Seasons Greetings

Hello dear.

I've been thinking about you. I had a family Christmas party the other evening and the love of your life showed up. You remember him, don't you? He wanted to start a business that sold the skin of the chicken on its own and then he wanted to start his own television show. He asked about you. I told him you were doing fine. We made out in my hot tub for two hours after the party died down.

I really love you dear. I do. This isn't just the alcohol speaking at all - I've been thinking about you.

The Trees, The Trees

someone stole your table!

i know, i tried to stop them but i couldn't -
i was two floors down, you know.

someone asked me why i like you -
why do i like you:

your hair is wrought dry like hair held too
long in fists and never brushed.
i can imagine what it would be like to grab your
hair in my fist and few by few twist until
it was too dry,
and if you tried to do the same to me,
i would demand you desist.

the lines in your face by your mouth which
i touch and draw squares from.
i can imagine what it would be like to take your
head in my hands and one by one kiss until
it was too dark,
and if you wasted my pale skin like that,
i would attempt to resist.

i know!
i spoke, i know.
do you remember when i spoke?
it was the last straw and you were about to fall -
i know, i know.

you left,
i know!

your eyes are like mine in these flourescent
times and i'd like to keep tall
and not staring at all search to find the resemblance
and try some until we got over the ground
and not caring
if you tried with your eyes to resist
i would attempt to insist.

you looked,
i saw!
i know!

and the trees, the trees -
do you know you're such a tease,
what is it about those god damn trees.

Pigeon Kill

just so you know the reason that i
hate you is because when i see the
glint of your skin i already
know what you will taste like.

even though my legs are tall and my foot
is strong to stomp you,
i know you could kill me -
you have a beak and i am scared of your skin.

your skin glints different colours depending
on the light and every time i discover a new colour
i hate you more.
your feathers don't even look like feathers anymore,
they look like pieces of paper painted with gloss
and metallic shimmers.
you have a beak and i know it could take my eyes out.

just so you know i hate you because i can already see
the path of your skin,
i know where you will end and still i can't control you -
when you come crossing near to me i turn and run.

even though i know you will be served on a plate when you die
i will not eat you but i will take your meat and throw it
against the wall, and even though i fear it
if i had the chance i'd take your claws and one by one
i would break the bones and one by one i would pull
the feathers from your wing and leave them on the ground.

i found you the other day, freshly shot and dead on the sidewalk
and i could not run. i saw you the other day with a puddle
of blood more red than your claws pooling around your head and
i did run -

the very thought of you dead
makes me want to revive you and kill you again,
makes me wish i was responsible for the kill.

i could have lifted you and put you
right into my mouth, i already know
how badly your skin would have tasted.

Heavy Mind

the daft one smokes her joint,
and so do i too feel the need,
the allowance for this deal -
sacrifice the mind for want of nothing,
sacrifice the thought for want of nothing -
the word means other things,
the lack of sound, lack of pounding equals sane.

i used to care for clothing but now i bear it,
wanting only the look of some trees
while i sedate my mind with the passing of the bark
into paper.

can the earth be rolled and understood,
can the matters of the earth prevail?
and if not where am i found -
you probably wondered why i am so quiet,
you probably wondered why i have nothing to say;
when we talked i wasn't right until i smoked it.

we undress and i am shocked by your bones,
i would never want to lie between your bones,
just so you know,
but still i am shocked by your breast and your chest with my legs,
and my chest and my breast with your legs,
one is perfect, and one is not -
what do the words mean?

what does it mean to care for the earth
when your foe thinks just of paper?
what does it mean to know for the earth
when you still have need of paper -
when shall we be measured and who by?

this intuition of trees, this intuition
of paper does not exist if we still try.

i'd like to take your baggage and compare
your want to mine -
did you grow up in the trees?
i will take your baggage and roll it next to mine
until the leaves become the measure of the word
and paper dies.

Characteristics of a Gifted Child

when I was twelve
my brain
was too good
so i drank
because at least
with the drunks
I could talk about something -
with the books i got bored,
eventually;
with the drunks I never
did because they gave me
something to write about.

Murder (Sorry Mother)

when I was twelve
my reflection time resulted
in a paper full of the
word H A T E
in bright red
from one corner to the other,
from the top end to the bottom,
and the entire time I wrote it
I thought of my mother.

Midland Town Docks

i know where you keep your boat,
someone told me,
someone told me you keep your boat at a dock
near my house where i live -
your boat is kept in a place near where i live
and you come here twice a year to use it.

i come from a town attracting tourists from the city
who come here to be on water that is clean
because all of the water in the city has been used;
the water has become dirty in your home
so you come to where i live twice a year
and use my water.

sort of like the way you use
my body twice a week while we
dwell not far from each other
in this cold, city town.

in the tourist town where i grew up
people seperate depending on the time of year -
in the summer people come into the streets
and work their trades,
in the winter they hide in their homes
leaving the streets to freeze over -
every so often some members come out and not
seeing the coldness of the street
fall down despite them.

i heard you don't dock your boat in Midland anymore;
it reminds me of the feeling i got when i left your place
the last second time of the week we met - we haven't spoken
since because we traded goods and now we have no reason
to keep each other at all.

Stop Calling Me

Do you know what pigeon feels like
when it is between your teeth?
Rubber.

Do you know what pigeon looks like when
it has been shot dead?
Like a sidewalk full of language barriers.

No, I never said I wanted to kill all of the pigeons.
Why did you kill all of the pigeons!

Like: When Can We Meet Us Again? You Will Call Me
Tommorrow? We Can Meet Us At Noon?
No.

Like: just eat the fricken food because you're in a nice place
with nice people and even though the bird tastes like rubber,
everyone else is eating it.
Tastes fine.

Like: good morning skatter, guess what I did this morning,
I killed a pigeon because I know you hate them. Come outside
and see.

Rage ie. Pop Culture

no. you fuck,
i don't have time for you.
i was in the city
with some people
to get away from
the likes of you.

my father orders rocks,
orders tractors to be moved
to calm his shaking limbs,
to loosen stiffed up limbs,
to make his mind off of
the legs he has not gotten -
my father is my friend.

i think you're a fuck sometimes,
you know that.

i met a person and i went
on a date, a date where leather
pants were accepted and patterned
tights were worn and where I
ran and I tripped and I fell
and did a face plant.

you're a real fuck.
take a look at my knee you fuck,
there was a cut there and now it is
scabbed over. i had a friend
who slept with a boy i loved and she taught me
to destroy the likes of you.

fuck. i'd like to shut you up.

i came to the city to get away from
the likes of you.
the city is a place where people like you
dwell - I'll fuck you up girl.

Come Not Often

I slammed a boulder through the window.
I did, I got a crane and I learned how to use it
and I picked up a rock and I dropped it into the
window and I smashed it.
Twice I have been witness to the repositioning
of large rocks, both moved by men whose opinion
I liked and both times I have been shocked
by the desire to move such largeness into unnatural,
man-made forms.

The glass was perfectly clear and had been washed
with windex by a man in white who had been
sitting in my head.
I ate an apple and then I smashed the
window and I stood at a safe distance
so when the grass cracked, not a single piece
would scrape my skin.

Just So You Know

it was good to see
your bones.

do not look in my direction.
i may lose my mind and then i may
lose my head and then i may lose
my neck and then i may lose my bones.

Usurp

i'd like to hear your side of the story,
i saw you and you are still too skinny.
i want to know, is it cocaine, is it sadness,
is it madness, is it craving, failing, liking the dark,
needing the light, needing the bones to
be seen, tell me, i'd like to hear your side
of the story, do you think you'll be alright,

friend, i'd like to hear that you are okay
because if you are not i'd like to lend my pencil
and draw you skinny and help you find your way.
skinny friend, i do despise nights, the way they ended
the way your side of the story came out empty, skinny
friend, i do despise mornings, and i do despise

how skinny you have become since
you changed my favourite syllables, dear friend,
you are far too skinny, is it cocaine, sadness, madness,
tell me friend, i am mad as well, i am sad as well, i have been
wanting some cocaine, dear friend. skinny we are, have become
and i am sad that your skinny legs are skinnier than mine
and that you are too sad to sit still and speak, you are so sad.

Skinny Legs, I Saw You

your skinny highway jeans drew lines across my legs,
your skinny highway legs left lines across my eyes,
your highway cock killed me three times and i wanted to die.
four hundred skinny legs tumbled together like kindling,
the windows got shut to prevent the cars from driving through
and i wanted to creamate you there between my lines.
your skinny highway lines drew eyes across my ties and you
told me that skinny highway lines come often.
(but i want you)

your skinny highway planks of wood left lines across my legs
in broken skin and your skinny highway planks of cock left
me silent in your skinny highway lines of springs and following
skinny lines of stepping i watched you do in skinny sight
lines and you told me that skinny fucking love was hungry for
some hungry fucking love and lines across your skin are not
meant for leaving along lines
(but i want you)

your skinny highway legs left imprints on my brains speckled
and purpled like bruises that come from evenings when too many
drinks have been had and too many people have gone home alone
leaving lines in the road (but i want you) and your skinny
highway jeans leave too many lines at the bottom of my nose
too many lines at the top of the ceiling, your skinny highway
of rails and lines goldened like the sky above the treeline
(and i want you)

skinny highway love goldened hard against the reflection of the sky
against the skin covered keys on the sidewalk, i want you and skinny
highway jeans and love and lines and four hundred skinny arms tumbled
together in piles like fire wood, clanking and bruising skinny highway
lines into lines we were never meant to be and skinny highway sightlines
do still the air so skinny highway jeans are meant to be here in places
where your highway cock and skinny jeans leave lines across my eyes
(and i want you).

