All the best people
can burn you sometimes
and often the worst
will offer you aloe

but those in-between
are those you should look for
who notice your burns
and know what they're from.

To the old blue bicycle
chained to the pipes
on the corner of University
and Dundas street West

I saw you first in early October
showing off my new shoes
walking to work on Sunday
you were prized and new
a little scratched but true
with speedy silver highlights

the next time I saw you
you had lost your front tire
someone needed it more than you did
and perhaps you willingly offered

by the end of the month
you had no more silver
and both your tires were missing
you hung by your chain
your paint peeling in pain
but again I just walked past you

when it first snowed too early
I found you again on the ground
once sturdy, gleaming and fast
now rusted, robbed and hollow

you and I have much in common
old blue bike on University avenue
we both were once so strong and proud
but little by little we were pulled apart
someone needed each piece more than we did
and we thought we could help so we gave

now we're both our own rusted frames
scattered and empty in the busy street.

The boy who waves the boats from shore
But never dares set sail
Doesn't get lonely.
There are always boats leaving,
Always boats coming back.
He'll help load the ships
With all they need and more
Then step off as they go
And stay just on the shore.
Every passenger knows the boy
And no one knows why he's there.
There's a dock he'll walk
That extends a little into the sea
Where he sits and speaks
To fishing boats that come to visit
But only for a short time,
His toes in the water.
He can swim, and sometimes
Someone will fall from a boat
He'll jump in and swim to them,
Pull them up, be sure they're okay
Only to swim back to the dock.
The boy who waves the boats from shore
But never dares set sail
Gets lonely sometimes.

Hope and love
are so often
but the casualties
of satisfaction.

A drop of you
and instantly
I am you
and you are me.

September snaps August to her knees
with a crisp breeze and the first drops
of orange on the one-coloured horizon

spring flowers outlive their welcome
while leaves begin being beaten down
by the cold wind of the end of summer

rain sweeps her hand through your hair
taking with her the sweetness of the sun
and leaving the cool hope and beauty of

shedding one's sunburned skin
in the cold wild of the end of summer.

Diana was a dreamer.
She wished to sail away
On a sailboat made of reverie
To let her mind wander.
"Why, sail away?" you ask,
"It's such a bad cliché!
Writer, writer,
Be more original", you say.
But no, I can't, see:
This Diana wished to sail
And if you disbelieve that
She's surely destined to fail.
Diana wished to sail far,
For she knew she couldn't fly
(And talk of cliché!)
But she knew to sail a boat.
Why sail, why, it's easy:
If you knew no other escape
Wouldn't you take that route?
If you could fly, you'd fly.
So she could sail
And that, she did.
You'll notice, here,
I haven't told you why
Or where she chose to sail.
Well, I don't know!
Are you surprised?
Gosh, I didn't ask her where!
She just up and left,
But I know she's happy there.

The sailboat in question
Is a sight for sore lies:
Sails of soft green
And gold like her eyes.
It smells of the sea
And all that is sweet
And under those sails
Is such a lovely retreat.
This boat, while lovely
Requires much care:
No assembly required,
But imagination and flair
Are what makes this boat run
For, it's imaginary, of course
And only Diana can see this sailboat;
In her mind, forever, it'll be.

I must apologize for my eyes.
It's really difficult
For me
To get mine
To leave yours.

Daydreamer, daydreamer
Dream 'way your day
In hopes that, maybe this time,
They'll let you away
Away from your day, and all that lies in it
In your day is a nightmare, reality's within it
For what's real is for night,
which you shan't repeat
And the terrors in day
contribute t'your defeat.
Day and night
Night and day
You dream away
So you don't stay
In your broken day
And your shattered night
So maybe you might
Dream things out right;
Daydreamer, daydreamer
Dream 'way the night
So you won't have to wake
'Cause it won't feel right.

I memorized each way she moved,
he told me, his aging hand
letting his tea tremble.

I would always find her shoulders
and her little wine birthmark
in the sea of small red dresses,
when the band played something quick.
His toe tapped to an invisible dance,
a-one-two, three-four, one-two, three-four.

The room was always hot
and it always smelled of excitement,
he continued, with a reminiscent grin.

She'd turn with a nervous swish,
like nothing I could ever understand,
and I never did,
how she made it look so ******* graceful,
but we'd dance like the room was empty.
We'd bump into everyone.
He laughed, a tired rumble.

Once I got hit and got a ****** nose.
I didn't even notice,
because she was electric.
I loved the shock.
His eyebrows creased
into a devilish satisfaction.

The swing dance shock.

The empress of the lighthouse
can see for years and nautical miles
and she can never be lost at sea.

The empress of the lighthouse
could save every sailor who smiles,
but she doesn't.

