Ebola has my name on it, the Doctor
Who came back with Ebola
In New York, yes you heard me right
His name is Mr. Spencer, I’m a

Spencer, he rode the subway in the dark
And he went bowling a week after
He came back, and he only went
To the hospital very sick

This is dementia of the public system
And the main stream media
Is being blacked out by the Czar
Appointed by Obama, he’s a lawyer by trade

Are you surprised that Ebola
Can hitch a ride with a Doctor without borders?
There are no borders for a pandemic
It increases exponentially

And peaks sometime in 2017
I’m sorry to be the first to break
The News, but Ebola is running wild
Somewhere in New York, somewhere near you

There could be a city that has it already
And do you think the media would let you know?

I was sat in a cab,
A shell of flaking leather and jet-black exterior,
When I realized I loved you.
The immense and surrounding sound of falling rain
Incapsulated us into a sphere of warmth.
I was sat in a cab,
And I was leaning onto your chest,
You wrapped your arms around me and kissed me on the head.
What a simple act, an easy thing to do,
But I have never felt more loved, and more safe.
I was sat in a cab,
And I realized I loved you.
I loved you, I loved you, I loved you.
I never wanted to step foot into another space of existence
That didn't have you by my side.
There in that cab,
I wonder if you loved me too.

Take off your Panerai watch.
Expose your now intentions.
Tick your tongue,
Against my desire.
Do you know what you've begun?

....
We are not yet done.  
Yet Your Range Rover is running.
Our hearts were beating fast.

I'm look far into the skyline.

New York.  
Where love doesn't last.

She kissed him
Like New York was the city she lived in
Like Manhattan was her home
When she laid her fingers against the window
She felt it
His heartbeat
Warm flesh through cold glass
Her reflection mirroring his
While she looked out on skyscrapers
Empire State, she
Saw him across the room
In the silence of the empty penthouse
Louder than the racket of
The city buzz below
She heard him
His whisper
Telling her he loved her, how beautiful she was
She kissed him
Like New York was the city she lived in
While never having left the Europe that is home

Walking a park of flowers around York Minster
tickets in pocket for the festival of early music
colours singing to the sound of the past like minstrels
until I rounded a corner and found all I'd ever seek
in the slightly forlorn sight of a single rose
a captive to love's tune and white as a frozen sheet
hoping for a spare ticket to hear the angel voice
of a choir in concert as beyond compare as she
“sit no longer dear lady - share with me” and spirits rose

white rose in my veins when in time we hugged shuddering
as a cold coat of feeling moults tunes on to your lips
secure in silent truce in mon amour doubt shedding
deep petal armour on a second skin to get a grip
when stems entwine in a new warm understanding
as if about to fall back in time to retrace steep steps
so lean forehead forward on your soft drop strands
shoulders combine soldier sidearms with giddy happiness
heart stopping red passion stitching together bled thorns

I pretend a meek surrender giving ground to fate
but secretly hope to surround with pikes where you sit
heart's drum beat rallying to rush up lush slopes
search parties in the choir stalls but sound you out
dislodging bared hearts so tales compare more freely
pushing with the weight of growing pains in concert
to get your defensive walls to tumble away to reveal
a many levelled playing field of mutually shared delight
where music is the food of love served for every meal

you give no quarter but a quavering piece to which I lay claim
to shield how I revel in each quiver at advancing forces
raising my standards to meet your church steeple climbs
but still ardour yields to the scale of your appeal en masse
torn from arduous verse to verse praising that limb this limb
I submit and sense a chance of permanent heaven in this peace
as like a knave on the trail of your scent summits crumble
into the rolled out treaty rosy perfume in precipitous ravines
where I pin chivalrous titles to the brush of knightly leaves

snared in the honeyed trap nave of your thorns
abandoning myself to the rapture entwined with love
winning the soul rights to capture and chaperone
a concerted effort which brought you to the fore
by the devious role of fate and by divine charm
by some device and by far ranging gentle force
of arms which did no harming
and by the loving voices
of angel choristers
which sing now to break the ice
as loudly as they have
down the ages before us

Encased in metal, their bodies careened towards the city. The grinding, the metal on metal screeching, quieted their thoughts.

Head against glass, crowded and foggy, the mother in grey plots her scheme to the nearest bottle of liquor. The man with guilt in his eyes, clutches her hand and wonders when he can get away.

They coast past creeks of muck and cigarette butts. Two bodies on their way to the next hour.

The small girl sleeps on her mothers chest breathing foul ash from the air. Her father smokes with his hand behind a book and exhales sour remorse from his worn lungs.

The mother with heavy eyes, avoids wishful thinking. She has never relied
on luck, so she sits, encased in metal ignoring faces and avoiding eyes.

today,
while waiting for the 8th Avenue train
a woman with a straw hat and a shopping cart told me:
“Today is going to be a good day for you”
and for once,
in a long time,
I believed her
I believed I no longer had to sit alone with my thoughts in my Davisville apartment
I believed I could walk down 9th to 34th and 35th and 36th and not shatter into a million pieces
I believed I could finally find myself as a whole
and not pieces:
my upper lip on Queens Quay,
or my right elbow on King,
or my grafted skin on College
no,
here, I am one
I am everything that has happened to me
and everything that will happen
I can speak uncensored at the little ******* the train with a yellow sundress
I can leave my laughter echoing across Brooklyn
and my breath floating on my favourite rock in Central Park
I can pass people on Lexington and not break eye contact –
because I want them to look at me
I want them to see me, all of me
and all I am worth
because no one knows me here
and it is so exhilarating to know that they can know me
all of me,
uninhibited
not carrying ten or eleven or twelve bags’ worth of past anguish on all my limbs
they see me here
my soul is alive here
amidst the millions
for too long I have searched for a place of solace and strength
and if you had asked me three years ago if I loved it here
I would rip my hair to shreds and close my eyes and think of home,
Toronto,
but now
if you asked me:
where is home?
if you asked me:
where are you yourself?
if you asked me:
where are you the most happy?
light blue and yellow light streams across my face
and I breath a little easier
and I sit a little taller and I say:
New York City
because on hundred year old streets
clustered with thousands of strangers
surrounded by words from all over the world
I have found myself.