The sky is cracked in half,
Moonlight resting on the edge of the oncoming clouds,
A front of dark being called forth by the pull of the moon.

My heart sits in two, part resting with you
In our bed, part here in my chest,
Aching to be whole. Instead, it is pulled apart
By the rising dark, currents flowing in endless
Circles around pretty stars,
Little pinpoints of light determine my grounding but call me from the earth ; they hold me prisoner with promises of hope and worth.
I'm captive as I'm hurdled towards you,
Trying desperately to find a foothold or a catch, but lost
In the promises of your smile, the lines lit by the coming night, and the corners pulled up by the moon.

Give me your skin
That I may take on the burdens you bear by the tone of your flesh.

Give me your wrinkles carved deep into chasms, the evidence of a life lived long and distant from my own, and let me know the feeling of smoothing them out, the feeling of wrinkling them further.

Give me your hue, and pass
The very thing that makes us unique as a flower is passed
From a hillside to a forest by the shambling of a bee, and let me dwell among the cells of your body jail.

My forehead meets your shoulder, and I will my consciousness to meet yours in a crossing, wish that you might feel the strength of my resolve, the surety others cannot know because they do not live in my skin.

Sounds perfect the moment, my breathing steadied by wishing, your heart beating, the tension of being separated by bodies a force in the room that tempts challenging like facing an impassable mountain range.

Give me your skin and fold me into you, keep me honed and edged in the sheath of you, or I will rust in the air with this space between us.

I knew it wouldn't end in fire;
We burned
Too fast, too enjoyably, to suffocate
In flames.

I found the scab, the source,
Small and round and secret.
Incapable of leaving it to heal, I finger the edges
Nervously until the blood flows
Cold and jealous and foreign and unforgiving and slow.

A tipping point we can't reverse out of,
We're frozen on the event horizon,
Empty like the air in February,
The oxygen burned out from our explosion.

I am only left with regret and this
Sense, clear and dry and freezing, that I've walked
Too far north and lost the sun,
Though clouds still part in the distance and wave
Toward the open spaces
With fingers unfurling in unnatural curls.

I claw back to calm from
Calamity and speak, knowing I have listened
Too deeply to words meant for other ears - words that do not tell
Me what to say in return - I am raw.

I stand at the edge of mercy,
Abrupt in my humanity,
Suddenly losing feeling in my toes.

I am a sunflower.
I turn my yellow
and black face,
bruised, to the sun,
hoping its light will
heal me.
With my eyes closed
I can see my stamen,
veins in my eyelids,
bulbous
where they intersect.
The sun feeds me
and I, grateful,
pour myself into
the air. I am
sweet;
I am a bowl
of candy, I live
on your tongue
and I suffocate under
your eyelids.

If you're the blanket then I'm the stitches,
If you're the needle then I'm the mittens,
If you're the water then I'm the kettle
And if you're the rash then I'm the nettle.

If I'm the icing on the cake
Then you're the blow, the burn, the break.
If I'm the claws of a neighbour's cat
Then you're the nose of each dead rat.
If I'm the clock on the microwave
Then you're the cancer and the grave
And if I'm a schemer's dossier
Then you're the board on which he plays.

If you're the hair pulled at hysterically
Then I'm the teacher steeped in austerity.
If you're the cuff that's come unrolled
Then I'm the base camp unpatrolled.
If you're the tea leaves left behind
Then I'm the fortune undivined
And if you're the reason I'm capricious
Then I'm the reason you're pernicious.

If I'm the strap, love, you're the sandal,
And if I'm the drugs then you're the scandal.
If you're goodbye, love, I'm the foyer,
And if I am "je" then you're "tutoyer".

This is the morning
No this
this is the morning
Where etherized upon a table I will finally sit up and be seen.
No, this is the morning.

Together milling loudly across park(ing lot)s
This! This is the morning!
Perhaps you've seen me undressed, perhaps you've seen me *******.
This is Morse Code these are hieroglyphs these are fingerprints on a frozen window pane. Meaning(fully equipped with the right place for a time) nothing to lose without first finding X.