Here are a List of Reasons/New Muses

Here is a list of the things
my muse embodies:

Wheat grass.

My muse embodies breast plates decorated
with jade and amber and fluorescent pink
stones that belong at the bottom of
a pool of water coloured aqua (the jade

and the
amber are found in small
markets;

the water is
coloured by the
floor on which
it
finds itself
floating close
above -

sometimes it is dark
because the bottom cannot be seen).

My breast plate has become an arena
for bones

and for jewelry.
My breast plate has become an arena
for

decoration.
My breast has been wiped
of the seeds of the earth and
hungry as a breastplate I
have become clean.

I have become gaunted and blackened
and darkened at the eyes;
my skin has lost its rosy glow

but it stands still across my bones -

before we can create for the muse
we must become

the muse
(watch muses
through glass, through mirrors,
through windows);

my muse stands still, knowing watching,
knowing less the reprimand he has

upon my planting of new weeds,
upon the planting of my skin behind glass windows.

Apartments Behind Alleys Onto pages

can you see across the stream,
the angle of my pen,
the way it squews the letters into
shapes that have gone sour;
can you see the scratch of pen,
the scratch of language,
scratch of the mode this text implies,
momentum this implies.
i once smoked a tube packed with
need and i felt clean -
that is i felt beside myself -
like ecstasy obscuring curtains
and keys and pages of books
into things i can identify with stories
out of our cynical tripping to
scratch hands, make bands;
can you feel the scratching of this suede
against my toes, braided vinyl pushing
leather to the side where i found you
on the sidewall scratching hands,
stealing steez between the rings that make
imprints on your skin.

Maybe Means Yes Here

7:00 am: bike ride into town on bike three feet too tall,
bottom of seat digging into small of back,
antler horns and elbow rests.

7:10 am: man with dog in park.
7:11 am: man fishing off pier.
7:12 am: dead mouse.
7:13 am: elderly man with baby.
7:14 am: fireman smoking in back of station.
7:15 am: giant bell.

8:23 am: dead raccoon on side of road;
dead cat on side on sidewalk,
hitting dog on side of bike.

10:13 am: water.

12:26 pm: vegetables.

1:13 pm: water;
1:37 pm: water;
1:50 pm: water.

4:47 pm: stiff knees.
5:10 pm: purple aprons.
5:57 pm: blasphemy.
croissant with spinach.

9:27 pm: mountain bike with loud wheels,
stunt bike with suspension,
road bike ten feet tall.
posse on easy.

[Summer Lover] I have taste -

once again you stand alone beside me,
dear friend, don't tell me we have lost it
once again;

its been a while since i have felt
this screaming in my head,
its been a while since i did think
that maybe i am dead.

i love you like cocaine,
i love you like tar driveways peeling off the gravel
and all around my skin,
i love you like black tulle sewn into dresses,
i love you like new years,
like salads
like the sidewalk on the mainstreet,
i love you like kissing,
like smoking pipes,
like cigarettes,
like acting my age,
my suitor,
i love you like my mother,
i love you like the city (and more)

(i have gone unmad and i have gone silent).

if you were to rip my head open you might find tar
where you once stood and you might find strings that
do not work but i am still happy you were here

and you were here,
like cocaine, tar and ramala, i love you.

Think Something

you are nutty,

son!
get your shit togetha.

Deserted

summer hangover in the desert,
with hamburgers, strawberries, and you.

every year you call me, you say,
happy birthday.

this year there was no call
but there was heat and there was
panting and there was no water,
and there was the hot of the desert
with a hangover.

you are gone away for a very long time,
you are gone away and i won't hear from you soon,
which may be better considering
my skin is covered in such dirt and no water
from the sky.

give me a call,
i want to but i won't.

there are places that are not good, there are places
that are not healthy, there are places that are bad,
and there is the desert,

and there are places that make the desert seem bad -
(people
are not meant
to be kept,
how long do you think he can keep you?)
i've taken far too much without thinking,
i've made too many thoughts without thinking.

It's Just A Spectacle.

you are the only girl
i ever wanted,

you are the only girl
i ever wanted,

you are the only girl
i ever wanted,

you are the only girl,
i ever wanted.

Leave me Lonely (Get Real).

i am sick of people and their things,
i am sick of people and their blazers,
and their trail blazers,

i am sick of people and mismatching earrings,
and their people who don't care,
do you even care?

i am sick of people,
smoke a jizz,
smoke a jizz.

i am sick of girls
(what are you missing that i will never have?);

i am sick of boys
(what do you have that i am missing?).

i am sick of girls and boys
and things.

you hair is too dyed,
your waist is too hungry,
your eyes are too lined,
your life is too lonely,

do you care?
(sick and straightened,
uneven and sad,
unfaithful and ugly,
do you care?).

your necklace is bright blue,
your hair is straight dead,
your eyes are sad.

Love Set You Going Like Rock

"Love set you going like a fat gold watch" - Sylvia Plath, Morning Song

This morning we covered you in tiny rocks that we found on the beach. One by one we lathered the edges and placed them on your skin. You looked like a mosaic except there was too much skin showing so we collected seashells and zebra mussels and covered the lines between the rocks leaving only the coral of your nipples open. You sat in the tree and I imagined the bark peeling off the tree and onto your body hugging the curve of your back and your bum. In actuality though, you sat there on the bottom branch and you spread your legs, so not only was the coral of your nipple showing but the coral of your lady as well. In the evening, the fire was raining on our faces, and we stared at you still covered in rocks and shells and we made you a geranium bulb necklace and tied it round your neck and you sat there staring blankly.

This morning you woke up with tiny pills covering your body. I wanted to lick them and make a paste and use it to stick fish scales one by one to your epidermis. I went to the water and caught a fish and then I killed it and shaved its scales off. I glued the fish scales one by one to your right arm and stared at you and imagined how fine of a mosaic you would make if only I could cover the lines between the scales. I sat quietly and waited for the crows to come and I killed one and I took its feathers and I used them to fill in the spaces. Later I found you by the fire with coals skipping across your nipples, your arm still covered in scales and feathers. I wondered who let you fall asleep at the fire with so little material covering your skin. I wanted to smear the coals black and cover you with sand and leave you there for the day, maybe pour water over you and turn the sand into mud but I just left you. I imagined putting you in the tree but I knew the sand would fall off without any moisture to make it stick, so I left you staring.

This morning when you woke up, the scar on your face was shining red, so I went to the beach and grabbed pieces of grass from the shore and I pasted them on your face with clay that I found at the bottom of the bay. You lay there the entire time as though you had never woken while I started at the top of your face, pasting weeds past your eyes, over your cheekbones, down across your lip to your chin. You looked fine, like a mosaic, pieces of skin separated by lines of waxy green. I imagined you as part of the beach, even thought of moving your body to the new ecosystem at the edge of the shore. Your scar now protected by the grass would not be affected by the sun.

This morning I told you how lovely your eyes would be if they were balls of glass and you let me shatter them to flatter the sun. You told me you wanted a brooch but your words could not be pasted so I took you to the bay and I threw you in and I watched you lie there, imagining you as a rock, completing the mosaic of the water.

Letters to L

Dear L,
I saw your father today. He was sitting on the curb by your house and when he saw me he told me, there's something wrong with the dog. He told me your dog wouldn't walk beside him anymore, that he insisted on walking ahead. He must be tired, I said, and he asked me where my shoes were.

Dear L,
I saw your mother today. She asked me how the house was coming and I told her you had collected all the bricks and tiles we would need and that the house was coming fine.

Dear L,
Today my father told me, there's a dead tree I need to cut down, do you want to come? I went to the passenger side of the truck and he said, you bring your notepad, so I did. I sat on the bench staring at the birch trees, wondering what it would be like to be like them.

Dear L,
I was looking through the drawers today and I decided that I like the spaces between us more than I used to. We are never full from each other, and that is good (gluttony is a sin, you know). The spaces between us leave us room for our shoulders and our knees.

Dear L,
When I think of you I see green, peach, magenta and scarlet, like the colour of my coat the other night and the colour in my face when you ask me that. I would like to take you into the woods and pour needles over your toes, and tell you that I miss you.

Fejai

indifference sits on your shoulder,
heavy and aching -
is it the voices or the
silence that are your madness?

there are few (there is one)
boy(s) with whom questions do not
lead into lengthy conversation -
you are (the) one.

your indifference to me is my madness,
artist - you have seen behind my eyes
and i have seen behind yours but still
there is nothing to say, no questions

to launch (i know all the answers,
artist - boy -)
is it the voices that are your silence?
or is it the madness?

We Crumble Scallop Shells

there is a break in the words and the
space on the street,
there is a break in the time it takes me
to digest the tea and the time it takes
for me to wreck the shell you have placed
here in my hand,
there is a break in the lavender lines the
scallop drew when he still lived here,
there is a break in the size of the ocean
and the time it takes to travel,
there is a break in the words and the
space between us, on the street,
in the room and here (our removal
is coloured purple by the bottom of the
shell, purpled broken by it falling
apart in our hands) -

i wish i could draw layers and layers
of salty flesh around my words so you
could understand them.

