The capital’s streets weave around me

So tight that it almost looks like I’ve forgotten

but you can’t see what’s underneath

the ember of an emerald

Of vast green fields stretching as far as I can see

Of the white beads dripping down a 99

From the orange September sun



The capital’s buildings tower above me

So high no sun comes through

We seek it out

Like we’ve left it behind here or there

behind this building or that.



The capital’s people stare blankly

Not knowing their howiya from their how are you?

But we won’t hold it against them.

Their blue suits

White shirts

And red socks.



I’ll keep my colour scheme, thank you.

My fields

My ice cream

And my sun.



All that remind me of home.

Now years later,
Walking down those rubble and dirt,
Which creak in agony,
I am reminded of that innocent face,
Which once washed cold ashore,
On a ****** dreadful day,
When the world stood still.

When my hands were the size of apricots
my tongue always jumping through hoops
as I read words that were dusty
a book covered in pretty plastic
from the local library that smelled like a grandfather
if I had a grandfather
I read Corduroy, the story of a stuffed bear
in the Laundromat
the sun sweltering outside
melting the story with me
like a swirly ice cream cone on the side step of an apartment
or the slushy ingested combined with
the acid you were so prone to tasting in your throat
reflux, like a memory that just won’t go away
leaving the residue of remnants you wish your brain would just spit up
this ordinariness of abandonment
feelings washed away like the mud stains on your uniform shirt tumbling in the washer
the soap bubbles punching the glass window in unison with all the rest; a cleansing of spirits
a lot of people go to church
but for those that can’t afford it, the laundry is heaven with a vending machine
I felt for the stuffed animal rejected for missing a button
because I knew children with trembling knuckles
turned into adults that got lost in the escalators of the world’s mall
wandering ghosts with perpetual uncertainty whether they should
buy the coffee set or the patent leather shoes that will balm over the calluses of their feet
in the loudness of the fans redistributing hot hair
I was in limbo, the rigid seat sticking to the back of my thighs like caramel
sweat almost hard to ignore if it wasn’t for the luster
of all the women inside, their shoulders broad like those I
only thought of in lumberjacks
burly burlap sacks over their shoulders
swapping stories of childbirth as frequently
as they ordered a pound of red liver chunks from the grocery store next door
like animatronics that learned to harvest a genuine laugh
their nail polish never fading despite the gruesome biting teeth of Clorox bleach
staining the skin on their hands
they were warriors, lost and unsure of in a world that didn’t look them square in the eye
much like those camo toy soldiers you won if you gave the machine a quarter
unwrapping it from its’ plastic cage, growling for the neglect of their maker
who decided not to give them pupils at all
senile wrestlers sometimes forgotten by children in the middle of the walkway
so that they could be stepped upon, accidentally
these women with their chocolate complexion and romantic gold hoops, accidental
unrecognized by their country, banished by their family
isolated in a land that shows mercy to those that only help themselves
no refugee whose blood could compare to oil
these women who weren’t missing any buttons
would congregate inside this Laundromat hoping to remove the stains
wishing that their clothes would stop smelling of unpaid labor
that they could stop calling home a box inside a closet of more stacked boxes
they can hear those around them, elbowing the walls like multiple hearts in a rib cage
the world glimpsing in for a second, just another spin rinse cycle
repeat until all color fades
I too find myself  stuck inside that Laundromat, I realize
except I know that I can leave, I know I can walk out with my book in tow
open the door and become another spectator if I wished
which is more than that poor toy soldier can say

The alien’s ears listen intently
Every syllable landing deftly
Caught between listening and hearing
He struggles to comprehend their meaning
It's like getting lost in a thick forest
It's dark and lonely, in a crowded house
Familiar words like brief glimpses of daylight on a cloudy day
Meaning hidden behind feverish incomprehensibility
Meaning in every word for the speakers
Every meaning for the speakers in those words
The tool for comprehension and its greatest barrier

Love the name.
Got upset
When the man called out, Seen.
Stupid man.
It's Sean, and not Shawn.
A year older than Gerald.
Two younger than Kevin.
Two older than me.
That's Sean.
Daddy wrote home about us.
Maura was working at the hospital.
Sheila was finishing highschool.
Kevin won the Science Fair.
Sean plays ice hockey with the All Stars,
All over Canada and the U.S.
I found the letter, penned in '62,
A jagged European cursive. They tend to write the same.
I've seen the words, run together to hide the spelling;
With JMJ's and TG's sprinkled like manna throughout.
The last page was missing,
Just when Daddy'd write about Gerald, me, and Marlene.
Gerald with his Beetles haircut.
Me, mimicking ( probably mocking),
Some unknown priest, to my father's delight;
Marlene, the wee pigeon, he missed most when he worked
Away from home.
Jimmy, The Bruiser, wasn't here yet.
The last of an Irish brood settled in Canada.

I discovered it in the spare room at Granny's and Frank's.
There was no mention of Michael, Eucheria or Particia.
He exaggerated about the harsh, six-month winters here,
And our proximity to the North Pole.
Suggested Frank try putting copper wires around Granda's wrists;
The Egyptian mummies didn't exhibit signs of bone deterioration.
Daddy was hard-pressed to be proven wrong when he concocted.
Sean had a drawer full of ribbons, medals, trophies and plagues,
And a large S, his Senior Letter.
He also had sideburns, a much smaller nose, and,  smelled
as good as he looked,
The Elvis dip-curl, the Connery swag, the Selleck stash to Clooney cool.
Sean kept a disposition of hidden pains secreted for others.
A heart of tears.
A spirit of adventure.
I love Sean, I recall.
He is always welcome here.
Drops by sometimes.
It's always a great surprise.

The old champion bows her head and drops her torch.
Fatigue has set in after a century of drudgery
And all her commitment shown, no one can question her decision.
Her partisans are bleak and sympathetic
For how long should they ask the weary warrior to keep standing?
The new masses turned away and the poor exiled under law of phylogeny,
There is now no beacon but a rickety fence creakin’
That children fear when blows the old wind, once called freedom.

Seeking refuge
only to end up being used
cheap labour, low wages
slammed in small cages
stereotyped due to my difference
I pray for deliverance
government blames our growth on their lack of security
just all lies hiding behind their deepest insecurity
afraid to see me be who I was meant to be
blind to your scrutiny,
I search for liberty
in a land where I get robbed of dignity
immigrant is what they label me

Whatever you are
You meet something else
Part of you is the border
The other part is a long stretch of difference
Will you let them cross
They have to walk on your soul
But the other side you also know
The collision is what knocks down the fence
Nothing stops the wind
Or the birds flying south
If you let it happen that way
A stone becomes a river bed of conscience