Gentleman

he never wanted kids
with his women.

didn't expect the three of us
on his front step
returning his pie plate.

didn't think
we'd ever talk at him
the way we talked at her.

his wife,
the nurse who brought
us into life,
never could bear him children,
and he was quite afraid,
of us on his step.

supposed funny
like the last one,
but he was shy,
so obviously nervous.

so obviously unsure
of what to say.

Things I'd Like You to Catch Me In

how am i ever to get
your long legs through those skinny jeans of yours?
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 remember.
i don't feel much,
just that our bodies are welded together,
not like strangers in this one man apartment,
but as suitors nutted close in a field of stillness.
what imagination i conjure as you hold me,
our bodies together,
our limbs fallen between like sticks,
my leg sliding off your flannel bottoms,
the most real thing i remember.

Fuller Avenue

your smile is tender
and you don't know what's going on
and you don't care about what's on the news
or what your children think matters in their modern world

your eyes still sparkle
from the moment you noticed the future was priceless
and the moment you realised the past doesn't matter
and chose to remember everything from here

you'll never remember
the eldest likes white bunnies
and white cake to match
and you'll smile while you eat the coconut ice cream
and chocolate cake you bought her for her birthday

you'll always remember
the son likes his bike
and is not afraid to use it
to fly from high places
and you'll never remove his ramp from your yard

you'll refuse to remember
the youngest doesn't want to be a runner
and does not want to be a bookworm
and she likes this boy beside her at the table
because all she wants is love

your face is growing lines
and your new teeth are square
and you're starting to look unfamiliar
but your smile is tender
and your eyes still sparkle
even though you don't have a clue,
what's going on.

Cuisine

i know how to cook.

i watched my father learn for years
after my mother kindly asked him to leave.

i watched him go
from dirt in the bottom of bowls
to succulent meals made with patience,
practice, and respect.

the questions i have,
are only technicalities.

i know what finished looks like
in the bottom of the pan,
know what colour the peppers ripe to,
what smell the mix should have.

my father says:
maybe this disease is a blessing in disguise,
(i've never known myself so well,
never been able to enjoy waiting,
never cooked a meal so great in my life).

he's right.
these days he'd filled with patience, practice
and respect. and when we come home,
he's usually relaxing with a book or binoculars
at the window,
with a meal prepared to sautee in seconds.

bought me a blender so i could learn the easy way,
but i know how to cook, when i want to.

Tall Cliff Over Water

got here by boat.

no leaving this hut except
for a twelve hour hike,
over hills, through the forest,
past the broken lighthouse.
(we were our own guides here).

i see two german girls,
one with dark brown, sgraggled hair,
tied low in a pony, the other's scalp
covered in twisted blonde coils.

they are friends,
maybe sometimes lovers
(at this moment in time,
they only have each other).
they are beauty, and my father sees it,
snaps photos of the sun on their faces,
instead of the water lapping strong
against the stacked, jagged rock.

a cliff without boundaries,
with a grassy knoll right to the edge,
where the smell of the sea was strong,
and the thought of drowning after falling
stood right before you in the fierceness of the waves,
the steady loud of the wind,
the great unknown of what lay waiting
underneath the aqua surface,

(maybe this is where i learned
to be afraid of heights).

we thought we were alone in the place
until these two showed up.
got driven here in a boat by a man who
must have been native.

the girls traveled with us for days,
all crammed in the back of the rental car,
me smelling the aroma of unwashing that came
from their hairy pits,
i breathed it, was shocked by it,
and then breathed it again.

they turned us on to banana chips and foreign accents,

taught my father to relax
amongst three young kids,
taught us all how to share our bed,
our meals, our lives with total strangers.

we learned together how to discover this kiwi land,
how to treat the locals without giving them cash.

the canadian man, with his three small kids,
who traveled with them graciously,
across this fruited paradise;
gave them a lift, when they were tired of hiking,
spent all morning tying their things to the top of the car,
so they could come along for the ride.
i wonder if they remember.

A (Summer) Party

everyone forgave you
the second you came in late
wearing mostly your sunglasses,

hiding the wealth,
underneath,

teaching me to soothe
the
uncalled for
flamboyance
that came
with the time left

in my mother's womb.

A Christmas Party

i came up the stairs
to find peace and quiet,
(after the flury of folks kissing cheeks,
making jokes, laughing loud,
discussing now, then, later),
and i thought (peace)
and dylan sang
and i remembered you were here.

Christmas Eve Day

there is a tree in the living room
that is empty of empathy,
empty of accessories
except for a string of lights,
and some solemn mint candy canes.

it rotates, looks good from the window,
and it is fake. looks the same,
every single year.

there is a woman eating pea soup,
in a turtleneck and khakis,
with hair that is cut, in the most
unsmooth of layers. jagged lines,
old-fashioned, uncaring of societal expectations,
stuck here.

i have to pretend to be someone i am not
ten minutes after i enter my mothers home,
because she doesn't have the guts to look me in the eye,
or the self-esteem to swallow me.