Save Your Babies, Kill

dirty seagull, fly away,
for i will kill you.

dirty seagull, fly away,
i will rip your beak in two,
and pull it off your feathered
skin.

dirty seagull, fly away
before i find a knife

and kill you.

dirty baby, mouldy skin,
don't worry, i will save you.

dirty seagull, fly away
and give your diseased skin
a chance,

scoundrel, i will kill.

dirty seagull, fly away
for i will kill you.

Wanted

Naked woman
selling trees.

Wanted

White stucco house,
woman with tight ass,
tan, pretty hair,
mowing lawn, scrubbing
walls, short shorts,
hot pants, wearing
work boots.

Songs Of Living Lonely

Crazy man walking and singing his song,
(those bikers snickered, crazy);
Crazy new prophet singing songs
rubbing his afro in his footsteps;

Girl with patterned shoes: I am so excessive,
I want to burn your clothes off (we are all weirdos
in this place so still, so empty) - the city left us
with new names;

I hear your door open, it is strange that you don't
live there, (why am I standing here, it is wrong),
Check to make sure your pen cap is open before
you scratch your wound (she says);

Please don't look at my fingers, the sun has ruined them;
She sings under her breath so noone pays attention to
her face (I meant to tell you);
If you want her body, you want her skin and what
is underneath her.

Riding The Bus To Get Home (The Sun Is Burning The Window And Then Me)

I want to lie in fields surrounded
by pine cones in flourescent orange,
and poles connecting wires and
make love (not to you).

I want to lie in fields surrounded
by trees and lavender stones
and stretch between the lines in
the mud and make love
(not to you).

I want to feel my breast
and legs go numb and lie
in fields beneath the mud
and teach you about street
cars but never once make love.

I will chase your flying
garbage, I will cross
my fingers that your
car comes soon but
I will not love you.

The city is too hot, the
country is too dull and
I want to make love
(but not to you).

He Would Leave Her On The Road And Watch Her Die

I would rather be a tree! And Not Make Children with Thin Hair!

She could not go upstairs. Her skin was still too uncovered from him, too revealing of the parts of her body that were not toned like his. At times this could be overlooked, but at moments such as these when they had raised their voices (Never interrupt me! Never interrupt anyone!), any contact of skin or body would send her bumping her head against the hard gravel ground as though she were hanging, being dragged. It has been too long since I have been reprimended. Far too long since my skin has been punished for the sins it has made.

"You are pale," he told her when the weather uncovered her legs. "You are pale and it is ugly." She knew he believed that this was true. That her paleness made him afraid of all the imperfections her womanhood might possess, might imply to future offspring he planned on feeding through her body.

He chose her because she was perfect, because he couldn't figure out her mind, because he knew she could not be afraid of him (his madness), when it came climbing out of her own limbs.

Strange people (strangers) write things down to keep them from the atrocities that make them mad, Because Noone Else is listening.

His father was mad. This was known, but never proven. He walked along the street, and then back to his house and he rarely said a word, not because people were out of reach but because people never came close into speaking distance. She could feel his father, breathe him, from six blocks away, know that he was there, wonder what he thought, wonder what might be said when it was realized that daftness was common between them. I wonder what might be said if one was caught bathing in water like this, she thought.

His brother ran away on drugs, an experiment that tested him also when he let it. They spent many a night in other worlds together, letting silences become laughter, misunderstanding become false understanding; a magnetism that held them together. The other night, she saw him at the bar and he ran his arms across her back. She could feel his large hand and she wanted to stay there but he had come with someone else.

When they made love they were hush, letting the silences act like breathes between them that communicated their desires. He chose her because he believed that when they were silent, when they stared at each other like children awake, but born dumb, when they made love, he knew what her voice and straight staring eyes would have said. He would be what he thought she told him, while she wondered what he thought she was thinking and improvised from his movements.

Often they did not touch each other, only touched themselves, with him kissing her on the forehead when the act was done. And always they acted when they finished, like they had never known each other, that this first meeting, again, was shocking enough to let the silence lead them away from the obvious indifference that always settled, that became proven between the rocks he laid down when they first moved in.

There are enough rocks here, she once thought, that if I rubbed them together long enough, I could make an island. There are enough rocks here that noone would notice if my skin and my blood became parts of the surface. Once she asked him, how do you think this setting implies us?

It changes us into characters we avoid, he replied. A beautiful woman cannot survive without her words, and I would rather go mad trying to keep her, than let her go.

Green Walls, Green Words.

Biking along the town in the heat.

The
cement does not breathe, and I sweat
off the tops of my shoulders and I think
about last night.

Idiot, you said. Faggot.
You know, you shouldn't
say those words, they aren't nice.

And later, me telling you: Speak in your
language and say whatever you are thinking
or were thinking.

I miss my G, I miss my D, I miss my chance at
Greatness.

(This is an example of a fragment you amount to).

An Island!

1. There are enough stones here
that I suspect if I were to rub
them together long enough,
I could make an island!

There are enough stones here
that I suspect if I were to rub
them together long enough,
they would grind so small that
my hands would bleed!

There are enough stones here
that I suspect if I were to die here
I might be happy knowing you could
rub them together and make an island
and leave me there surrounded by the
sky and the trees until it eroded enough
that it disappeared under the water,

maybe then my body could float
and then you could find me happy
once again.

2. If you should find me dead here, please know
that it was not something you said or did not say
but simply that I was bored and thought
becoming dead might stir things,

and that my spot in the shade under the sculpture
of the silver goose got smaller and smaller,
and my boredom got enhanced by the heat
and the way my skin was burning.

If you should find me dead here, please don't ask
about the bird or inquire about its purpose:
It is a sculpture and it is placed here for viewing pleasure.

3. I think if I were to be found dead anywhere, I would
want it to be here, on this island because the overhead
search and scan would be nice and it would reveal water
and water and water and land and water and water and
water and trees and -

There she is lying on the beach surrounded by the water -
what a beauty day, its a shame she had to die.

4. Since 5:oo I have been waiting. You, you who hates the
telephone, and never makes a call or answers the phone unless
a holiday when you may scream a greeting loud, you called and
said,

Be sharp,
Be on time,
We're leaving early.

So here I was and you were not here, expected of course but still
I screamed curses and waited under the silver goose and stared at the
trash and the grass and the seagull manure covering the cement squares,
until a woman with no cellulite on her legs and a silver metallic bag
looked at me and said

Honey are you okay? You seemed flushed,
Like you may die.
No thanks, I am fine, I replied.

And all I could think of was that smell in the air, not muggy like the day
but lovely, and if you were here, I am sure you'd know the name,
but I am dead now.

Garter Snakes Occupy A Variety of Habitats

i've been dreaming of garter snakes,
ever since that time my dad made us
carry the wood and the bricks the mile
to the house and you declared

"i'm out
of shape",
you're always complaining
and i was tired of it so i
went inside only to hear you
screaming,

"its a snake, its a snake"
it's only a garter snake,
i replied,

and then you started chasing it
before explaining your paranoia.
now i'm dreaming of them every night,
hundreds of them weaving through
roots and acorns as i jump along
the hardened ground trying desperately
to stay out of their way.

the boys used to pick up those snakes
all the time and i guess my fear diminished
with the amount of time we spent telling
each other secrets and playing spin the
bottle under the raft.

i'm dreaming of them all the time and i can't
stop thinking of you either.

my dreams now successfully consist of
you smoking a joint, driving by in your car,
you smoking a joint, holding my knee,
you giving me crystal meth and cocaine,
you screaming about garter snakes,
you luring me into the empty bathtub
while i try to hide the drugs in my bra
and my back pockets,
and shopping for kiss-lock purses as a reward for my
good behaviour
(imagine a purse like that
packaged full of snakes like them).

ps. i can't believe your arrogance or
your pessimism, of course the bricks
and pieces of wood will fit down the narrow
hall.

Esther Morniga

I'm sorry but I have to cut you off.
I can't serve you with a name like that,
Sherrell I could stand but this is too much.
At least Sherrell was weak, strange, not as
stable as my good own name. But this I cannot
handle.

I have tried to serve you many times before,
I tried switching my disease to alcoholism,
Drinking binges here and there, but that did not
work, and then I tried liking girls but the only
one I ever wanted had a name I couldn't pronounce.

The Plaster White Girl

if something happens to mama,
i shotgun the woman in the back room

how do you feel about hitler, the grass, and me?

who would sketch
my breast
if i were dead now?

sometimes i wonder
if the breast is like the
ground,
if it matters how much rain there comes,
how many times it has been tread,

and if i had been dead
who would dare sketch my breast
onto paper?

there has been you
but it has been long
and my breast is

not like that
now.

i wondered if you could fix
the backyard,
the lumps of dirt sticking up
from the grass,

and i almost asked you to
once or twice,
but you didn't seem to understand

and then it rained,

but i still wonder what it would be like
now for you to cup my breast in your hand,

it is larger than before and it is more
round and more perfect,
and it looks better naked
and i assume that it would look nice
next to you

-

i wonder what he knows about the patches
of dirt where the grass used to be,

i wonder what he knows about the branches
ten feet tall with blossoms about them

It Was Beautiful To See You

I am scaredy-cat: I have fifty acres of land and I am still afraid to run through the trees with no shoes on, I am scared of the birds and the things that bite my ankles.

