A great greening is on
Along the St. Clair River.
Across it, like hands in tight grip,
The Bluewater Bridge transcepts
A submersed dotted line.
The Stars and Stripes look sharp
Fluttering and greeting us.
Beside it,
The red Maple Leaf in full regalia
Snaps and spins beneath our Spring sun,
Now casting evening shadows easterward.

Rain comes down,
Heavy as ache, wet as blood,
Makes dirt sound
That shatters ground and mood
Drumming onto leaves.

Rain scabs earth,
Murky as love, dark as wound,
Sprinkles the cold
Forest that smokes out light,
Sun smothers into moon.

Rain races down,
No things seem to matter much,
Creatures disembodied
Come and go in lazy rushes
Even heart withholds.

Rain cleanses not
And there is no sky these days
For flights so empty,
Lost in the faraways of nows,
Sun blots away by moon.

The truth is…
              the real truth…?
                             Do people do that?

How’s my new dress?
                                             It makes you look fat.

Like my new do?
I paid quite a lot
                                             You got ripped off, dear,
                                               You might even sue.

How are you today?
Just a quick answer please
I don’t have the time
To hear of your bad knees.
                                              I’m doing fine, knowing
                                               You don’t want to hear
                                               My problems and stresses
                                               I won’t bend your ear.


A “white lie” is easier
Makes conversation go fast
Then again, you just never know
When you might hear the real truth
It could be quite a blow.
So beware

the truth is…

If you don’t want the real truth?
Perhaps you shouldn’t ask.

there comes a point in time
when you have nothing
to give away
to the searching hands

wandering, dancing over
veins and joints
that are barely there.
they will ask for parts

forgotten, areas destroyed
and you will hand them
the rubble only for it
to be swept away.

there comes a point in time
your soul will hunger and thirst
for things you can
no longer feed it.

it will cry out for you
like a newborn baby
but you can only pass it
rice grains of promises

that fate will be kinder
to your already broken body.
you put your soul to rest,
and pray for sweeter dreams

you will lose your spine
and find vertebrae in letters,
bottled up and sailed off,
sent to long lost lovers.

your palms are empty,
reaching for bodies
sleeping in beds
that are no longer yours.

cold gasps settled into
the fine lines of song lyrics,
impossible to return
back down to your lungs.

you will have given
everything you have
to the universe, letting them go
into the expanse of space.

all you have left for yourself
is space rock and asteroid dust,
but for some reason,
you never ask for more.

you leave it up to hope
that gravity will pull
your fragments
all the way back to you.

Emotional sadism
has seduced me
time and time again
to fall for the pain
that still makes me
feel
leading me to
let go of all things selfish
and attach myself
to the "selfless"