The empress of the lighthouse
is empress only of a house
when she leaves the light off.

The empress of the lighthouse
got tired of waiting for ships to come in,
so she doused the light in her seafront tower.

Now everyone she loves
and everyone who loves her
*will forever be lost at sea.

I imagine, quietly,
if this were it.
If, while I waited on this train platform,
this ever-romanticized,
transient in-between,
someone pushed me into the tracks.
It would be an accident, of course.
What was I waiting for, anyway?
The news would hear it first,
and they'd be the first to forget me.
Clamboring over my unremarkable story
to the next and the next and the next.
I hope I'd make a favourable statistic.
Then what family I have would hear,
once they determined who I was,
and they'd worry I wasn't pushed.
They'd have so many questions
I'd be unable to answer,
much like when I visit.
Then would come a lover,
as sad as those who loved me,
and they would keep my photo
until they grew tired of looking.
For their own sake,
I'd hope they got tired quickly.
Friends would remember me
and tell me kind words I wouldn't hear,
and I'd be of no help to them anymore.
Every once in a while,
I'd come up in a conversation,
and I'd hope they'd grin at a memory,
but it would be more likely they'd frown.
There it'd be,
my young life detailed
in saddened conversation and tears,
until I'd be left another piece of the past.
The statistic of an unremarkable life.

You blink
in the depths of a sparkling forest
full and rich with sweet colour and sound
a vibrance and power dense with life

blink again
and you are all that's left standing
hot and splintered in a blackened silence
the sky pushed away by a mass of death

blink once more
the earth and sky stay dark.

Gunned down
on the front lines
of historical progress
are the best,
the brave,
the exhausted
and those
who have always
been fighting
for change.

Remember Diana
With the sailboat of dreams?
I know she's out there in the great blue sea,
But she's lost her way, it seems.
The trouble with sailing
When no one says you can,
Is that when you set off,
You lose your hat and some of your confidence
When the first great blue wind blows.
If you're made to doubt, told to doubt
You'll still sail, but you'll sail without
The parts of you that hadn't a doubt -
So when your anchor is fused to uncertainty,
You think you're destined to sink.
To sail, you need a great blue sheet,
And spit and grit and piece of meat
To give to the great blue shark you meet -
But you can do without those, if you're clever.
What's essential for sailing
(And Diana knew this quite well, I can tell),
Is the awareness and understanding
That your boat is built with dreams in mind.

What use is a sailboat of reverie
If you haven't any imagination?

The fact of the matter, this is not.
You forgot: she's lost at sea.
The great blue doubt overcame even me,
And I stopped believing in her sailboat,
So it stopped sailing,
For she was the last great blue believer.
She fused that to her identity,
She was wrapped in her sails
But things got tough
Blue seas got rough
So it wasn't enough
And the blue called her bluff.
She escaped from land,
But didn't understand
That the waves of the deep
Wouldn't hold her hand
So her great blue view
Sank smaller and smaller.

Dear Diana,
What on earth do you do
*When the next wave is taller than you?

He looked at me,
The helpless boy in the mirror,
And said,
"You can't do this on your own."
Then his shoulders shook
Not hard enough for their burden to fall
And he in the mirror
Sobbed like a broken man
But he was just a helpless boy.

There will come dry spells
And you shall miss the smell of rain.
While growing still,
You know you will
Sprout branches that leave you in pain.

There will come cold winds
And your leaves will curl and turn blue.
The soil will be sweet,
But you'll never meet
The words from which you grew.

There will come many axes
And you shall inevitably crash to the ground
But you were watered well
And all your fruits fell
So your seeds may someday be found.

The rain makes a warm rattling sound
on the window, like a teenage fling
sneaking in after climbing the maple
while your parents slept rooms away

the thunder is far enough away
that it sounds like a muffled sigh
from a half-asleep lover on your shoulder
mixed with the remnants of your dream

lightning, then, which should come first
flashes you out of your memories
and into the moment, your dark room
where you lay awake thinking of love.

It is said so often
that if they love you
you can go anywhere
and they will follow you

every poet dreams this is
the truth as we run from love
but it isn't. We have been lied to
by those that haven't ever known

that love they write about so often.

Once, he was asked,
"Tell me what is true.
Why is it that you
write just what you do?"

He laughed, and said
with half a smile,
"I write so you'll
fall in love for a while."

After a pause, he said pleasantly,
"Not with me - I'm a liar, you see,"

And grinning wildly,
he spoke his conclusion:
"Love is a poet's favourite illusion."

The me that loves you
and the you that loves me
are part of me
and part of you

the me that loves you
and the you that loves me
is the me that I see
when I see you in me

the good in me
is the good in you
the learning of me
is the teaching of you

the you that loves me
built the me that is you
and the me that is you
is the best of me.