I am a liar: hanging from a telephone wire with my pants on fire.

I am selfish: I get angry when my sister borrows my books because I think that they are mine.

I am bored: and this is why I crave someone.

I am naive: I can't believe you had sex with him, that you cheated on the other him, that you don't even mind.

I am a stoner: I smoke weed, often, very often, and I wonder why I can't form sentences and why my thoughts are so sporadic.

I am a hillbilly: I would only ever like to own some land with some trees on it.

I am a liar: I am so sorry that I keep changing, but I don't like you anymore.

I am a lesbian: I would date girls just for you.

http://almcarr.blogspot.com

i am trying to have a conversation with my sister but my mother won't stop talking, and neither will her french boyfriend. i don't care about the messages, i don't care about you speaking french, i don't care about anything except for what my sister has to say. she is a science nerd and i love her and i want to be her sister for as long as i can live. she is where my heart belongs.

Gifted

her skin is pale
and she is bored
and he is scared
of her paleness.

he thinks her being white
is a sign that she is not
his woman,

that the children he plans
on filtering through her
will be pale and white
and not like a woman at all.

Inebriated.

do not move, just write

Jeg Savner Dig

you have been here,

and i have been home,

but we feel
the same

(drinks, papers,
lighter),

we both feel the same.

Mother Fucking South Africa, Pushed Me In The Water

the summer the devil finds us
is here once again.

"do you have an extra jersey???"

II. Forty-Seven Nests (I Think)

these are not the kind
that turn into butterflies,

these are the kind
that eat the leaves away
until the tree is dead

(they hideaway in nests at
night when the killing has
been done).

A Boy From South Africa, Not Welcome

Butter
Soy Sauce
Paper Towels

(What is this -
barely begun when
the boat docked)

What is this -
A list?
A scam?
Another piece of paper
proving how unclever his mind
is,

She is still stronger,
(remembers the condiments)-

A boy from South Africa,
not welcome,
because he has earned his privacy,
his right not to be frustrated
with new questions and ideas,

A boy from South Africa,
forgetting again to take the steak
in before drinking new beer,

What is this -
A girl,
A boy,
He is black,
He is cute,
What is this -
A list?
A scam?

A list of questions before
Thursday,
(She has once again proven
how clever her mind is).

I. Caterpillar Man

kills all the caterpillars,
blows them to death with fire;

watches them cooking, curling,
sizzling, climbing, dying, curling,
dying, crawling, being stomped on.

their nest is dead.
i am lost,

he is tripping over the river bank,
(i step over it),
he is tripping over the tree stumps,
(i step over it),

he is killing caterpillars,
from the trees
down to the ground,
stomping,
all at once
putting out the fire,
killing all the caterpillars.

Can Weed Kill You?

And if so, how quickly...

Skin Like Raw Meat

The rain is a break
from the break between us,
from the reflection of the water
on my skin,
as red as stone,

from the meat on the barbeque,
How do you like yours?
Well-done or raw?

We are covered from each other,
for reasons of our own:
the skin is red, the skin is
plump like a new mother
and her baby child -
we both have been treated like children,

stand apart from each other,
ignoring the break where our fingers
don't fit in.

You have come here from far
and spent the first two days with me,

First contemplating how much room there
is and where we should leave it to roast
in the sun, over fishbowls, vodka, water
and beer, and

Second looking away from the shady spots
around your pool that should find us
and falling asleep

after finishing lunch,
one quarter plate vegetables,
three quarters plate steak,

yours rare,
and mine medium well-done.

-
My father's steak is better than this,
your friend with the money would
never allow such a thing.

My Boys

Earth's grasses are green
and there is pending danger.

The air smells like rain,
the breeze feels like we're not safe here,
(again the time has come
when the space under the deck

is not
big enough).

Leonard drugs me up,
Charles reminds me what is lucky,
Czeslaw teaches me
that the earth will be ok.

Sifting Through Madness

Bukowski reminds us of the
paralleling number of poets
and whores that have
existed through time.

There are
thirty-six
of each
who matter
and the rest
are left
wallowing.

Poets and whores -
and/or one in the same.
I have no jokes, no witty comments,
no history of knowledge to pull out
when the time has come.
I have no friends, just liars,
and I have no peace.

I listen well and I know;
I have hair that shines when I will it,
and a smirk to always give
But I do not fit into categories,
bored, fearless, dared, or blessed,

And it will rain tonight regardless:

Poets and whores will both wear the rain.

All The

look at all


the

dandelions
on our
front lawn,

let me get one,
let me -

let me smear

it down
your arm;

she gets tired,
she says,

you
stay
out of here.

The Leaves...

I keep asking if
anyone else thinks
the world around
here is dying.

The trees look dead,
the grass looks dry,
and my backyard
has been made a golf course.

Even he forgets
himself
why he came.

I keep waking up wondering
how my bed
got at this angle
and then staring at the trees,

and the sky before thinking:
it's time to get out of bed.

I wonder what he knows
about the patches
of dirt where the grass used to be;

I wonder what he knows
about the branches ten feet tall
with blossoms about them.

Even new company stays the same,

and all the dead trees ever do
is fall between the boredom
of the sky and ask:
what have you been doing?

Division Street

the road has just been
swept today,
very. very. clean.

i can't stop
staring and i notice

the sidewalk outside your house
is missing,

and i hate the lines in the
grass that tell me it is true
and i know, i know the sidewalk was there
because she used to make me change the route
to school to walk by your house and stare
at the mary and jesus in the tree.

i still do not know these backyards,
the cops come there,
that boy lives there,
that woman gave us five dollars
for our baked good and then refused
to take them,

and he has left me for his
boyfriend,

and he says "caitlin, right?"
and i say "yes, do i know you"

"chris"
"oh yes"

"have you moved?
isn't this your house?"

"yes it is".

Hands Getting Numb Yet?

This is a story
that I have been
meaning to write,
for a while now,

called

"All the reasons,
I love you"
and
it goes like this:

There once was a bottle of
Black Cherry Vanilla Coca Cola,
and it was once

shaken

flat

by the hands of a little girl
with her hands around
the neck

of the bottle
(she wasn't a big fan of pop),

and she said,
"Mama I ain't sick but I want
some of that ginger ale that
you make special when I am";

In old age

Her hands will
shake
and She
will
forget
the words,

Or at least what writing
them might Entail
(won't is wont,
want is wan't is
wont is wan't is won't),

And She loves Him, She
really does,

But they are far too dull
for
One
another

And they
have too

little
to teach
each other
about life

but a lot
of

things

to
Share.

She will
become his
JESUS or the other
way around (blah blah
blah SHE will become
his, maybe, His.)


"How will this look
with a comma", she wonders,

"He is the anti-hero":
Skinny,
Unshaven,
Unwarped,
Unharmed,
Unharming of
the bugs
and the plants
and the
trees,

and she wants
to see
the

things
he does, and does

and does

.

The Simple Life

There is
a considerable amount
of distance
between us,

We should probably
invent a handshake
or talk about
a hug,

Before we see each
other and let
quiet become
quiet.


I will be happy
to see you.

Back Shelf In The Kitchen

Staring at pictures in
forbidden places, you have
found me,

citation,
citation,
please.

REASONS I NEED TO GO HOME

1. The pile up of shoes under and surrounding
my desk has grown to eight (three more behind
the chair).

2. I miss talking to my mom. She turned her phone
off, cannot get my calls.

3. The rack beside my desk (the portable extension
of my closet) has gone from housing skirts and blouses
to my prized items (the replaced are in boxes that are
stacked in the living room): puss in boots with jewels,
little girl on the prairie, shimmering things and sundresses.

4. My necklace collection has been cut in half (only my
"favourites remain"), the rest are in a basket on the
floor and I am still annoyed.

5. I need to read the books on my mantle.

6. She gave me caffeine pills and she wants to give
me more.

7. I miss my mom.



8. The pileup of shoes is overwhelming.

9. I can't get dressed, and my neighbourhood is crazy and so
am I.

10. I need to sleep. My neighbour tells me sleep is
overrated.

11. I am tired and need to go home.

The Good One

You look like Jesus,
Skinny at least,
Maybe weaning off the
Differences you found
Between them for
Survival, he pays the bill,
She leaves him, and we
Still haven't spoken

(My knack for romanticism
Is gone but I still want
To talk).

The Woman She Was Little

Halfway between bored
and boring,

and the denim on my leg
is still not tight enough,
and if it feels good,
it does not mean that I
will get out of bed for it.

The woman (little) said:
"I like your sweater"

and I told her I bought it on
sale and I got angry because
it made me think of how loose
the denim still was
and how the lady at the store
told me it was my final chance

(That woman wants it
she said so I bought it
and then I got angry because
I wanted more than I came
home with but the denim on
my leg is still not tight enough).

The pants are still not tight enough
And I still cannot sleep here.