This is the morning where to stay at home to garden and crow, hooked on the missing airplane lost in spices and exotic tea.

as if pulling (on the tab)
prevents the continued closure
of the lunch box
oxen milling brunch
as it unfolds sinewed pasture
green purloining sunlight
oxen munching salami on Thursday morning
mourning the luncheon of Sunday
black black blackberries lugubrious
lubricate brioche freshness
pile of white pile of brown pile of pylons
pile (on the tab)
shots are on me
shots fired no casualties
oxen bagged lunches aren't as fun as pulling punches

Well let’s just jump right into it.

Everyone knows, the question right, “Which came first?” So let’s suppose, just for argument’s sake, in this specific case that is, that which came first was the egg. It’s also really the end of it in this case as well because there’s no chicken to follow. Just really it’s followed with the warm lettuce and the recooked bacon, the unripe tomato on a freshly baked bagel, which for argument’s sake is really the only part of the whole she-bang that’s actually any good.

But if that’s true then why even include the egg. Why abolish the chance for a chicken to exist? Why not just get a plain bagel? Well it’s about protein, you know. Does anyone really even like eggs or do we just eat them for protein? Does anyone like them, for argument’s sake let’s call it Tim Horton’s, does anyone really like them, eggs that is, when they’re cooked at Tim Horton’s? Are they even really eggs or just that powder, you know what I mean, that eggy powder like the powder milk that they have in the military? And if it is right, that eggy powder stuff, would anyone even care? Morally I mean, you have to assume people (which people I don’t know, some people I guess) stand behind eggy powder. But others right, you know the ones, who are disgusted by the idea of eggy powder. I’m one of those, not ashamed of it either and you know what, let’s just assume that it is eggy powder that they use at Tim Horton’s in their bagel BELTs. Would I have bought it if I thought it was eggy powder, probably not but here we are and I did and for argument’s sake let’s just say I already ate the whole thing. I mean morally I’ve just saved a chicken’s life but now I’m revolted by my having just consumed powdered eggs (right that’s what they’re called).

Let’s assume also that now I feel as though I’m figuratively standing on a moral high-ground but I’m also more or less disgusted by what I’ve just eaten even though I’m proud of myself for having eaten it, or rather not eaten a genuine egg. I’m ashamed of my disgust right and this has now proliferated into a casual nexus of disgust, shame and pride.

Q: Is it better to eat the powdered egg and simultaneously feel pride and revulsion or is it better to eat a real egg and **** a potential chicken?

You're always passing churches
pacing before kitchen islands and
under coffee spoons.
Village churches offer
onion justices.
City churches
hipsters
ask forgiveness on music blogs.
Childish ripples in pews,
half shouts ;
you're always passing churches.

You're always on beaches
walking on un-boardwalks and
even on  catamarans.
Tropical beaches go white
go white laugh red.
Fresh-water beaches
hunters
stalk sand between follicles of arm hair.
Elephant footprints on waves,
milked hills;
you're always on beaches.

You're always in zoos
floating faceless  around oceans and
onto broken hotels.
Provincial zoos make
west west west west exotic.
Metropolitan zoos
brothers
fight for diamond vodkas.
Flames burst over birds,
furrowed monkeys;
you're always in zoos.

there are some mornings
when I feel the weight of my hair
pulling my head down

when I can feel gravity
pulling down the subway when we cross the
bridge between Castle Frank and Broadview

there are some mornings
I don't think I can get out of bed
because the world is too real

the empty space between me
and my fingers is filled with blankets
and the meniscus of my eyelids
is curved up instead of away

Nice shoes,
Big smile,
Something expensive,
We are all fake.

but first you were everything
and then everything
and then complication
grew like how on a fig tree
a fig
might not grow.

a white white round witch
ice witch
ice white round which witch white ice

a black bleeding bleeder bleeding flat
black and bleeding
bleeds black and blackening flat

a white ice witch bleeds flat round black

the sunrise today was not special or unique
from every other,
it was not perfect or shiny or
new
it was beautiful.

I break glass;
glass against.
Perfect blade of perfect glass perfects a pane of perfect grass
So perfectly green and glass breaks blue and green glass
On glass.

