Genesis

Everything Has It's Beginning.
this poem has it's genesis on a monday night
11:30
walking down the street
with just a few speeding cars
for company

i have just finished reading andrea gibson's blue blanket for maybe the 50th time
wishing that i could wave my pain into metaphors like she can
with the effortless ease that her mother's mothers
wove thread into cloth to clothe their children their husbands and then themselves

i feel the only thing i have to write about
is my own inability to feel something to write a poem about
and i think My God! am i to spend the rest of my life writing poetry about poetry?

still walking i pull out my notebook
i flip through the pages
one eye paying only half of it's attention to where i am going
the rest and the other take in these scratched out remnants of poems that never were
incomplete works i pray
do not one day
become metaphors for my life

i stop at the page dated october 7 2007
two words stand on the top of the page
"My Father"
the rest is blank
because what can you say about a man you do not know?

my father and i never talk
never share our stories and i know
this is because his father and his father's father never really talked to their sons they were too busy worrying about the farm and the mortgage and griping about the goddamn liberals in ottawa trying to mess everything up

i think
put my notebook away
the cars are still going past
and i am still quiet

my father does not have a farm
or a plow
or a mortgage
he has a a motorcycle and a backyard
and maybe that's why he was ale to hold me while i cried after my mother asked me if the reason i didn't go to church was because i thought i was gay
and tell me he loved me
and was proud
of me

i remember now that my father once wrote my mother a poem
and that it was the clearest expression of love i have read

Everything Has A Beginning
my Father was mine.

Exploding On Identity (EDITED)

Usually when one introduces themselves
they include a nugget
some very small glimpse into who this person is beyond just a name and a face
"Hello, my name is Alfred, I am a painter."
"Hello, my name is Gladys, I am a mother."
"Hello, my name is May, I am a transexual performance artist."

I find this difficult.
I'm not sure who I am anymore.
It's not that I've lost my identity
rather
I just jumped off of a cliff
and it didn't feel like following.

This point
this glorious precipice I have launched myself from
is very high
I didn't notice this before I jumped
I'm not sure what is at the bottom
or who I am
It's hard to tell
with this wall speeding away beside me the wind in my head as I plummet

So many people roads choices are still waiting
and when I happen on them
they are gone so fast
I must fall several hundred feet
further down
before I can make sense of them


I write poems as I fall
to leave some trace
some small part of my soul to record where I've been.

A thought occurs.
What if the end of my plummeting is not a happy one?

Ideas like this send a black cloud of panic that covers my eyes blocking out the wall the fall I scream STOP! but I don't and the cloud doesn't leave until
I remember
I wanted to be here
I chose to fall toward something new
I am here to find
catch
be carried and completed by this light sick feeling in my stomach like every flight of every bird there ever was is mixing around with my lunch
and waiting for the moment I scream
and explode on my future

Unfinished Work

Just three unfinished poems. Wanted to go through the motions of typing them out, to see what I thought. All are meant to be read out loud, I think.

Reply
Sister
You talk of wombs ripped open
Invaded
destruction of a woman's soul
the resultant impossibility of heaven
of women who shold have been
conquering creatures of creation
of women without wings
exchanged for knees run raw
from too many prayers to forget his breath his hands on the neck

Sister
spare a moment for a boy
a boy torn and wrecked body crushed
body crushed body infused with poppers with drugs with fear
boy that should have been a man
a man strong a man gentle a man a symbol of justice and of hope
Where did that man go sister

I do not mean
to imply that your sisters pain her tears her tears (RIIIIIP) are less then any other pain tears (riiiiiiiiiiiip) tears
a woman clipped
a woman raped
a woman reduced to mistrust to fear
because of hate
is one of the worst tragedies this world has to offer us
flowers turned to cunts by pounding penises
singing turned to screaming

but that penis pounds more then pussy
it pounds a boy too scared to breathed to say no to know to say know
too scared too young to know this is not what this is supposed to be

A man three times his size
fucking any trace of the man that should be from this boy
a man too selfish
too greedy
too uncaring and destroyed himself to tell this boy what a man is
how to be one

(UNFINISHED)


Exploding on Identity
Upon introduction one says who one is
this is difficult for me

I am at a point
a glorious golden precipice     set above a pristine pool
or a terifyingly turbid sea
I'm not sure
You see, while I was talking, I jumped from that point
and it's a long way down
to where
I hope
I'll have something of a clearer image of who I am

It's hard to tell
With this wall speeding beside me
as I plummet towards my doom
so many people roads choices are yet to be known
and the ones above are gone so fast
I can't tell what they mean
how they've changed me
until I am several hundred feet further down this wall
and I can write a poem about them on small pieces of my soul that I set loose to leave record of where my spirit has been

Another problem.