New Tenant

Of course they wanted the house,
No neighbours knocked on the wall
Leaving patterns of their fist echoing down the stairwell,
No cupboards opened on a whim,
And the floor had been redone, and the dishes washed
And the counter scrubbed

By me, and the
Sound of the echoe of your voice
In their ears and the electric comotose
Of the thoughts between your words

Did not ring.

And the best part of the house
She'd tell you was its placement

On the street
And not the bleach between the eyes of
The tenant left upstairs or the sound of what
Gets left in the room at the back of the top
Of the stairs
(She went there and she left she said),

But the problem
I would tell you is that
The tenant in the room downstairs
With the mess behind the door
Was not home,

And she was not out because
The rain on the sidewalk might
Ruin the colour of her shoes
That dye her feet orange
Each time she wears them,

And that first impressions
Do not show
How cold the house gets in winter
And how terrible it is to live
In a house

Where the windows are covered
In plastic and where even
The consistent changing of light bulbs
Does not make
The light in the hall stay on.

(She will not get to live with you
And your fight with the heater).

The Beginning of the AM

The pasta came up whole,

and while we talked about the way
our parents fed us,

I sat and chewed each piece
one hundred times.

The first one smashed to pieces

April:
He cuts the docks himself,
here they are in seperate
pieces,

some of them are the length
of your hand
and others the length
of the bottle of thirty
he forces on us,

so we won't burn like we have
today in an hour.

May:
Every year more wood is
added

because the boats need longer
docks to keep them,

and soon the wood is combined
with the neighbours wood
and we are forced to share.

The rocks used to be up to my waist
but now they sit above the water.

June:
The clay is dirty on my fingers
and all the shells are gathering piles
on the edge of the raft

and there is sun on the waterproof screen
that he forces and he

is sitting on the dock because the raft
is so shallow
that it isn't
fun anymore.

July:
"I'll beat you to the water!"
"No you won't..."

She beats beating the cold
everytime.

August:
I refuse to sleep on the bed,

my spine does not
bend that way
after months of living
on the sand.

The Beach

No more lost
than when you
found me,
alive in the wake
of the water,
staring up from
the sand and the
shells,
hair covered with
clay and ducks
dancing as though
they didn't know
this was our dock,
not theirs to
inhabit.

You better look elsewhere.

The man with the no-eyebrows
and tattoes for outlines instead,
he says,

"you take up space
when you enter a room"

and so does she,

"The hardass wanted me", she says,
before we notice her mingling,

and he just smiles,
clearly obnoxious and no more appreciated
than when we got here.

The Worker Men Came and They Left

The worker man sits at the door trying
to unbuckle the buckling floor,
the house will look great they told us

as they brought in cheap versions
of mexican slab, and plastic patterned with floor tiles,

their knocking comes earlier than expected but
with them they bring the new lock for the front door.

The worker men came and they left -
they left a brand new floor and a hole
in the wall,

two days in a row they came and two days
in a row they left the smell of fingers
dipped in drywall,

rolled in nails and hammers and
the dirt that comes with houses that
were never properly cleaned.

They came and they left us a stern look,
a warning and new batteries for the smoke detector,
and they left a broken table

and tiles to cover the hole that came with
the new vanity they left
in the bathroom.

The Letter in the Kitchen Window

the keys in the door let things in other than the wind,
like the sound of footsteps through the back alley through the back window of the kitchen
(you've been living in the alley for six months and seven days and you didn't tell me),
i suspected you were there - every time the keys moved i knew it.

she talks of pasta
and she tells me to look out the window and i find you of course not entirely unexpected,
i don't want to know that you have been there for six months and seven days -
was it you that was there when i closed my blinds in the morning or stared out into the darkness that the backlight from the kitchen made?

Scattered Things

woman you come here
invited but still,

you are searching,
you are asking yourself if you believe

in god.
i'm only asking cause it scared me,


you tell me before switching your jeans
for linen.

10:0am, The Inside of the Ball

I thought you'd never come here,
so I was shocked to find you in
the reeds with sand crystallizing
your body,

tiny pieces of rock glistening
in the sun while you searched for
golf balls;

knee deep in murky water,
trying to find the golf balls before
the dog picked them up and tore
apart the thermoplastic cover with
his teeth,

leaving the core
so without a shell that we could
unwind the polybutadiene by simply
finding an unraveling
and throwing what was left back
and forth to each other.

(The neighbours watch from their
window - they are drinking wine
behind the window).

Situational Humour

Not funny.

The Summer The Devil Finds Us

I see him walking along the bookshelves
from the reflection in the window,
I noticed all of my things went missing,
he says, yes one by one I stole his things.
His posture is straight like the distance it
takes for us to get to know each other -
our bodies are so different but we like it.

Lena Left Marie At Home And They Forgot Each Other

always dragging her mother to places she doesn't belong,
the girl needs some jeans,
how is it that she took her here?
shouldn't it be the other way around.
where does my daughter come from she wonders
as she sinks into the velvet at the front of the changing room door,
thinking of the items in the backyard that need reorganizing,
curtains shadow their faces, the mother and the sister,
she watches and aspires with each item tried on.
two sixty nine, my mama waits by the couch, while the girl
pretends that she is paying on her own.

i tried again to take my mama places
i knew she wouldn't belong,
maybe forced her into the lights to show her who she wasn't
and who she should have been,
tried to push myself further into the crowd
until i noticed her disappearing again in the corner of the store,
shading her eyes and wondering how her daughter got this way,
i almost sunk my hands into the tables but then i saw who i wasn't
standing by the door and i had to drag her out of there.

she says all the women hate her and its only the men that get along
but she never had many friends anyway.

my mother was real skinny when
she was younger, but my sister got the genes, stop screaming in the store about
the differences between us. if we are to be home
for dinner, we need to leave immediately. but mother you promised me some
more. three fourty seven and again the same routine, mama sitting on the couch
wondering why she came here.

my mother is in the kitchen fixing the computer while my father sits
with his wife on the front step enjoying drinks; my mother
disappears in the store while my father racks up purchases on his credit
card, my mother wants jeans for christmas so i lie to her about the
price so she will take them.

all the time i feel my body becoming more like yours while my mind becomes like hers.

She Speeds By Us in His Car (I wonder if she feels as lost as I do)

everybody wonders why things
came out the way they did,
out loud -
but i'm in love with her, a girl, yes i know -
but she's in love with him, but he's so,
but she's so, but he's so
rich? i know,
intelligable, i know, out of the loop,
yep thats right.

a hideous laugh and makeup running into faces,
and a cheap belt, yes i know -
we all have closets, we all come here,
we all get ready in the morning -
i like to let it sit for half an hour,
what?
that girl just got unravelled,
easily, easy -
she likes to explain herself,
what a star, a spectacle,
you didn't mean it i mean
i mean no do you
get it do you understand?

she loves him,
complicated love song
like muscle,
(don't tell me who don't know
what i mean!).

Carson 3: more Bad reasons for her sorrow

what is it with blood on pages?
i read her and i knew that you
had been here first,
knew i had found you,
learned a little more what
being you is like.
i found the blue lines you drew
and all the scribbles on the
sidelines of the page that left
you lingering,
smearing your blood in all directions
to cover the tracks.
i see the somethings that i brought
here in hopes that you soon would
find me worthy of your jokes in my kitchen,
hear you tell me that things,
things, they will be fine, and show
me all the reasons we fucked up here.
i see the lady with the curves
in front of me, underrated from the glass
box she lives in on the wall
and the words i'd like to prescribe her,
and i match them to the way we both look
when we paint our lips unnatural colours,
the way our dentures lose their shine,
and the way we'd better keep our mouths shut -
the way our faces look when we box them
in glass like the lady with the curves.
we were prescribed this, given names
but who draws the blood, who lives.

We Keep Dwelling On These Moments

hold on to your childlike wonder,
but learn to articulate your self
you childish fool,

never mistrust the stranger,
yet find ones to be you and stay away
from all the others,

sha la la la,
he sings to me across the borders
of our broken love,
still looking for a place to park
the picnic we have been longing to find a
place to have,

(i've been longing to escape our child-like
love and fine someone more mature to hold me
but i still see the world through sparkling eyes
and trees lined with peaches and apples and
your love)

and i expand and unexpand
with all of the wonder that i supress and decide
is good enough to share,

sha la la la la la.

Nervosa

the first time felt
like prostitution,
sacrificing your body
for some unknown one
that would pay,

kept imagining what might
be floating in the bath
at this point,

what might be said when
one was caught bathing in
water like this,
so heard of,

but unknown here.
sticks continually washed
cleaned by guilt and sanitation
screaming,

eyes wrenched red
like the colour my insides
must be.

(came out feeling dizzy
but wise, knowing more than
the next one,
you've got to be tough,

you've got to be brave,
you've got to feel good after.)

He Doesn't Count But He Tries

he speaks not my language,
but he tries,
despite my rounded o's and
harshened consonants,
he tries.

and he leaves me left alone
once again.

what a sham -
i am left to find you on pages.