My body is not a temple,
Instead it is a duplex.
My body is a place where the two halves of me live,
Together, though they can't quite interact.

My body is not a temple,
It's more like a church.
All the spirituality of a temple,
Covered by snobbery and incense.

My body is not a temple,
Rather, it's like a smartphone.
It runs just like a laptop,
But it fits just in your pocket out of sight.

My body is not a temple,
It's actually just flesh.
Mortal bone and sinew,
And an ever-tightening knot at its core.

It's a harsh burn, inspiration.
That despicable, clawing feeling at the root of your being,
You're there, just trying to get something down,
Anything.
It's never just right.
It's always a finger, a hair, a sliver away.
Or maybe more, but it's never there.
It's never just right.
Baby Bear, how did you do it?
Goldilocks, you lucky *****,
You found it, and stole it.
Inspiration, I guess, comes from the right chair,
The right porridge, the right bed.
Then, a swift infallible blow to the right side of the head.
Oh! Right in the creativity!
Inspiration,
Though you try to force these words to be something that they can't be,
Make them do something they shouldn't,
While English speakers ruin the language,
Inspiration ruins it further.
It's never just right.

You haven’t fed us recently.
I ate the goldfish,
For some reason it reminded me of my childhood.

I can’t get over that guy with the mask in the corner.
It’s unnerving how he swims up and down all day.

Is this going to be another starving day?
I’m tired of trying to get your attention.
You haven’t fed us recently,
Or cleaned the tank.
That’s okay,
The cleaner-fish loves it.
The goldfish doesn’t like the cleaner-fish much though.

Thanks for the flakes!

I think I’ve finally intimidated the cleaner-fish,
He’s been looking at me weird all day,
He keeps trying to keep me ahead of his gills.
I knew I’d be King soon.

The goldfish,
She’s gone.
What did you do with her?!

Are you going to feed us now?

Whose women these are I think I know.
His housefly’s dead on the vignette though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his women pick snowdrops.

My little hornpipe is quite queer
He stops without a farce or sneer
Between the women with their frozen ‘la’s
The commonest everyman of the yawl.

He gives his harlot beldams his shaft
To assure they are his mistresses.
The only other soundtrack's the sweat
Of easy win from downing flagons.

The women are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promenades to keep,
And migraines to go before I sleep,
And migraines to go before I sleep.

Suppose a fog a real fog that means to say that means to say a fog, a creative fog with more sinks first lights.
All the tin is needing flattening.
Suppose seven water, suppose two water, suppose five sand.
A Canadian sign is nearly numb.
White pointers white pointers in yellow dash be.
White pointers white rays expecting rumble rumble, rumble rumble.

paws pause on pavements -
a union fresh out of blackmail -
waste collectors
start sizzling
new trash - contemporary psychotic disorders are
goon makers -
purple heads on
blue bodies cause a skirmish -
you're happy
you're shameless
little piggies in a bay of meat -
fast track to coffee cup sleeves -
I believe in Mississauga
soap operas -

It is was this which teaches
Taught me
Ambi
Dex
Terity,
Though of
Left hand
Teeth
Tooth-brushing
My knowledge is rough;
It was is those these
Sunny
Dusty
Sunny afternoons in the sun,
The sun at the right angle
Angled towards me,
But not in my eyes
And the black
Fabric
Black, even in the sun,
As a field against which the
Sun angled out of my eyes
Shines
Shone
Sunny directly on my hands,
To which advantage
My advantage,
Or yours,
Would allow me
To pluck with tender
Specific
Tender care
Each thin blonde thin hair on my knuckles.
I already have will always doubt that you notice
Or notice that I notice you don’t, you never notice;
I notice you noticing me noticing you not noticing
My perfect,
Thin-blonde-thin, blonde-hair-free knuckles.

At 3 a.m.
               I’m awake still.
Of this ashen night
                I’ve not had my fill.

Apparently all
              Apathy congeals
As hours elapse
              And at last justifies
  
Procrastination;
               Placating initially,
Shortly producing
              My pretty folly

This habitual hang-up
               Helps only those who
Have the predisposition
                To hang themselves too.