"You? Ha,"
he grinned.

"You're just like me,"
he said, his features glued to mine.

"Lost, and searching
only in your own reflection,"
his eyes narrowing
as my eyes focused.

"You can't possibly believe
you'll find what you want to find,"
said the boy in the mirror,
holding my gaze.

The sea has a way of forgiving
without apologizing for anything.
She swims far from humanity
yet she invites us in,
she pulls at our sands
and it lulls us to relief
while offering sustenance
and cold, sweet belief -
but when she wants us out,
she throws us like ships,
pieces of a hard-lost board game,
and if we try to resist her,
she takes us in,
and she apologizes,
but does not forgive us.

The sea is vast as the clouds are rolling
And in between is air.
They'll never touch, though never falter
And this just isn't fair:

The clouds and sea wish to meet, you see
But they can never be together
For powers that be keep sky from the sea;
They're only bound by weather.

When it rains, the clouds can touch the sea
Gently, caress in wave -
The clouds give all they have to her
But the sea, it must behave.

The sea is aware, that through the air
Is something she never can touch,
But when calm, she reflects the beauty of the clouds
And they smile when they see this much.

So resigned, the two stay far apart
And the clouds look longingly to sea
For they see the weather, reflection and more
That they know can never, ever be.

"I shall always
be second to the sky,"
the clouds admitted to the sea.
The sea did not think this was so.
"I may reflect the blue when I'm still,
but you hold me like the sky never will."

In the mornings,
there may still
be a light fog
on the water.

I am home in the embrace
of a home that misses me
returning from long days
among the cold rejections
of the great, dark outside.

You will feel the space
between sounds,
between your fingers
and your faces,

it will hurt your ears
to communicate
any desire to touch,
to see, to hear,

and when you taste
their absense,
it will become far too easy
to long for their perfume
on your pillows.

There's a soft blue spark
That materializes in the smallest of moments
That illuminates those that love
Whoever they may be
And we can see it, that blue glow.
Just like a fire never chooses where to burn
A spark never chooses where to find itself:
Between animal and friend;
Between fingertips during a movie neither cares for;
Between the flick of your smile
And the words on a page
Or the flash on a screen;
Between mother in mind
And child that may only be there too;
Between laughs that bubble up
When nowhere and nothing clash;
Between one here and one far,
Or one here and one gone.
We fall in love with those sparks of love
And they show us just how to do so -
Teaching you how to teach,
Showing you how to show,
And they care not for who
For what
For when
For why
For how;
They simply show.

He was going to get her a little plant,
and would be teensy-tiny and green
and the little plant would never die.

He would name it "Neville",
and she would giggle at the name
and the little plant would never die.

He would find her a little cactus,
or an aloe plant that had no spikes
(so she wouldn't ***** her fingers),
and the little plant would never die.

He would remind her to water it,
and she would tell him she forgot,
and it was a good thing he reminded her,
and the little plant would never die.

He would go over and visit it,
and he would visit her while he was at it,
and the little plant would never die.

He would bring her books about plants,
so she would know all about hers,
and the little plant would never die.

He would sing the plant little songs
when he visited the plant and her,
and she would like those little songs,
and the little plant would never die.

He would whisper I love you
to the plant, of course,
but she would hear it,
and the little plant would never die.

He would hear her say it too,
and he would understand,
and the little plant would never die.

But he did not get her a little plant.
The little plant would never die,
but she was not a little plant.

It tastes of tired days
and warm, bitter privilege.
Toaster waffles from the freezer,
table syrup from the drug store
down the road from the fire escape.
Blueberries I shouldn't have bought
from a sleepy market near work.
I don't have a toaster
or even a microwave,
but I took my best shot
on the little electric griddle.
It wasn't a very good one,
the shot I took, and the griddle.
The moon would be somewhere
overhead through the smog,
if it weren't for this dull, cracked and beautiful ceiling,
and the floors of blissful ignorance
between me and the sky.
It was very little,
but I could eat,
I could work,
I could live.

"Sometimes I tire
of poems
about poets,"*

said the poet.

I walked her down to the train
Which I know I shouldn't have
But, see, it was starting to rain
But I know, I shouldn't have.

I just like to watch her walk
And watch her cheeks turn red
Listening to her lovely talk
Even if it's just in my head.

We used to talk
We did, it's true
But now we don't
Which is probably why I'm with you.

I walked you down the subway stairs
Hoping it was us we'd find.
Like I used to, I carried all your cares
Like a train, trailing behind.

We got to the train, and you nodded goodbyes
But as the doors sighed, I stepped inside
You didn't say anything, which was an odd surprise
We used to do this, when in you I'd confide.

We sat in silence
Beside you, I was
It was the closest I'd been to you
Since we ended things, because...
Oh, well.