Green Plastic and Green Trees

floating over red vinyl
in the closet,

she said,
"looks just like art,
like someone should be
somewhere else with people
more like her"

looks like seven dollars
blue and plaid
and better than you expected
once again.

and where are you? thin
like furniture legs and still not aware
of the pictures our
childhood produced together
"you should always have it you said"
and i went down and brought it here -

love surrounded by green wood
and green plastic and green trees
and party green of all the green girls
and green boys who came here,

yet where are you my love,
my burdened heart sang only to your eyes,
blue like the birds my father likes
to name in backyards -

where did you get that? where is the
rent? you look great.
once again, where are you?

are you lost in vinyl dreams and girls
with squinted eyes? you should be here
posted on the wall beside
the photograph
you told me i should always have

and melted between the racks of belts
and tweeded jackets one cut short
of missing shoulder pads -
and a lifestyle that implies all that
it might suggest

and rosied like the sober girl
now happy once again
and the steeez she finds in places
you long to find yourself.

Foggy Corner Covered

who are we that meet -
on small corners covered in fog and trees?

small corner,
i have found me here
often
surrounded in thick fog,
protected well by light reflecting
glass into patterns
complicated by the matters
lost in warbled hands
made calm only by the renditions
you prescribed
before
and after
we danced under your window
hoping strange good might -

of paint and walls and floors,
what architect decided walls
built into small perimeters
could satisfy one like me,
on foggy days
when the sad escapes of
our time
together, leaves me
stepping over beetles
struggling to find

their way.

who decided eternal greens
and plastered stones could
satisfy
more the view
of withered trees
and common hands
wandering about like
beetles,

struggling to find their
way in the fog
melting harshly
on the way .

Bricks and Paper on the Wall

let's not please get our finger caught
in the bricks up on the wall,
break fingers between the cracks on
up on the wall,
the crack between the bricks on
all the walls

people are the best ones those
that slide their fingers here, there,
up down,
through all the mismatched cracks
between the bricks on all the walls,
can't keep up!
running fingers along plaster between
all of the bricks, running eyes along
spaces hoping breaking my finger
will feel as good as it sounds,
the gritty unraveling of sandy stone,
and my finger sliding perfectly
up and down mismatched lines of plaster
fill,

impossible but then -
keep waking up cross eyed
staring at the checks on the paper on the wall,
the perfect perpendicular lines up on the
paper on the wall
jump out, unlike bricks, but patterned perfectly -
no difference, unbalance, jumping out from the wall,
those lines are the best! otherwise
there is no illusion to shake free from.

You Look Autistic When You Wear That

no stupid.this is the line i was thinking of while i drew you on this paper.

Love like hooded wind

rotting roots or
dirty ground:
the difference
doesn't matter
when the air gets
heavy.

leisurely mondays
leading to love
like mud gone
hard in the cold,

delightful like
footing under the
steps once trodden
down by water,

and have you
been here before,
tapping shoes
along the hardened
ground.

Beauty Girl Queen and The Afro Woman

hand cream
is for the artificially glamourous,
unscratch your hands, your arms, your face,
cut your nails,
your hair is starting to fall out
(like the black woman with
too much weave in her hair,
too many times to the chemically
straightened salon in her hair -
black girl lost it,
came back with curly hair,
an afro: what a beauty).

are you one of those hand cream junkies?
one of those
coming into classtime late with sunglasses junkies?
where'd you get those star girl?
are you one of those
pretend to act like you can't see me junkies,
threw this on in the morning,
change the colour of my skin type junkies?
pull out your hand cream in class,
at the coffee shop,
spend your money elsewhere;
this is getting obvious.

gross like the bald spots
on the front of your head,
over twenty and still not sure,
how to be a beauty,
like the afro woman head.
you're a beauty.

sunglasses are made to shield your eyes
from uv rays,
protect your cornea,
keep your sight together for old age -
like sunscreen is made to protect
your skin from the burning,
from roasting hot and red,
cooking, nearly boiling -
they were not made for vain endeavours,
like walking in late,
what a star.

The first time gets overrated, and we got a bit too drunk.

i bet you're so glad
you can keep me

now
and forever,

i wish buttershop tar
had never fallen between
the bottles of tequila on the top shelf.

(my mama's only plan
was to get me rich
so i could buy her things
she can't afford)

we knows, she knows, we know,
and i'm tired of camping out here,

and i am tired of being your friend.

I Like To Blow My Money

we want to be catholic
school kids,

or we have to be at
least if we're going to make
this happen.

we've been drinking
and snorting lines
since dawn occurred
and we realized

there is nothing left
for us in common,

why do we come here together.

why do we come here together
so often hoping to find
something

other than cocaine lines
and hangovers.
(and big arms and kisses on the
forehead and "thanks for having
me" and "those are ugly shoes")

we need to be catholic kids
so we go to church
still buzzing from the lines
that we sat up all night snorting
"do you know how much cocaine
we went through last night?"
and we sit in the pews
and listen to the priest

and think of sex,
almost worse than doing it
at this point,
because we just did it and
we will maybe do it again
if you think that maybe i could
think you were hot without
the cocaine and the alcohol,

and we smile at the priest
so he will evaluate us as
fine children
(we are fine children)

our reputation over rumours
will save us, along with our
newfound faith, and jesus
(i have a feeling there's a
lot of cocaine at parties like that)
we are the best kids in town,
one might say,

and we're going to be catholic kids
soon (help them learn what is right
and wrong and be good people).

This Plus Hippie Earrings

orange mocs
orange mocs

a bright blue sky
and orange mocs

oranges flying in
the air
against the moon

orange mocs:

fossil fueled
dinosaaaurs, eeee

Yeah, He's Fucked in the Head, But I Feel Like You'd Go For That

by part two,
i was bored.

by part three,
i wondered why
they kept it in there.

they all just want to know
where you belong.

how many women have you
seen wearing pearls?
on the street today
or in general.

the love of my life
he bites my necklace
while asking,

are these real?
no.

no they were seventy
eight dollars,
they are not real.

the love of my life
is wearing purple cashmere:

you may have seen it first,
but he looks better in it.

do you see the way we
touch each others hands?
the way we get tangled in
each other?

so, got tested today
for adhd.
came out positive.
(pearl earrings)
i feel like i'm losing
my personality,
because i haven't gotten
drunk (pearl earrings).

purple cashmere:
i can't believe you're gone.
yeah but what if i'm hiding
in your closet?
speaking of which.

can't we just get married?
no.
oh so you're going to marry HER?
no.
i can't get married to you.

so is there anyone special
catching your eye?
yeah, he's different though.
oh.
that wasn't a mistake.

are you kidding me?
can't you just kiss me once?
see what this becomes,

purple cashmere you
are taking my attention away
from the improvisation and pearls
on the stage.

so where do you belong then?
not in a book!

can you give me another chance?
i promise next time you bite
my necklace;

"Baby You Look Great, What's Your Trade?"

There is something unexpected
About the woman cutting off her skin
In the corner,

About the pile she is leaving
As she unravels herself
By turning herself around

With her hands held high.

There is something strange
About her empty cupboards,
Her floors covered in orange peels,

And the shape of the skin
She leaves behind with the clothes
On her front step,

Exhibitionist? No.

There is something familiar
About the bowls she leaves in the bathroom
Hoping not a soul will find them

About the words she uses to avoid
The subject all the time
And the hands she uses to rub her ribs

From behind her.

And especially the gold bracelets
Adorning her wrist,
The hours spent straightening

Her tight and furled up hair
Curling her lashes black,
And staring in the mirror

Not daring to touch the skin
she tries not to notice
falling quickly to the ground.

Pumpkin Yellow Apple Leaves!

you always get the last word
you!
even when you are not here.

and it was fine,
less perfect than expected,
but fine.

he smiled like,
where did you come from
and why?
he called like why am i
nervous and why?
where are you, answer
your phone
(forgetting that slip -
she will
be
the death of me)

he spat like
Noone Wants You Here!
and why,
such formalities
are spat, spat.

bump bump
rumble, rumble,
all over the skin,
It is back!

like air through the paper of the cigarette,
speckling freshness at my throat
with hazy air -
desire!

like air sifting through
tobacco leaves,
leaves? not a smoker.

i spat like whew
i lost myself,
through the filter, came
out -
and air!
i can breathe.

Mother, It Gets Cold.

I live an exaggerated life,
even colder than this page,

and my Mama knows it.

The winter got colder almost overnight,
its frigid heat is warming my pages.

She cries, letting words freeze to her
face, too fast to keep unfrozen.

I live an exaggerated life and I hope you know this
when your tongue sticks to the page.

She thinks it. Even they get cold, she predicts.
Tries to stop me, warn me.

She is afraid of the rape, because it happened
to her last winter.

If it burns your skin pink please know
how much frost there came.

Each Tree He Has Cut Down

Sixty increasing acres
Of birch tree losing its hair
In the heat of summer.
Not particularly suited
To dehydrated, insipid
Prairie conditions:

Burning in the heat,
Skin peeling from its
Limbs, around its wounds,
Its view over the world,
The wisdom it shares,
By being there.

He thins them one by one
Choosing stronger trees to
Represent the tangled mess,
He has made beautiful.
He runs his hands across them,
Peeling back the bark in choice places.

Thinning makes them
Want to flourish,
Gives them room to grow,
He says confidently,
He says,
Trying not to notice his legs,

Peeling in the same manner
Of the birch tree bark.
Birch tree roots,
Spreading themselves for
Miles under primitive ground,
Away from cemented buildings,

Where the trees and him
Must now reside.
Sixty acres
Of a man trying to walk again,
Trying to feel
His heart again.