(or maybe its me with the problem)

Blue Mountain On a Windy Day

the rhythm of the snow
crunching under tires,
tells me that i am home.
my eyelids are shut heavy,
my body is pressed firm against the door.

i fell asleep to the whistling of the wind,
dancing through the tires,
streaming through the slush, and muck
that was collecting itself
in the tracts;
dreaming of slabs of snow on hills
where the wind dancing
was made material by the crystals
it collected along the way.

the wind whirring
through the curves of my body,
doing the tango or some other sort
as i glided.

if the wind picks up anymore,
our ride to the top will be thrown,
and we will be left floating

gliding through the sky at the wind's
own rhythm, own plan, own time,

finding our breath at precious angles.

the crystals fly high and swerve,
fighting some invisible enemy,
before dissolving;
providing entertainment
for our quieted stills.

gather gracious at the top,
and we breathe calm
having made it past crevases and shadows,
as the wind pushes and pulls us,
collecting our bodies in its fury,
resisting our attempts to fall smooth
and soothing us with the warm undertones,
of the directions it throws us in.

Heaven and Barbara Walters

Heaven,
Where Does it Exist, and How
Do We Get There?
(why am i watching Barbara Walters trying
to answer this question?)

first terrorist bombers living only to die martyrs,
walking in circles to keep their limbs alive,
talking to Barbara,
one on one
in a cell;
why is she here if she's judging them already?
this woman doesn't listen.

next the Dalai Lama;
his wisdoms going to be the theme
of my winter break. last night
after meeting "Howard" in the parking lot,
we sat out back of the movies rolling love
and smoking friendship. laughing to tears
over how suiting these pages were,
reading straight from the words, of this happy old man.

Caitlin: page 36, on the subject of politics,
so unexpectedly suiting
that i've been searching the world wide for his words
all day. (can't find them)

Dayna: "ohhh this one's good"; something about
the moon and the stars,
i'm thinking of her mind, her world, her magical
landscape; she likes it.

Anna: page 110, compassionate? yeah right.
(last page of the book, did she think she was good
at summing things up?)
"you're not compassionate either" she scoffs over
popcorn and you-didn't-tell-us-they-were-ginormous size fountain pop
(99 cents for the upgrade he says, "is it worth it?" we ask; intensity
in our glare, he knows why we're laughing)

Johnny Cash and June Carter,
excellent. i keep criticizing everything, thinking how happy i am
about the way things have been going. thinking i'm going to research
this bullshit and see if Cash really was such a drug retarded fool.

the Dalai Lama is talking to Barbara, stifling giggles.
"are you a god, she asks?" oh Barbara, think about where
you come from.
"if i'm a god, then why do i have this eye infection"
oh, the gross realism of disease and decay, don't think
i can handle it, but he's smiling.

Barbara in all her Los Angeles, asks if she can kiss him
on the cheek. the dramatic moment of the show,
awkward, material, superficial (she's going to keep
that kiss and show it to everyone).

Dalai Lama smiles, laughs, jumps away, gives her
a nose rub, says that's how they do it
in another world.
apparently him and Richard Gere, they're good friends.

some atheists: cue my exit to leave.
i don't have time for pessimism,
especially not in a world where this happy
wise, old man exists on the front of books in cars,
where twenty dollars buys you all that fun,
where $14.97 gets you two obscenely large pops,
a good twenty minutes of knee slapping,

and free, extra large refills
of popcorn.

Orange Jumper

there's something about orange,
that wins you,

dances with you,
teases your hair into coils.

something alluring
about the forward motion
and constant certainty of your words
that beguiles me into thinking

i am nowhere
that i exist solely
against


the rotted kisses
of these golden treasures.

(against the strangling devotion
to these weathered words)

flamboyant,
envied,
diffident,


against the calmness of your intentions,
the fruit of your endings,
slicing sharply, disolving softly,

brewing golden across the screen.

Hilarity in all its Sincerity

i appreciate the things i say that make you laugh. i always have.
sometimes i think they are everything i've got.
pride glowing through my bashfulness, so aware of my lips across my teeth, my smile so big, i fear they may be protruding. you laughing is like my life, in a summary of how i think it should be. and i don't think i'm ever more aware than at those moments.

let's drive past my house, and see what it looks like now.
it looks like it did before except, you aren't in it. (you laugh.)
remember, the tinfoil coiled long and flimsy, the cheap walkie talkies, our tools for communication? well those are gone, but everything else is still the same.

decided has never been a word that i've been able to define without you. i appreciate the moments that i make you laugh because they let me know that you appreciate that i am here, and my existence seems a little bit more worth it.

geeeez just get us something, anything. it's not that difficult, just get us something you would like.
let her pass, reflect on that last thought,wait, (roll down window), not quite something you would like. you laugh.
she comes back with skittles. we look, we laugh.
good choice.

i remember the time your sister followed me home, sometime after jake just first dissappeared. i thought i was going to die that night and all i could think was,

thanks anna, for walking me home. you always brought a knife with you when you walked me up the street, but more than often you didn't walk me home at all.