Stop light,
Tail light,
Brown snail on
Blue door tonight;

Strip mall,
Pocket call,
Phantom shadow
Standing tall.

That queasy diner
At Main and Piner.
“No Pain, No Gain”:
Marquee headliner.

Kids at play
In parks by day,
With darkened eve,
“Inside!” Obey.

Blackened alley,
Wet **** in Sally,
The flash of knife,
Sticky finale.

swing over low-hanging branches
  bottle Philadelphia to jar sunny summer evening
blue holds
christmas lights is sparkly spectacular

Fly if I stumble

somebody a farmer
not you.

Standing in the express checkout,

I am of
a mind to fix

My transmission.

Persons,

Apartment hunting:
Uncertain, tedious work,
So rare the reward.

Spectacular losses;
Each one, a singular blow
Always they're combined.

This is the last of the songs I'll write for the mothers sitting with legs crossed on wooden chairs at the end of interest. This is the second of lines that explain my tendency to forgo madness and play into the hands of literacy and fortune. This is the eighteenth sentence that tells anyone who cares to listen that my dancing in between the lines of each page upon which my pencil glides is not nearing the end but rather coming full circle before smoking circles destroy the first seventeen. And in the end I would hear a response and try to interpret subjects beyond my ability to comprehend.

I guess I've lost my voice to
The wind.
Though easterly blusters
Kept my mama
In shambles
With tumble weeds,
The northern winds will
Carry my voice
To the place where
Dawn
Breaks on ice caps and
Buries fears beneath
The ages of sameness.

when forts were places without rules and they weren't uncommon and they just were,
when school was a morning activity and an afternoon activity and punctuation was more
          important than the sentences themselves,
when I could sit on the sheepskin rug, skin glowing in the light from the incandescent
          bulbs that are now almost impossible to find,
when Daddy's piggybacks were the highest I could ever possibly imagine I'd be, and the slide back down
          was vegetables instead of dessert,
when superiority meant winning tag and soccer and having the best lunch,
when teachers didn't have first names or a life outside of class and to see them in the grocery store was
          a bit of panic and a bit of pleasure,
when family friends meant a bunch of adults who hugged you and gave you candy as a political "****
          you!" to your parents,
when sports were easy and not gendered,
when TV was good and didn't try to teach you anything, and then later when it was bad and still taught
          you nothing,
when bedtime was three hours after a nap,
and when sitting up straight wasn't a remembered idea after four hours of slouching in a computer chair.

Supposing that you had to find
One tear-drop in a golden mine,
Would you sit and blankly stare
About my cave, lit by a flare,
For a rush of inspiration frankly got,
to show you the way like white-blood cells clot,
for a glint of something not metal or cold?
Could you presume to be so bold?
Or would you rather first commit
To examine each glossy gold stone pit
Over, under, below and around?
For only carefully can treasure be found,
And mine, although not simply revealed,
Is purer every second that it is concealed.

April is not
The cruellest month;
It brings
Rain.

Obese stewardesses
Idling,
Smoke breaks,
*****.
Who knows the truth?

Salt+Pepper=Vinegar-Ketchup-Barbeque-Sour Cream+Onions

Mint+Lime=OneTequilaTwoTequilaThreeTequilaFloor

Br­ead+Mornings=Buttered Side+Lands Down

Potatoes+Oil=Burgers+Wings+Club Sandwiches

Milk+Chocolate=Nostalgia+Marshmallows

Freezer+Yoghur­t-Regrets=Dissatisfaction

Coffee+Liqueur=Saturday Night=OJ+Champagne=Sunday Morning

Hey girl, you like that?
Just look at what I got now.
I got mad swag, yo.

When cluttered,
Whip, wash, wring,
and
Write a poem.

A beautiful day in February.
A few birds singing much too early.
A black SUV.
An awkward hello between
A girl and her father...
A phone call.
A surprise...
An absence of good news.
A problem.
A dismissal.
A tear drop-
A heart-tearing sob.
An unexpected fight on the way home to mom.
A car door slammed,
A front door key fumbled.
An avoided confrontation, also
An avoided consolation.
A soft noise bedside:
A scratch from
A cat come to investigate;
A simple, good soul.
A rub on a leg,
A pat on a furry head.
A purrrrrrrr.
A change of heart,
A fast ascension to a seated position.
A decision resulting in determination.