Flesh cuts cause structural damage,
Nerve cuts cause structural damage,
Summer heat causes
The man and the trees
To unfold themselves,
Wishing only for water.

Forty-nine acres of thinning,
Of forming pathways through the forest,
Of keeping up appearances
(After a while a man,
Cannot live
Without the trees).

Oranges Everywhere

there is hair everywhere.
there are oranges everywhere.

there are traces of you not here
everywhere.

he said,
you must learn to share the sidewalk,
he said,
he said,
oranges are not worth the colour
they leave on your hands,
he said.

oranges are not worth the time,
the taste is not worth the time.

oranges under your pillow
in liquid and peeling form,

hair under my pillow,
another trace of you not here again.

in one piece, wishes,
in many, some time.

oranges under your pillow
you threw me there each time I left,

a treat for later,
he said.

If You Can't Cut It Whole, It Shouldn't Count

Who needs symmetry?

She tells me hearts are symmetrical.
The only symmetrical hearts that I have ever seen,
were the ones made by folding the paper
and cutting only one half of the shape out.

Cheating.

And the ones that were made for the stores,
manufactured,
measured, not real.
If symmetry is to be applied here,
I do not want it.

And what of Rod Stewart's face?
Rod Stewart's face,
is not symmetrical.

He is inticing me with one side of his smile,
one side of his eyelid shut less,
and he is not symmetrical.

If Rod won't have it, then neither will I.

I remember symmetry. Symmetry is colours
on one half of the paper only
and folding it over to share your creation.
That is symmetry if you get it right,
but if you're like me

you'll probably stick your finger in one side
before the paint is dry.

Je Ne Sais Quois

Boys must have wandering eyes,
nice shoes and dead talent.

Boys must have girls on the side,
inconspicuous smiles and wicked jeans.

Boys must have je ne sais quois,
girls on the side and something good to give.

Boys must have love,
good hair, good eyes.

Boys must have good eyes,
good love, and trust to give.

Boys must have girls, eyes, shoes,
danger on their skin, and looks to give.

One Of Three I Can Stand

when i am drunk

i act
like pink bubblegum,

and then

like
gin and tonics,

and in the morning

i act
like cappucino

brewing between the boundaries

of whatever glass
i can slide
into.

Cigarette Woman

twenty packs, twenty five packs, ten packs,
its all the same to me.
are cigarettes time bombs?

they should make them in tens,
in case you don't want as many;
my grandma used to say a ten pack
would last her a month,

she didn't smoke much though.

it lasts for half an hour,
time frozen.
why are we having
this conversation.

cigarettes are disgusting,
responsible for your teeth,
you hair, your skin.

sick,
is what you look like. you're lucky
you got away while you did.

having a conversation with my mother
is trying to win
an
impossible argument.

she remembers differently,
every time.

takes her six conversations to get it
straight in the first place.
the longest brawl we've ever had:

i'm packing my boxes.
no you aren't. i'm going to sit in your room while
you're gone and feel you.
no, i'm packing my life into boxes.

she remembers it differently
of course; changed her mind when
she decided to renovate.

got angry at me
for not
packing
my life
away.

says its my fault,
all my things have disappeared.

my mother smoked for a lifetime,
until we told her she was stopping.

we couldn't stand her life then,
or the reflection of
it onto ours.

but she thinks different of this too.

possibly,
wouldn't mind starting up again,
by the look of this cigarette pack
dissertation.

Teacher Says I'm Clever

that crazy bitch:
you watch your ass or i will kick it.

she offers me a job,
tells me later, about the respect
inside the classroom.
that crazy bitch:

i had to lie about my due date,
spitting something out about my gums,
showing her my teeth,
making her believe my lies,

and then she gave me one hundred percent,
hands down.

that crazy bitch:
she writes "Sigmund Freud" on the board
and asks my opinion before ripping
his theories apart.

that deserves an academic discourse checkmark,
dear. good for you.

that crazy bitch:
it looks like a couple people in the classroom
have a crush,
is that my in?

that crazy whore, she says:
do not fry your brain and come to my classroom,
do not fry your brains at all,
but especially do not come to my classroom,
if you have fried your brain.

so sometimes i come,
and sometimes i make an excuse,
sign my eighteen year old self out at the office,
and then meet laura out front
for a session at the water.

Only Boys With Mohawks

mohawk boy
you have sex written all over you,

your gaze,
your hair,
your hands in mine,

you must have something for my
fingers to get stuck in,

like my foot is getting stuck in your limbs
my hand is getting stuck against yours,

your shearling jacket,
mohawk boy

you are perfect for me.

and then the night is over
and you are gone.

i go back to thinking where i can get
sex as good as yours,

and then i remember the impossibility of appearances
the impossibility of sincerity,

with a boy like you.

Life Inside Her Womb

it is not even worth it anymore
listening to the iron thread
twisting itself inside my skull.

its not even worth it.

don't show her the light
you should have known,
and now she wants it,
more than you did.

don't show her the light.

don't listen to the womb screaming
in the morning and at night,
a wooohha woooh aa whooooo
has someone been a baaaad boy?
yes you haaaaveeee.

don't talk to my child that way,
my child is a person.

it's not even worth listening to
the iron thread
twisting its way inside and out
of the left side of my brain

because there is nothing
she can do
to stop it now.

Fancy Meeting You Here

the woman in the roses
has been watching you
since you came into the
theatre.
you laugh, she laughs.
each time you laugh,
so does she.

letter, letter, laugh,
laugh, laugh, letter, letter.

everytime you laugh,
so does she,
watching you from her seat
two rows back and one row over.

the woman in the roses
has been watching you
since I got here.

Apples, Please

i used to ask my mother for apples
just so i could watch her use the"machine"
that cut them into perfect pieces.

and then the apple
would get brown over the time it took
me not to eat it.

today i carved all of the skin off
of an apple and i cried at the empty shell
of it that was left behind, left standing
perfectly on the table as though i had never
removed it in the first place.

The Moon In the Wind

The moon is shining bright today
and I think I found you.

Those are the most clever blacks
that I have ever seen.

That is the most clever word
that I have ever seen.

You used to ask me to marry you
every time I found you sitting under
the moon.

Will you be my hippie?
You could have said
but instead you made me promises
that you could never keep.

And now I want you
to be me
and I want to be you too.

Black Like This (Getting Lost in Acronyms)

this sheath reminds me of the times
we spent talking around each others
lives on your couch one night.

so you bought the dress for tonight, did you?
that's crazy.

you're crazy.
there we go again with romance.
there we go again with thinking we are fitting
into each others palms again.

there we go with taking off our clothes
again
and being naked.

i like sleeping beside you tall friend.
its like slipping under each others eyelids
for a second, and smearing the black and red
we find, across each others faces,

and then waking to find each other tall again.
or small i suppose.

i wish that you
would pull the sheets over my head again,

like you did that time i woke only to find myself
cold and naked on your bedspread
and you creeping up quietly,

lifting my pale skin into your arms
and cocooning me into your comforter
and into your warm body.

this sheath reminds me of all the mistakes
we make in the morning,

lifting keys off of the table and
never finding words enough to make each other
want to stay.

when she saw you
she said, i get it.

and today i wear you,
this sheath

over my skin
as though there is nothing

underneath it
as though i am myself again.

Windy Situation

they forgot to shut the door
on the masquerade ball,
all the people that do work here.

i've been walking around
with my head cut off,

i mean,

i've been floating around
with my head cut off,

i mean,

i've been pushed around
with my head cut off,

all day now.

do you play the cello, masquerade?
do you play the banjo, masquerade?
do you play the flute dear, masquerade?

,all day.

Why do you call her searching, I must know.

who are the people that come here?
i must know them.

look inside your wooden place,
and hand me the key,
we are all the same here,
we all came from trees.

find yourself a Muse,
and paint them.
i've got a Muse around.

look yourself inside,
and paint all the things you see,
a plate, a fork, a tree.

who are the people that come here?
that became here.
i must know
a single part of where they come.

Do You Mind If I Sit Here?

And by sit here I mean sit,
Asian pride.

I seek comfort in you.

It Sounds Better If You Whisper

there are gems falling from the sky,
much unlike the ones around my wrist
or the ones adorning mon parapluie;

not one place of the sidewalk left
untouched,
not one side of my flighty
armour left unsparkled by them.

there are gems
falling
in all directions
from the sky,

forming sheets of glass where we step,
look, fall,

think to ourselves,
what would it be like,

to sparkle like that,
send warning;
what would it be like,

to fall in sheets against the sky.

i knew the night would end like this
while i stood inside the quiet house,
shaking gems from empty hands.

my thoughts fermented by them,
thinking i might have evidence
enough now,
to leave.

Charmed, I'm Sure

never know when you might
be found or by who.

he says, "baby you look great,
what's your trade."

The Lovely

Little Sister,
Please don't beat me, Little Sister.
I've got nothing left in this world,
If you do.
This is it.

(It's only natural I know,
For you to grow,
But please,
Please just don't).

I Bought a Necklace; You Bought Self Tanner, Bleach and a Ticket to Cancun.

I envy your disillusionment,

your jaded,
self-involvement,
your tired hands,
weak and dying hair,

your complaints,
and
or bragging rights.

I envy your lack
of perception,

of concern,

your ability to see the world
at such a level

(you will hear, "know" but
never change).

