Names are so queer
Nobody seems to understand
Your name has meaning
And power,
It's true
But it has also colour
Of every shade and hue

Now, Nico is red,
Bright red like blood in your head.
Fred sounds black
No problem with that
It's merely a colour
I see
When I hear your name.

Janine is pink
Or sometimes green
It all just depends
With which mood it its seen

Amy is yellow
Like a field full of daisies
In the early morning sun
Bright enough to startle a fellow.

Damian is a triangle
With earthy colours
Strong and faithful
Sprotting from there earth's foundations

John its a brown name
That much is sure
It's a brown mansion
with two towers
That houses the dame.

Dylan is blue
About that there's no doubt
God of the sea
Go on and trust me!

If your name is Catherine
Now that is quite something
It's a strong green pillar
With black leaves to adorn it.

Every sound makes a colour
Every name sounds a shape
To experience
Shut up more with mouth agape

Like master Da Vinci Taught,
Use all your senses
And instead of survive
Learn to truly live!

Silver ribbon Assiniboine
a sash for a city--a Ceinture Fléchée
tied into the Red just off Highway 1
          You leak into the topsoil
           in the place you call home
          and come back up a street map
          with fingerprint roads

I remember the way you'd trace these out on my back
with fingertip pencils--cartographer's hands--
Bird's Hill and Lag' and Portage and Corydon
     laid 'em down in my veins
     just under my skin

Where are you tonight, in your smiling Great City?
Crossing the bridge and inhaling the skyline?
Or walking the river in my iced over thoughts?
Maybe walking, mid-tempo, around KP mall?

Those hipsters in Osborne Village
          and Wolsely
had nothing on us, did they?
                    Cooler than Main
                              on the 1st of the year

I trickled away
                    and I leaked into topsoil
enjambed between rhymes in apology poems.
An Irish Goodbye; a blip on the radar
stopped flashing to fade off the map of your streets.

Our voices still echo, our spectres still haunt
Dollaramas and sidewalks, Tim Horton's and pubs
Our hands still lace up--at least so in theory
Perimeter Highway's still traced on my back.

          Here's hoping our avenues
          meet again soon.
          Here's hoping that luck can outrun shortcomings
          one more time.

To the ******* at Mongolian Barbecue last night:
Just because you let your short shorts and flowered headband
Scream assumptions about your homosexuality doesn't mean
You can make those assumptions about others,
Forcing red-faced shame and trembling knees on a stranger,
Your hands clawing the pride from blue eyes like
Storm clouds making the world grey.
Butch and **** are never words that should come from your lips,
To someone you don't know
Just because you portray yourself as flamboyant
And she has her own style
They carry too many decades of hatred and fear to be
Tossed into casual conversation
Like land mines in her closet.
I don't care if you thought you were joking or being funny or cute
Her leather jacket and kickass combat boots don't
Paint some sort of rainbow bullseye
Between her shoulder blades, behind her heart.
People have enough to deal with in this world
Without having to defend themselves against your ignorance,
Without having to stop their tears from
Making small oceans on the streets of Ann Arbor.
Butch and **** should not be thrown from your lips
Carelessly,
Meaning none of the weight they carry.
You probably didn't see her cry
Because that's just the kind of person she is
But I did,
A thunderstorm of conflicting emotions and heart-wrenching, blood-curdling cries,
A deep-seated ache that won't be washed away
With my hugs or chocolate or
Assurances that you are, in fact,
A **** who doesn't deserve to know her.
11:30 pm she walked through the front door with red eyes and damp cheeks,
Her voice thick and choking on
Your arrogant, misplaced words,
And I might not always get along with my sister
But I felt my sternum crack right through the middle
When she spoke of you,
Ribcage shattering,
Rainbows pouring from my lungs
To try and knit her fractured, hopeful heart
Back together.
I am my sister's keeper.
To the ******* at Mongolian Barbecue,
I hope you learn to grow up and see how your
Words splinter souls like weeds splitting concrete
But until then
*******.

"Gabrielle" was a name falling from my grandmother's lips,
as I was rushed to the NICU, the doctors asked my name,
and my grandmother uttered a word that was more like a promise.

Gabrielle is the female form of Gabriel, the angel that brought the news of the birth of Jesus to townspeople, like how my grandmother brought the news of my birth to the hospital waiting room, where my ten year old brother was beginning to understand what it meant to be a man, and my other grandma threw a fit about my new moniker.

The name Gabrielle means "gift from god" and my life itself was a gift as no one knew how long I'd be around to live it, the odds of a tiny baby hooked up to wires and tubes. God gave me the gift of life, as I was born without breathe, my lungs not ready for this world, he gave me a second chance, and I opened up my mouth and cried.

Gabrielle meant a name, and a name meant a life, a family, a place in the world.

Growing up I loathed my name, hopping between nicknames, wishing I had been given anything else for a title, but now I know I would not trade it for the world.

To reject my name is to erase the prayer that fell from my grandmother's lips the moment I was born.

You people think I care,
When you call me these names.
You think I haven't heard them all before.
But I will only ask one question,
If you are not a ****, and I am not like you,
Does that mean I am a ****?
Because yes I'm not like you...