One Day Backward

Francine and Scott
did nothing today except love.

And cook me breakfast (it being
the first meal of the day constituted it
breakfast even at 2:00 pm).

I was lying in my bed in
the aftermath of last night,

staring periodically at the icicles
growing bigger and sharper
outside my window.

Everytime I looked, they were longer, stronger
(and I in my bed couldn't fathom moving,
I kept picturing the curve of the muscles on your arm
from the last time you were over).

I always think of icicles in terms of breaking,
snapping from the awning
and shattering to the ground

when maybe I should be thinking
of putting them in my mouth and tasting the cold
(the cold and the dirt from the awning).

"Get out of bed. We're cooking breakfast,"
she said.

"A real breakfast, bacon and eggs.
Get out of bed."

Windows

i was so weak,
such a coward
that you had to prick my finger for me;

"prick"
and we watched as the blood pooled into a droplet
on the tip.

sat restless on the dusty,
hardwood floor,
smiling nervously at each other
across the fires.

you had to prick our fingers for us,
already having grazed with what death could take away;

you always were the bravest one.

Little Women in Of Me

One: stern, stable, saddled up for the long ride.
balanced, steady, stout.
static, hearty, healthy.

Two: gypsy woman with your tarot cards,
dream books, mysterious paper rolls,
"you're mother is a witch; a good witch"
so am i.

Three: a boy to my girl,
bowlcut, bravery, treachery, friendship.
pumpkin heads, sales, treehouse.
leader, ladder, friend.

Four: canvases, paintbrushes, frida, pablo.
baking, nudity, and louis vuitton,
glamour, goodness, limited determination,
"change your sheets twice a day; good aura"
not shy no more.

Five: quasi, friendly;
the kindest heart, candy bowls,
so close to a mother i stole;
prada so kind you don't even want it.

Six: have you ever let someone you've let down, die,
without saying sorry?
the next time i saw her she was in an urn.
lost sisters, dirty tears.
selena, chicken houses, a boy to a boy to my girl.
stuck in upper level windows, and spice.

Seven: madness, fringe, accents,
strokes, addictions, "not so fat now";
do you even remember who she is, i am.
gossip, stars, hair dye, letters,
addresses, hearts, knitted dolls, salvation.
"a beautiful woman she is".

Eight: faint, meager, static, steady,
wrinkles, hands, love, care,
the first born of the youngest, love.
mother, good mother, strong mother.
winter, cold, icy, smile, photograph.

Nine: all of the above, plus vodka, and water.
a little less strength, more looking,
red cheeks, pale skin,
a little less strength, more looking.

Back Alley

frigid cold outside today,
like these other days that have been coming,
to this party in the ghetto.
you love that.
frigid, crisp, uninviting.

what is it she called me?
a bundle of,
a bundle of love?

well i'm a bundle of something.
frigid, crisp, cold, uninviting.
a bundle of absurdity

and i need to learn when to stop.

selfish intentions,
fleeting through my skull,
does he love you so much
he told you,
how cold i am?

Mr.Keats said,
a poet is like a chameleon,
with no colour,
but the colour of his surroundings.

i'll put that down as my problem.
i'm a bundle of something.
frigid, cold, and uninviting,
and lonely,
as far as he said, as far as she can see,

frigid, crisp, cold, lonely,
like this party in the ghetto.

Daddy Died Young

did you have some love today?
you're talking about God and his children,
you're talking about empathy
and what others are blind to see.

where'd you get that love from?
i'm looking at your eyes,
i'm looking at your smile,
i'm looking at those children you speak of.

where'd you get that love?

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

green square room
with a high wooden ledge
and window across from bed

with a crack in the ceiling
that sounded like a gunshot

whispers above
of someone rising and walking across the kitchen floor
maybe cooking breakfast
or maybe filling a saringe
full of the elegance that will sustain him

soft bubbles of water
as a legacy is passed down
to our new generation

we know who you are
and we know where you're going
and we can't bear to not believe you

green room fills with smoke
and we don't think you'll mind
we wonder if someone can really see us
dancing around the thought at the core of our minds

Smijies, My Love

you loud and ravenous baby
i will love the life right out of you,

heckling youngsters,
changing focus with the rules,

dancing too long,
too hard, too loud.
hope that beautiful babe you're pinning
knows whats shes got herself into.

i'm breathing in the outskirts,
inside, outside,
neither nor.

do not bring your social mixups here, butterfly
i do not do not do not
i do not want them.

i want you,
nakedcoldandunafraid
for once in front of me.

do not bring your coats,
or your drinks, or your boys into this game,

firm breasts, hot hands, soft love,
an innermost exhaustion
when i come around here.

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).