No more tears.
No coffee today.
No fights with the wrong side.
No wrecking ball of shame.
No tower of regret.
No birdcage of immaturity,
No, no more cages.

Before the fall rains come,
Let’s have one more picnic,
Now that the leaves are turning color
And the grass is still green in places.
   – by Charles Simic


A hot day brings the summer alcohol
Out of hiding.
Surrounded,
Each ice cube vanishes into my glass,
Like children running from the year’s last
class,
Mingling with the ***.
I relish laying
My hand on your naked chest
In the August sun,
Before the fall rains come.

Layered with a glaze of sweat
Neither yours nor mine but both,
My eyelids slide like honey
Over my quiet eyes,
Relaxing my thighs,
Daydreaming of earlier, when
You said to me
In the same tone as one with
Only a couple pages left in his comic,
“Let’s have one more picnic.”

Tomorrow, I’ll pack a basket
With some entertaining food:
Whipped cream, chocolate strawberries.
Under your tongue they’ll disappear
From here, here, and here.
(It’s duller
Without them.)
I’ll be excited looking around at
The land in a riot of multicolour,
Now that the leaves are turning colour.

But I’ll realize it isn’t you
Specifically;
Just that you were there, and I was there.
And we’ll realize we’re in love, however,
You or I could be whoever.
Gazing at each other, still with good graces
And moderate tolerance we’ll think,
“The sky is partially blue,
There are half-smiles on our faces,
And the grass is still green in places.”

It gets harder for me to be
Away from you, every day. This
Summer was the first I hadn’t
Come to visit, since first we
Met. I feel something’s amiss, you
Must too.  I think of the (I’m saddened),

Boats droning by on the lake at
Your door. We stayed still to watch.
I know you remember the last
Time, at night; we saw a bat;
It was too hard for us to catch;
You sat on rocks and I on grass

And we pretended that week would
Last all summer. Still, that Sunday
Came and I had to pack my things.
It rained, you cried, I misunderstood
Why I had to leave you. Blue jays
Lamented our parting with folded wings,

Helping both of us to subdue
Our sorrows. But you still smell,
Like a certain musty, expressive style,
And the only things I wanted to do
were run around you, raising hell,
And glance around for your smile

Shared with all who could begin
To catch it glinting from your eyes.
You never turn those windows away,
Shut your curtains only when
We leave your wooden feet and thighs,
Proudly formed foundations, on Sundays.

Do you, little child,
Fear your blank slate when nothing’s inspired, but you see a flag
Which paints itself on the face of
Someone else’s moon?

And do you, little child,
Know the pain of a thousand plain feathers pulling up and further
With nothing but hollow bones and
Grey sinew beneath?

And do you, little child,
Realise that the anguish of loss which comes with every edited word
Is bygones is bygones is bygones
Gone by?

And do you, little child,
Understand that a shoelace which appears at first to be two strings is actually
One road to the end overlapping again
And again?

And can you, little child,
Fear more than the dark day’s end, or the eight-leggedness of tarantulas,
And worry instead for the loss of your
Creativity?

Sighing deeply into Omi’s embrace
Like a thimble replaced in a sewing kit,
Her permanent warmth that can’t be erased.

A doily made of cream coloured lace,
Her set of values is tightly knit,
Sighing deeply into Omi’s embrace.

She makes extra stroganoff, just in case,
Then, whole-house clean-up, “Lickety-split!”
Her permanent warmth that can’t be erased.

My sister and I in a hiding place,
And nothing of our plums left but the pit.
Sighing deeply into Omi’s embrace.

The whole rainbow neatly interlaced,
In Omi’s garden, her butterflies flit,
Her permanent warmth that can’t be erased.

That pair of blue sweat pants we couldn’t replace
Because no other pair will ever quite fit.
Sighing deeply into Omi’s embrace,
Her permanent warmth that can’t be erased.