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.

Luke

thank you for walking me home,
after i couldnt get home from the bar;

thank you for being my boyfriend,
oh wait, you are the worst boyfriend ever;

oh wait that was wrong from the beginning,
thank you for walking me home.

go to australia already.

(do you want to go to the park
and sit on a rock
and ask little children for a lighter
because we are amateurs and too nervous
to act normal?
i do).

Maryjane

She loves you baby, baby.

I love you baby, baby.

What a pretty girl
you will become.

Baby, baby.

Marie

Mari
e, (Maria Maria)
How it should be said.

I keep thinking I'm seeing you everywhere,
Somedays, when I am really tired,
I see you in my hair,
and the bags under my eyes,
and I understand you.

And I see you in the mirror in front of me,
the tiered angled mirror:
Long hair, matted curls, dead bouffon, and frizz,
You concession stand whore.

Part Two

Who am I but the plougher,
the children, the boat,

oblivious to the plight of Icarus.

Who am I but the one who laughs
at the passing tradegies,

the fool on the edge
who points and laughs
before rolling backward
from the stair.

What happened to you?

Writing poetry at the desk
has become a fallen task.

I keep dreaming of you writing
to me, dancing with me, pushing
me away.

Yet I have nothing.

Part One

How young I once became,
Kissing other youngsters,
Thinking myself aged, matured,
Sedated in the image of myself
That still remains the same.

How old I have become,
And yet still only twenty,
I have not seen enough
Not breathed enough,
To want to go home now.

I have no trouble finding hope
In the aftermath of ruckus,
I find a block in a pile of dirt,
And I glee.

I have no trouble
Seeing myself dead
Or alive beside my family,
But now imagining myself
Is painted by everything
I no longer have a need to accomplish.

The aftermath of videos, bottles,
Rafts, clams, sand, shoes,
Colours, makeup, words, the world,
Is that I am still searching for the same,
Finding only the new in the past
And the future.

Living has become like dying,
With every stroke, brush,
Every inhaled breath of repentance.

Fuck Off Cohen

i know why women cry,
why they remove their makeup,
take off their jewels,
strip themselves of clothes

and stare themselves in the mirror,
every once and a while,

breaking their knees
between the loves they leave,
and those they seek.

it is not vanity
that serves this.

Being Pretty is a Chore

the thing i hate the most
about doing the dishes
is filling up the water.

finally,
something i agree with.

i don't like people who tell me how to act,
what to say,
who i should be,
and that's what this is becoming.

what happened to all the stories
you used to tell me about your life
your journeys,
the jewels you hide in your pocket,

or in a pouch full of dream dolls,
your father bought you
in the dominican republic.

please stop talking.

i need a rest, a break,
whatever happened to your face,
to your voice.
i need to call my dad and find out whats going on here.

this is my daughter he says,
grabs my hand and smiles.

she filled up the sink,
so i dirtied the water and cleaned
the dishes, for the family, the household,
the people living here.

how many days has it been since
you shot me in the head?

stop being stupid.

Place to go Home

more chocate daddy
more chocate

(you always need a place to go home to)

so he builds a palace
in the forest
paints my bedroom green.

she says it too
but i don't believe her;

futon adjacent to the windows
where the bed used to lie,

vcr on the dresser,
shelf emptied,
boxes of me
filling the closets.

more chocate daddy,

unpiling life
gets tiring
after the seventh box
and the seventh empty spot
where nothing needed
is found.

no caitlin, you already had
enough chocolate.
no caitlin...caitlin, listen
to your mother.

It's a Happy Day!

leave Allen Ginsberg
for another day,
and shes right.

but still i go back
for a second time
and browse.

cross me crying in the poetry
section of the bookstore,
clutching books of many.

i found myself
and i couldn't leave it on the shelf,
streaming tears
finding all the words i was reading
on my cheeks,
and i couldn't leave it.

i notice the man staring at the freak
in the corner
(me)

and i cry still
and buy all the books i can afford
that make me think i'm something.

Ricardo

you're out of it
but thats ok
i wish that i was too.

there are ghosts living in my house.
there are ghosts in my house too
but the ghosts in my house are real.

my sister can't sleep alone.
i couldn't sleep alone for three years
because i had a dream a hooker came in my
room and tried to kill me with a gun.

if the person who is sleeping with my sister
leaves her in the middle of the night
we find her crying in the bathtub.

Places I've Never Been

i want to shine coins

in all the places
i've never been before

to see what they look like
without you,

and if they look lonely,
like i do at the present time,

then i want to leave a treat there
so all my spider friends

will come and leave pretty things
like legs, and arms, and webs, and bugs

wrapped in cocoons,

and then
i will go to all the places i have never been
without you

and stare at all the pretty spider things
that have been left
in the place of so much something

and nothing to hold on to.

To a Girl I Don't Know

the things i could write of you
the times you have left me on the street
dancing to the beat of the thoughts
of you in my head.

the girl in the brown cardigan,
the sunglasses,
coming in late with her coffee in hand,
and her soul on her sleeve,
showing the world with every action
just how brave she has become,

inspiring in those who don't know her
how to be confident, contended, creative,
lost
and found.

and i know nothing of you,
yet still
i am bound to the intrigue
of tapping

the sources you leave me
to try and find you
in another street
another room
another lettering of words.

Boy, Really?

if you had said to me again
"don't fuck with me",
i would have stepped away
from the bottle,

not tried to turn this
into a celebration.

i would have left my gay at home,
kept my feet more firmly on the ground,
maybe would have cleaned my room a little.

"i can't believe the first time"
was all you had to say
to keep me the way
i have been since i ran into
your room, a note on the door,
my name spelt almost right,

a composition so arranged.

a few blacked out phone calls
sharing the worried character
of your numbing fingertips
was all i had
to make me think
our initial deliverance
was fair.

a picture falling from
its place on the wall,
was all there was,
in the middle of the night
you gave me away,

as you poured your mouth full
of liberation
from what you thought
you were getting yourself
into,
(exhausting yourself, you told me)

to let me know
that things were
only going to be

like this scratch on my face,
left from the acceleration
of buildings losing their place,
and the sharp corners
of the wooden frame against
my happy eyelids.

*
the less i think of you
the more i worry if you think of me

"Poetry is Dead"

he says, he says.
he says.

like the squirrel is dead on the lawn,
interrupting my walk on this day
(thrown there), (died there),
red blood matted to its hair
head crushed against the ground;
stop talking about death, the dead
the dying, stop talking about that.

if you're there i don't want
to be there.

there you are walking down the street,
with your iridescence hanging capaciously behind you
like the flag of a foreign place
i need to go to.

look at you looking at
your incompetent admirers.

he says it,
stares strangely around the room
(strange is a beautiful word, but does not count
near manifestos, new moves, romance is dying);
the irony in the classroom is stupid,
hangs heavy like the blood in the fur,
we're all here to be different,
and come out all the same

- with some exceptions, romance.

a dead squirrel does nothing to impede
these thoughts of you
and or
these thoughts of stability
(as i have been on a downslope lately
thinking about the dead, dying, etc).

poetry is dead, and or dying,
and along with it,
the lot of us who give a damn about the words
not worth a damn in themselves.