I envy your lack of need
to impress me,
surpass me,
be me.

I envy your life,
the money wasted on vain endeavours,

and your sense of disillusion,
with everything that is real.

It Ain't Published, And It Ain't Good.

i want us to travel
across this map filtered paradise,

eating new food together,
buying new clothes together,
learning new words together,
shaking new hands.

heating our curls straight
between two plates
to strike the boys eyes

as pretty.

not the same girl as before
i am sure,
sarah, caitlin, diane, marissa,
whatever

we have no need for names,
just earrings and drinks and boys
and new skin
and new shoes
and new food
and new tables,

and you will see new words
and the time at which
they grace my pen
and you will read my stories
of the world

of our adventures,
growing slowly in and out
of each other,
curly hair raving in the wind,
the thought that roots like
these came from genes the same,

and we will laugh and dance
and you will see my words,
and you will see that poetry
my friend is not bashing or scared
or lonely or desperate

but a photo of my face
with your face smiling in the background,
our hair fading into each others,

noone able to tell where it started.

"What are you doing?" "Trying to make sex into words"

how am i ever to get
your long legs through those skinny jeans of you?
i thought this
before you pulled them off,
pulling on some pajama bottoms instead,
flannel, checked, soft beige,
so unlike you;
more like the curtain hanging by the tub.

bewildered i sat,
resting from my chattiness,
or maybe just too worked up to have anything to say.
my sister gave me these.
ah yes, our common ground,
our fragile common ground.

i saw a picture of your sisters,
the wedding picture.
yes: how strange that you remembered.

i don't feel much,
just that our bodies are welded together,
not like strangers in this one man apartment,
but as friendships nutted close in a field of stillness.
what imagination
i conjure as you hold me.
our bodies together,
limbs fallen between like sticks,
my leg sliding off your flannel bottoms:
the most real thing i remember.

Lucky Feet That Boy.

hesitant as the marijuana
swept hidden in a jar,
the smirnoff bottle
swept plastic rolls
across the floor,

the red book of ginsberg
i swift through on vday
searching for cock
and people's magazine,

the history i aim
to lack to know,

the friendly grass on
her backyard estate,
and her room in the attic
of the old mansion,

as country flags on silver plates
swept tight around my wrist;

hesitant like feet the ground
reaching barely
of her unguarded coils.

hesitant hand,
growing fast and large,

strangled sappled jaw,
prickled back hair
grazing your fingertips
as he learns to trust
the william at your feet,

diesel jeans across your ass
and the sincerity
across the jar
you keep hidden
'neath your hat
sodden loose around
your head.

Sole is Sold to Strangers

sole is white,
sole is black,
and that is why this suits us.

its like,
no, you have a soul
its just burning.

bright orange
potent red,
or burgundy like the love between us,
harvest as the sun inside us grows.

harvest like three kids
and a new mother
in a pumpkin patch,
framed in wood.

or black sole,
soul,
and white honest sole.

madness
and wantness and needs
led us here,
to moulding ourselves,
squishing ourselves in,
loving ourselves,
and learning to share.

you are my friend,
boat sole shoe
i love your fringe,
inked suede colour,
the way you feel on
my foot, good friend.

you can pay me the money
when need be or favour
need be returned.

Oh God, I Screwed Over My Girl Crush.

what a day.

where do i begin hmmm.
scared,
hmmm i'm sorry,
what am i going to do now.

nothing.
what pretty cheeks you have,
what pretty words you have,
what pretty brain you have,

bold girl.
so sharing poetry
is wisdom,

enough of that,
enough of this,
its getting old.

au revoir then girl,
in a language we both
can understand.

i am sorry for my lacking,
wise girl, bold girl
i thought you were more brave.

i will bite my words
away from here,
i am sorry.

Picture of my eyes, lashes crushed together, matted with loving you, JW.

not quite
the discrete reference
you were looking for,
i know.

can you cry
alone in your room
all night

because you don't know how
to tell someone
how beautiful they are

how pretty their words
are across the screen
and finally coming out
of their head

into my eyesight,
my hindsight
i am floored

by you
and ashamed of me
in front of you,

where do i get words
as pretty as yours,

but you proclaim your beauty now
and i love it.

passionate soul,

how would i dare
stick around now;
i am so little
and i love you,

how would my words
dare stick around now,
you are beauty
and i love you.

Whole Life

you can call me bitch,
can i call you diatribe.

can i tell you what i think about you?
tangled up in blue,
lets get tangled up together,
or not.

i had a boy once,
someone to pretend not to know with,
to pretend to know all with,
no thanks.

enough of a guy,
he wants to put his arms around me
and feel how big he is
but you can't have a friendship
on that many conditions,
on that many things to remember.

i'm here for the cocaine,
bitch.

i'm here for the cocaine,
maybe later the sex,
and then later the family values,
and i hope you get the nerve,

or i'll have to get drunk
and do it myself,
sad right?

Running With the Wind

My papa talked today,
walked

six

miles

today,
and more.

Says hes gonna do four
per one day
and more.

Says he felt close
to God today,
took a break and
prayed.

Says hes gonna
run again
some day,

like he used to.
Ain't reason why
he shan't.


Running,


running with


the wind.


Wish I kept my
papa's words,
his passion
on that paper
for days like
these
when he tells me
he will


run


again.


Ain't no reason
why he can't.

Nine Kids in the Family

old man old man,
hobble along,
old man.

how did you become
so old
man.

brother flies airplanes,
just got a new job,
took your sweetie skiing
from the top.

brother has a wife
he don't like no more.

brother
drives a taxi cab
in Kingston,
reads Woolf and Bronte,
is one of the numbers in the
statistics
talking about how undergrads
aren't worth a thing.

brother
is your friend,
your only friend at a time,
your best friend now.
helps you out with money,
gonna help you die one day.

brother's
got a party in his pocket,
an asian bride,
and noone to tell him
how to behave.

then you've got those sisters,
each aware of what alone is like,
had their true loves taken
one by one.
heart attack on the ice,
slow and trying cancer,
dead in a car crash
left her alone getting married,
bearing kids,
living life in the sidelines,
but now she's got someone with
nice hair and big money to keep
her company.

she says i'm a spitting image.

old man old man
how did you become so young.

In Person

i lost my ring in moving cars,
with open arms around me
and this is what you said:
please don't start acting like Caitlin.

the empty spots in all my drawers
make me think of you.
the things i find between them
are all the things of me you know,
the things between the empty spots.

but the empty spots
are what i need you for.
you've never seen the murmer in my heart
or the blank space in my head,
the toe length distance
that describes who i am.
you've never seen me cry,
or even fathomed it
and i don't need those boxes,
i already have them.

what i'm concerned with is my father,
his shaky voice and rotting limbs,
the empty trails he plows,
friends who think too much of
the clothing in their closet,
and the empty street in midland,
where i have walked many times
beside you and without you
along with all the empty space
that is between us.

The Wiccan Guide to Healing

material, material girl:
what happened to all the steez,
where did all the money go,
material girl.

is Wicca a religion?
i don't know.
is this a religion,
do you feel you are ok?

convince yourself that you are
and you will be fine.

they can't look past you,
material girl;

your name on paper
in a jar of honey sealed tightly
in the freezer,
and all will be fine:
do you love me?

you will lose belief in knives
and fresh spices,
i promise.

noone wants to look you in the eye.

Writing Poetry Drunk, Girl.

Why are you so sad,
pretty girl? So pushed
down in the dirt,

so DRAMATIC; why do you find it so hard to keep
ground, when you are speaking ALL THE TIME...

I wondered when you would speak again
and here you are, more
but all the same, prettier than I once thought,
prettier than one with strength of yours should be.

Broken table,
put your legs together,
You are beautiful.

Daina says:

roses are red
violets are blue
suck my dick
yhou're a p[rick

my night with daina
and erin

*
vogue, april 1st and 2nd
grant hall
tickets on sale soon at destinations.

New section of the bookstore.

all the places i have been
or want to go

called i hope
you find me here

(the soldier finds it funny)

Night Finds Us Staring At Words Representative Of Who We Want The World To Think We Have Become

thank you for melodies
at nightime,
i will never forget you,
shaken.

you are wonderful,
you are sad.

i will cry at the death of you
at the continuing death of this
of all the commonalities,
slowalities, romanticalities,
perfectalities, mistakealities
that our removal from each other
endured.

goodbye place,

i want you
in mine
and vanish
the death of us.

let's get better.

You Are Tall

juxtaposition
of body
against mine
of beauty
against mine.

let's do it again
on the lonely street
of your name,
rubbing your past
against mine
folded at the edges
faded across the
distance of time
and the
youngest
oldest,

i just want
to talk
and talk
to you.

You're Never Going to Get Married Unless You Learn to Drink Beer

It's not only this
but the maple syrup in the kitchen,
and the tangles in the back of my hair,
and you looking out the window,
and taking my clothes when you can't find yours,
and the way my clock has been ticking
ever since you fixed it.
And the words you never say,
and the words you don't know how to say,
and the words you don't know how to want to say,
and the way you hate it here
and need to be here.

Sticky fingered child,
Proud little youngest child,
Sad conformed and missing child,
Proud in the morning child,
Sad lonely little child,
Proud looking out the window child.