What if the end of my plummeting
is not a happy ending?

Thoughts like this send a black cloud of panic to cover my eyes blocking out the wall
making me scream STOP but it doesn't and the cloud doesn't leave me
until I can remember
that I am here to enjoy the fall
I wanted to be here
I am here to be caught away
carried
completed by the light sick feeling in my stomach
like every flight of every bird there ever was
is mixing around with my lunch
and waiting to burst out at the moment I scream
and explode all over my future

(FINISHED, NEEDS EDITS)

Sheila
when i was six my imaginary friend died in a car accident. her name was sheila.

she, of course, served only as a convinient metaphor for my naive innocence and the bliss that came with seeing the world through the eyes of a child that knows nothing of real pain
hunger
hopelessness
of the scaring shards thrown by a reality so sick, so hard, so cold, that most sane persons would die upon a merely fleeting glimpse of it

Sheila was a dragon
her hide the hue of a thousand summers worth of blue skies
her eyes every star that ever shone and was wished upon by someone in need brought down to look me in the face and tell me that I am special
her wings
the very essence of uninhibited creation

my mother and i were driving
i do no remember where but i do remember the round-about with the bushes in the middle that made a dark, inner place
i imagined that place full of mystery, secrets and i remember sheila smiling down at me

another van pulled up beside us inside was a small girl who smiled and waved at me through the window

they pulled just ahead of us
a truck swerved too fast into the circle lost control
my mother slammed on the brakes
sheila flew out the window
put herself in the truck's path
but the truck was going too fast and it slammed into the van and into sheila with a sound like the echo of the last gasps of air of a million people
and a sick punch to my idealism


(not sure if this is finished)

Dripping taps and
Dripping honey
Have not a lot in common
But that they both are memories
Of you

The tap
Is like your incessant presence
Unignorable
Persistent
And noticeable if ever absent

The honey
Is like your person-feel
You are sweet
But sticky
And you go well with tea.

I don't know. I was supposed to write someting about bacon.

Bacon
She tells me
Is like pure good.

Rhyming!

Sing a song of twenty dollars
The artist is too poor
When the landlord comes to holler
He heads right out the door.

I like to think of myself
As a plank.
Not a piece of wood
Inert
Cold
Dead.

Rather
I am a plank
the pilates move.
I'm Alive
and I move
Air and blood flows
and I breathe
But I am solid
Grounded
Strong.

Until I lose my focus,
I am strong.

When my mind wanders
or I forget
My Core
I shake
I tremble
And I begin to feel
what a precarious position
I am in.

Rewrite: Steeping

http://onepoemoneday.blogspot.com/2007/01/steeping.html

You drink too much tea
they say,
but you just shrug and pour another cup.

There's something about your tea
that makes me
quiver.

It could be the colour,
a light and clear brown
so different from their muddy coffee;
or the way it trembles
when you set it on the saucer,
like a lover that's just been
pulled away from your lips.

I sympathise.
I remember what it was like
being pulled away from those lips:
the leap in my stomach
and the urge to jump right back at them
that I always
somehow
managed to sublimate.

I think you knew how it felt.
Everytime we pulled apart
you had this mischevious little grin on your face
that said,
I know you want me.

The worst part is
you were right,
and I still do.
I want to be the the leaves
that you turn into clear
brown
tea.

Destruction, and the ability of the world to continue.

It is morning, around ten.
My pot of tea
Sits unassumingly next to my cup
and saucer.

A sugar cube rests
on my saucer,
white,
sparkling like the sand
on a perfect beach.

I drop it into my cup.
It sits,
askew,
waiting.

Lifting my pot of tea
and tipping it
I release a maelstrom of heat
and wet
wiping the sugar cube away
leaving brown tea.
Sweet,
sweet brown tea.