Searching for something stupid to say,
I muttered, "I don't regret it."
She whispered, "What?" and I looked away.
It was childish, but I let out, "Forget it."

But then I looked back,
And said, "I don't regret us. Even though..."
("Clickety-clack," said the tired train track)
"... Even though we ended like we did, you know."

She looked at me with eyes that said nothing and everything
And the words stumbled off of her tongue,
"I don't either, though I wish I did,
Then it would be easier."

I reached for her hand
(Which was a stupid idea)
But she let her fingers lace
Between mine, in case
I really did let her go.

With a great silent sound
as station after station passes
a woman in a rose-covered satin shawl
gingerly rests her head against the glass

the papers that will bring her home here
in a backpack hugged desperately to her
the beaded bracelet from her daughter
slipping down her waning wrist

with fearless eyes and steely jaw
she slows her pulse to just over normal
the black columns holding tonnes of city
whipping past her rattling window

clickety-clack
clickety-clack
clickety-clack

the tired train track
beats like a weary old heart.

Then one day I'll meet someone
Who grins at the ground
And knits their eyebrows the way you did
When you didn't know what to do.
I'll be thrown forcefully back
To when you tossed me lightly
With the sweetest of intentions
And the warmest of smiles.
I'll smile sweetly,
Warm my intent
And stay the hell away from them.

"For a moment,"
Said their lips,
Warm, but fleeting

"It's okay,"
Said the rain,
Falling again

"I missed you,"
Said your bed,
Empty and tired

"Not today,"
Said the night,
Long and dull

"Maybe next time,"
Said the morning,
Sleepy and still

"Just wait,"
Said the week,
Dragging on

"Just breathe,"
Said the sidewalk,
Every day

"You're fine,"
Said the wind,
Colder than them

"I need you,"
Said your heart,
Resigned and dry

"..."
Said your lips,
Silent.

"Did you miss me?"
wondered the water,
beautiful and cold

"Where have you been?"
wondered the dock,
groaning with age

"Was it worth it?"
wondered the breeze,
wise and curious

"What have you become?"
wondered your shoes,
kicked off beside you

"Have you forgotten?"
wondered your reflection,
remembering everything.

Touch your earlobes
let your toes turn to ice
think of ships that sink
and aspirations that
sail into hurricanes.
River down 45th
swim like a taxi
up for air, up for air
flowing between here, there
everywhere, everywhere
fishing for metaphors
catch one, it’s seaweed
cook it up anyway,
you’re starving.
A tower with hands
touching your ears,
losing your feet
in the sea.

We fall asleep sometimes in the snow and you sing to yourself in the wrong keys
sometimes we don't speak but I have everything I've ever wanted and so much life left.

Since we last were here
the chairs have greyed with age

they, like us, were once a gentle blue
now they lay aching in the pre-show

the walls quake with the noise of decades
and the air is stained with concession salt

like living memories that were never ours
dissolving in the flicker of the picture

we remember so many first dates
and missed childhood kisses

that we forget the film
is even playing.

It's a wonder
this old road
does not have
my footprints
etched into it.

I still sometimes wear
your sweater
to sleep.

Dear man in the moon,

all I wish for
is that when it ends,
you might tell me
I fought bravely.

We try
very hard
to be children.

You
are why
I write.

Some nights are not as good as others
for example I have never loved Thursdays
no Thursday is what you want it to be
and no Thursday night offers enough rest

some nights, maybe Thursdays, I'm awake
laying where I'd sleep with eyes closed
but mind wide open, wishing to be empty
or filled with whatever rest has to offer it

I lay lucid, still as sand, wishing gently
for your warm hand in my hair, shirt
wrapped in me, pressing me into oblivion
on a stupid sleepless Thursday night.

Sometimes I'll catch
a sentence of a song

and all at once I'm seventeen
open-eyed and wide-hearted

taking the bus home from work
late in my dad's leather jacket

worn out shoes and transit tickets
and that stupid Pink Floyd t-shirt

with hopes high as the buildings
I dreamed of living in someday

on my way back to homework,
leftovers and a messy room.

Lovely and lively and loving, alive
Are you one or more of these things?
Will you be one, then another, then none
And awake, as another, when the morning bird sings?
Will you love and be loved, live, be alive?
Will you enjoy and eat what t'th'table life brings?
Shall you sleep and be merry, nary contrary,
Till lovely and sweetly that morning bird sings?
You need to hear, to heed not fear
Melody of necessity
Not lovely, not lively, unloved but alive
Please, please, stay just that last
Be alive and I'll help you be lovely
Promise lively and loved
Lift you weakly on sparrow wings
Clothe you in hand-me-downs of earthly kings
So every day you'll hear those things
When through me, to you the morning bird sings.