the cement mixer
kicks up spiral
of milky dust to heaven

1
layover in toronto:
******* rain &
emptiness out the window

2
hushed crowds:
the sound of/
rainy footsteps.

3
waiting for the greyhound:
dismal spectres
ask about my change.

there is no better time
for one's hooks to be unlucky
than now--
balmy with the lake like glass,
a round, fat sun to sweat under,
full pack on my shoulders,
& some backwater cabin to
rest this humble set of
hot, tired bones
when the fishing's done.

for some two-hundred-something
arcing feet/provides
a girder for the lake;
grey bank with roots that leap from earth
to water
and under them myriad fish
bob in the current & snap up
those smaller than themselves.

you are [in total]
six syllables.
in order:
long ā
short ă
long ē
short ĭ
short ē
short ă
of course that is not all
you are.
you are
rainy runner
darkroom pining from schooldays bygone.
paint-splattered psych major.
without disdain of stiff gin & tonics.
not one to shy away
from my david byrne dancing.
****/sleek/sweaty saunamate.
someone to:
call me sweetie like a
grandmother would.
drink a beer in bed with--
glad as the darkness pushes us warmly together.

the great garage door of life
slowly opens and
reveals death:

dreams of a rusty mower
& recurring grass.

broken records & not a
clean plate in the house.

a girl who moans &
never wants to stay in.

o' well i know
that birds of a feather'll
get folded and old
like grandmother's towels.
~
o' and all of these crows
hang out in the backyard
in piles of dead grass
spit out by the mower.

i recall seeing you in september, you were drinking a coffee and your lengthy unkempt hair spilt down over what was probably an old sweater of your mother's. i thought maybe aphrodite had come down from olympus for a cup of hot water & cream & ground columbian beans. you were kind of lost in something on your phone, (kept looking at it there on the table) shifting your legs. there was a grocery bag beside you---not very full. maybe there were just a few things you’d needed? some orange juice and semolina pasta. but i was most impressed by a little mesh bag holding a dozen babybels, small and red like sliced apples thru the plastic. (christ, those are good.) after you left i went and bought a few, back home just sorta held them in my open palm eating them at leisure, committing your face
to memory.

montréal, je t’aime.*
—but sometimes, you can be so loud,
so noisy,
that i wish i could cut you into eighths;
devour you, piece-by-piece,
eat away the hustle and bustle until
silence is all that beckons to me from the dark.

yeah yeah yeah
ya yah
yea!
yeye yeahh
mhmm---
yes. (of course)
*oui.

might move to SoCal for a bit.
live in a place near the ocean, with big windows.
swim a lot and sling on the beach or from home if there’s demand.
wear loose clothes all day and maybe write that book.
*(see you!!)

ears still ringin'.
cut across from saint lau with a coupla burgers,
walk down peel, misty and damp, to a bus stop.
once home find hair smells like mcdonald’s & clouds & remember
that conversation i just had about the increasing
amount of wayward young adults..
with the driver of the 360 westbound.
---too cold for the balcony so i'll
probably just couch it & sizzle a nice bowl & wish
i had a little bit more to write tonight.

humble beginning (born from tree)
--free
young body pulp-smashed
into thin white sheet
bleached & cured & sliced.
hundred o thousands o lines like
little blue prison bars.
thin, but too close
to break out of.

too much class, and winter,
when all i’d like to do is post up
on a sunny balcony & blast out dre, or the
\/\/uutang, all 36 chambers.
*(..get me out of this lecture!)

books (kerouac/suzuki, d.t.) on & off the lap,
thick black coffee . . . cup after shaky cup
the ninth floor air humid and clinging;
do some sketches and think
about the fat magnums of wine laying
chilled in the freezer;
waiting for dave's party.

pigeons calling on the balcony
become unwitting poets
as their coos take the form
of haikus somewhere
in my third eye.

woke up a little headachey bhikku
on a thin mat, covered
with small white wool blanket
like a slip of frost.
woken by coffee, a rip (3) & a sinus pill
before rainily walking to
a belly-filling breakfast,
with the names of spadina st. shops
flying by in silent verse.