The steam rises
from the brown tea,
and the news
comes on CBC.

Musings 1

A small point of light
Shines in the corner of the room.
                                                  The rest of the room is dark.
                              The light is
                                             Yellow
                                           Sharp
                                         Indistinct
                                                  Because I'm not wearing my glasses

It doesn't light up anything else in the room.
It's a solitary light,
A light that is not
Prone to sharing

And I wonder
                                                  Does light
                                                  Go to kindergarten?

Shiraz Cab

From the moment I pop the cork
Smell
And pour the first glass                Love the colour.
I know what to expect from a Shiraz.

Full.
Powerful.
Always a little peppery
Hitting me in the eyes.

You're the same way.
You hit me in the eyes            Love the way you look
And the way you walk
talk
and touch me
are full of power
confidence
and beauty.

But just like a Shiraz
I love you
but I can't stand you.

Me/You

Me
light
a little frothy
awkward
like a latte in a bowl that is too big

You
darker
bitter
but smooth
like chocolate in a crinkled wrapper

She was a star.
Every saturday,
Monday,
Wednesday afternoon,
She would walk,
With her ball in a worn
   but clean
Leather bag,
The few blocks to the alley
And she would join the ladies
At the league. 

I didn't know that
She was a star.
I knew she played
But I saw her name
On a plaque

Gentlemen.

There's something about cheese and wine,
and a cream blazer,
and artful,
appropriate,
understated
(but fashionable)
people,
that seem to make life worth caring about.
Dignity,
courtesy,
respect,
knowing what to know,
doing what should be done,
and making an attempt to make life more
comfortable
for everyone.

Morning Rythm

I'm woken up most mornings
By either a gentle mix of piano
and a delicately played flute,
or Colin Meloy apologising to Steven
for losing his bicycle again.
I have friends who say
that morning wood is the best way
to start a day,
but I am of the opinion
that this is better,
and easier to clean.

Your Hair Is A Metaphor

When your hair sticks out like that
To one side, along the edge
Like the sharp edge of my desk
Which I'm always hitting my knee on
You kind of remind me of old pictures
Of my grandfather, now late
He was harder
More worn
Not like your soft carelessness
and he had on an old warn stetson
which should have fallen apart years ago
if not for the dust of a hundred head of sheep
holding it together
tying him to his home and his profession
You smile
slightly cocky and definitely embarrassed
as I reach up to try and fix it
disturbed by the thought that I might fall in love with my reincarnated granfather
I wonder if he had that same smile
When my grandmother first reached up
To fix his

There's something about you
It's not how you look
Or how you act
Or how you treat me
No
I think it's your money
You've got a lot
And you give me some.

I like your money
But don't tell anyone

My friends wouldn't be too happy
If they found I was selling out
And settling
For your money

But your money buys me nice things
Like a clean place to live
And new clothing whenever I want it
Expensive food
Rare wine
Diamonds
But I like having a clean place most
Because I don't have to clean it
Maria does.

I could go back home
With my mother
She wants me back anyway
And she'd talk to me at night
And not expect me to smile
And put on a brave face
And flirt with the foreign oil tycoon
When I'm not happy
And just want to cuddle with you and eat ice cream

Mum's her place isn't very clean though
And Maria probably would only come over for half an hour on sundays
But only if I babysat her kids

Check

Check in the closet
Under the bed
In your pocket
In your underwear

There's something there
Always something there
Always something there
And always
Something watches you

Behind your eyes
Inside your nose
In the ventricles of your heart
Something is there
Something is watching.
Boo

Cake and Cahks

You baked me a cake
Warm
And full
Rich
and Delicate
With subtle icing
And a candle on top
Then you shoved yourself down my throat
Following that cake
Maybe
Trying to take it back?

Of Time, OR, Standing Alone

Time is supposed to march ever onward
Onward
And Onward
Without ceasing
Without failing
Something we can all count on
Always
But I've found
That time changes
It's variable
And time is one thin
We should never put our trust in
In fact
I trust time
Even less then I trust you.

To The Day

To each day
There is one smile
One hope
One dream
One dissapointment
One love
One hate
One pain
Everything else
Is surplus

Did you know
where you were going
or what you were going?

Not exactly lost
Not entirely unsure
You found focus
In being wanted.

My head 2

My Skull
Contains treasure
In the form of squishy bundles of neurons
In and of themselves
They are nothing
But like all of us
On this Earth
Nothing is ever
In and of themselves

My Head

Mush
In my head
And beyond
Pushing out
Expanding
But having to deal
With a constricting environment
My skull

This morning
Just before I woke up
In the beautiful sliver of time between complete sleep
And the world awake
I had a dream.

There was a hall
There was a hall that went on
There were doors in that hall
That hall that just kept going on
But the doors looked the same
As all the other doors
In that hall that went on
And on
There were flowers on the ground
Growing and green.

And that was all.

Today

I snapped my neck
Cracked my fingers
Typed an email
And sipped coffee
Then went home
And lazed around
Chatted with a friend
And laughed
Then I slept
And dreamt of you
And how far away you are
And breathed

Me

Up
Down
Cancels out
And I'm level

Clockwork Robot Game

tick                     The robot
tock                     serves
tick                     the ball
tock                     instead of
tick                     his human owner
tock                     he doesn't have to
tick                     anymore
tock                     not since the revolution

Always

You say you'll be there always
But that's silly
Always would require you
To be there North
and South
East
And West
And you can't do that
But I appreciate the thought

Frothing Milk At 10 In The Evening

A swirling vortex
Such a cliche image
But I can see how so many people
Describe themselves with it                     no, their futures
It's a thrilling image
And the despair
The ever exciting despair
That goes along with it
Is part and parcel of the human condition

Still though
I don't feel despair
But I do feel excited
Because I know that vortex
Is frothing my milk
And turning something ordinary             everyday
Into something extraordinary

And
Really
I think we all just need
A bit more of the extraordinary
In our lives
Don't you?

They Said I'd Never Been Any Good At Outdoor Sports

I was clumsy
I couldn't catch
Or throw
Pass
or Receive
But what they didn't know
Is that I have wings
And I can fly

Let the sparrow out of it's wicker basket

And show it the stage

Just like a little bird
I hop
And sing
Quietly
Breathing short
shallow breaths
and breathing a lot
But then I fly away
When my branch is shaken
Taking flight
And not looking back;
not with my eyes, anyway.

I wish I were more
Like a classic tenor
Full of power
And might
Balanced with delicacy of thought
and of feeling
Filling the space around me
With whatever I want
And standing my ground
Connected with the earth
With my eyes wide open
Taking a breath only occasionally
But when I do,
I breath in the world.

Ugh

Sorry for not posting in a while. I'll post something now and something later today to make up for it.

Wait
At the water
For that boat
You can see
In the distance
To pull up
And for it's beautiful captain
To tell you
To jump on
And sail away

Regina Spektor's Voice Break

Like a hiccough
only melodic
and filled with beauty
                              art
                                  and the free feeling you get
                                          just before you leap
                                                from a swing
                              landing hard
      and rushing back on

.

Like two giant seals
They approached me
pressed against me
And wetly
sucked me in

English

I really
truly
honestly
completely
totally
fully
ridiculously
dislike adverbs

Chocolate Chai and Questions

Sometimes I wonder
He said to me
And I'm so full of questions
and I can't think
And for a moment there were questions for me too
But then I had another sip of my chocolate chai
And those questions rushed away
Replaced by mellow brown
And ruddy red

For Gen

If only the stars in the sky
Shone as bright as you do
My dear,
Then the night would never be dark
But it would shimmer
And dance as you do
My dear.

Spider

Spider
with your legs
perform acupuncture on the world

Luke shoud let me sleep.

Dance
While asleep
And leap
Higher then he can.

Once again

Turn
kick
step
knee ballchange                       life
again
turn
kick
step
knee ballchange                       always goes on
again
turn
kick
step
knee ballchange                       usually the same
again
turn
kick
step
knee ballchange                       but sometimes
again
turn
kick
step
knee ballchange                       it changes a bit
jeté

To those who expect things from me

I'm too slow
I'm going fast as I can
But I'm too slow
Please try to understand
I'm going fast as I can
But I know that I'm too slow
And I'm speeding up
And it scares me

A withered tree
no leaves
no life
is still not a dead thing
for even that tree
has the memory of green summers
in the sun
and knows to wait
for spring and
the songs of baby birds.

Amy Grant
Sang about Life
                  Love
            And Other Mysteries

I want to know
Why is that important to us
And why do we need answers

Call on Me Inspired This

Dancing
But not free
Not wild
Not with the wind
And the trees
And the sky

But Dancing.
With sweat.
And unpleasant people.
Loud music.
Lights.
Headaches.
Drugs.

But the sweat is good
Not all the people are unpleasant
With the music so loud, you can feel it inside of your body
Lights that take you away to another place
Your head hurting because it's so full
And drugs

Well
Less said about that
The better.

(http://youtube.com/watch?v=Rk_MtobEmVQ)

This Happened to Me Today

This is not about poverty.

no more chocolate

I told her

i've had so much over the holidays
i can't eat anymore

She laughed
Sympathetically
We went back to work

Excuse me,

said the man
shivering
his nose buried in a towel
his jacket stuffed with paper
and trash
for warmth

Do you have any bottles?
I could take them off your hands, if you would like.
I'm hoping to make enough to buy a sandwich
for supper tonight.
The depot closes in ten minutes.

She went and looked
I invited the man to take a seat
Then went back to work

sorry
i just have these few
but they are something

He beamed at her

You're too kind, thank you.
I'ts a dozen more that I didn't have before.

His eyes
fell on the chocolate
with a thud

I'm sorry to ask this,
But those are my favourites.
I've imposed so much already,
But may I have one?

We nodded
and with a polite eagerness
he took only one
and closing his eyes
smiled, and was quiet.

No, I shouldn't,

He laughed
after I asked him to take them all

They're not very healthy,
And would rot my teeth.
Thank you
All the same.

Tonight

Tonight
I will call you
I will call you by your name
Tonight I will call you by your name
And I will leave
And I will leave it at that
And I will leave it at that until you call me back
Shouting my name
Shouting my name with desperation
Shouting my name with desperation until you realise

That's not my name any more

It's a poem, okay?

Steeping

The water
hot (that's the good part)
and wet (that's the important part)
drowns the leaves
and pieces of fruit
and... stuff (I'm never sure what is what)
the teabits sigh
making me wish that I was the stuff with which you make tea

Stacks

Stacks of memories
bits and pieces
stuck on my bed
in a limbo
so to speak
I have to find out
Where they need to be
Who they belong to
And what they really are
Before I can do anything
To lessen
the stacks of memories
stuck on my bed

no title for you!

Damn, this is late.

What
What would you like me to do?
I could lay here
Supine
Staring you in the eyes
While you painted me

Or

I could crouch at the edge of your bed
Watching you sleep
Waiting for you to wake up
So I could pounce on you
And make you smile

But

You say to me
I don't want that
I don't want smiles
Or paintings
Or your silly cookies and trinkets
I want something complicated
And extreme

And I say

Damn. That's lame.

Experiment in Absolutely Nothing. :p

He
He Saw
He saw my shirt
He saw my shirt and then he died
He saw my shirt, and then he died. Just looked at it and hit the ground.
Just looked at it and hit the ground
Just looked
Just

Tired Girl I Saw And Then Didn't

or
Pablo is a Jerk.

Her eyes were nearly shut
    glazed
chin tucked into her scarf
                                  woolen
she drifted as the people
                             equally lulled
surrounded, melding with her
                                            a girl
until she was lost
                        in the crowd

Ah, bus poetry. I digs it.

Untitled

Her book was naked
       stripped of identifying marks
       with nothing but back paper
               between it           and the words
                                   inside

I wanted to ask her
       "Are you making a statement
               about how a book
                               is a book
               and all books are good

       Or are you ashamed
               that you
                          a 30 year old woman
             is reading Harry Potter?"

Crunchy Apathy

Dead
Like the leaf I go out of my way
                                           to step on
It sits there
                not rotting
nor decomposing
but it is dead
                          perhaps more accurately
                                it is without life.

Outer Edge

It's the other side of the year, and welcome to the actual start.

Homeless Man Asking Me Questions

He mumbled
fumbled
asked me "Is the bus free?"

I paused he's really hard to understand
Then told him
Yes
It is
For tonight
But not tommorow.

"Well"
he said with a smile
"I guess I won't go very far"