REIT

My soul is a vacant lot.
Years ago sold to some shyster
looking to make a quick buck.
No one could live on those kind of wages.

The emptiness now a flattened yard
all sorts of wreckage leaking power steering fluid with anti-freeze
an environmental hazard if nothing else.

My spirit is an abandoned brownstone
where photos once tacked
on walls reminiscent of happier times
smiles were genuine, ties were taught
Sunday best meant just that – then and there
A home fully furnished with memoires back in the day
now foreclosed
shuttered.

My heart is an empty warehouse
years ago used to recycle broken promises, empty wishes, hollow, unrealized dreams
My good intentions could push through the hurt
a cost of doing business
never questioning the **** in – **** out logistics

Then, the last love broke away from the loading dock out back
on its forever journey to paradise
while I stood there on a rotting, empty platform
with the invoice in my hand
the NSF cheque written in blood
signed with my tears.


9/10 Feb ‘21

Colleagues might ask, “was Santa Claus good to you”?

I consider briefly, “you mean thee Santa”?
That sanctimonious, judgemental clown,
produced and promulgated by corporate America
as vehicle for annual mass consumption
of soft drinks, fast food and *****?
The Santa that personifies everything wrong with western society,
brought forth during the annual ‘meaning’
that, thanks to him,
has since been rendered meaningless?
     You mean that Santa?

Spending weekends loitering in malls making promises he has
no intent on keeping – nor the wherewithal to do so
Listening to the gimmie–gimmie, want–want from the youngest of children
with pasted obligatory smile
complicit in a con-game that borderlines *******.

Thankfully the “hustle and bustle” as it was once known
is a scant eight weeks long.
During Boxing Week, the Santa suit’s dry cleaned with bells on.
Through February Santa can go to hell until Halloween,
a week or so before Remembrance Day’s sanctity.

By mid-November the corporate puppet dons the suit once again
Action packers of the annual holiday graffiti,
temporarily dragged from basements,
with hopes that the meaningless meaning might
be remembered this year.

Santa should be thankful for summer
letting kids just be kids,
monsters at bedtime, animals at the supper table
no longer bound by naughty/nice lists

We might shake the meaningless meaning one day
perhaps next year
and not bow to the corporate Santa ensuring
we don’t remember how that feels.

So this is what it has come to
whereby you feel the neesd to sneak
into backyards, running fences
while running your chores
just leave my baggage on the patio pickup spot
a weekend errand
with me a simple afterthought
a kind of “on the way to the drycleaner” task

There – your DVDs are returned – what the hell else do you want?

Time was, there wouldn’t be a day go by
I’d be tracked down through downtown
down back alleys, backyards then against a fence
a week’s worth of passion exploding into paper towel
“clean up behind unit 6”
repeated two, three times a month

All leading up to this afternoon when
I sat staring out my kitchen window
watching the new truck roll past,
parcel pick-up, drop off so quick, effective
you’d done it a thousand times in your head
finally brought yourself to come to terms with
everything that made us so different
not giving a second thought to a second thought
once your mind was made

The best laid plan was yours, no turning back
no what-if
get on with what you came to do.  
Drop a parcel or three, move on
through back yards in back alleys along your life’s journey.

My pen is leaking
ink pooling into my pocket protector
the one I’ve had since before the new math
My uncle gave it to me – I remember
it’s got the logo of his insurance company on it.
that and, now the ink stain.

Ink running through the cracks in the pocket protector
leaking where uncle’s meat thermometer pushed through tight plastic
staining a once yellow shirt

Stopping by the dry-cleaner for pick up
the vendor says she couldn’t get it all out
but it’s better than it was.
Hands me a small plastic sandwich bag filled with strips of paper
the size of those you see on magnets
for fridge poems

“Don’t know where these came from” she says, “****** near ruined my dryer
spinning around there – clogging up the air exhaust”

words……
I whisper under my breath

From the ink.  
The words in the pen
would not go unnoticed.

I pay her – grab my shirt, my jacket, my tie
grab the baggie of words
in no particular order
thank her
and with the welcome bell’s ding
I head into the street
a very satisfied customer

****** pen is still leaking by the time I get home
It’s leaking tears by now
tears that fill the ink well of my memory
dip and scribble dip and scribble

Thoughts almost painful
long forgotten
or so I thought
Last days on Brunswick Avenue
knowing I would have to return to school
emptying that huge street-facing bedroom
I got a lot of miles looking out of those windows
if I wrote a lot
I don’t remember
Late nights, very early mornings listening to
the hourly chime of that nameless clock
that made up the entire downtown Toronto skyline back in the day

The words that dotted the paper sometimes
sometimes made no sense
my friends politely remarking
“That’s good.  I like it” were unhelpful

Further future desperation wasn’t far
just need a receipt or a bar napkin or
a box from a Big Mac ripped into 4x2x1x2x4
whatever I could get my hands on
just trying to appease the leaking pen
from getting too far ahead of my regretful memory.

IOUs, shopping lists, debits to society
love poems, goodbye notes, “I miss you”
they’re all there, we just have to remember what they are

Words write themselves.  
The ink, the tears
the blood, the fridge magnets
have already formed the words.
I am the one with the ideas
when I meet a new lover or
fall out of favour with an “ex” – yet again or
attempt to describe three shades of orange or
when I want to remember to pick up pickles

They are stuck in the pen
until I am ****** good and ready
with the roll of the ball-point
to see where the words land this time.

drip
drip
drip

A thin line lay between the - is
and the – was

though my life hadn’t crumbled the day
I listened to you cross that line so peacefully,
it had changed
immeasurably
forever.

Life as a memory filled with love, laughter, fear, loss
at times lively with laughter, then broken in loneliness
a circuit of energy,
broken in that instant
The line much thinner than imagined

Those fun-loving puppy eyes sitting up front
top of lungs YELLING at trucks passing for no reason
“Wow this is exciting!”

Laying prone with you – a Thursday afternoon that was not random
a family planning day I had pre-planned
to limit the amount of our family anguish on an otherwise
beautiful summer day.

It had always been easy to make decisions for you –
your best interest – my life goal – though me
Your only interest, love to me – through you

You’d shake with excitement just to hear my voice
as soon as in the drive
inconsolable me, grumpy old man home from dreadful, ****** human days
Just –
   let’s go for a walk, you can fill me in on the way.
then late afternoons disappeared with a ball, a bark and a bribe

The week that “whatzername” finally left
you could hear the emptiness in my heart
so you lay there, listened as love lingered.

You were so afraid to be away from everyone
anyone for very long
cried like a little girl in the front seat waiting for ten human minutes
through the shock and ordeal of
what seemed like
an entire canine summer there on the front seat
yearning my return.

* * *
We lay here now – this cold, damp institution
it’s me this time crying like a little girl waiting
listening for you to cross that
thin dark line.

From this bitter, ***** soaked floor
you can smell the spirit of my late father
standing out back waiting
to listen for your storied years
of mischief, and fun and love and small talk
and the perfect
silence

Dad’s a good listener too
Just –
   go for that walk, you tell him all about it

We’ll meet again old boy
on the other side of this thin, dark line.




((Jeb The Wonder Dog = May 1997 – July 2011))


PMc
6 Apr 21

Happenstance of happened chance
meting you in - of all places -
a shopping mall

me, broke and somewhat broken,
myself the only credit to the credit cards
I can’t have

An opportunity afforded us at an inopportune moment
seeing you bleary eyed none the less
your scent drawn intense
me, smelling mostly from my nose
no haircut as yet, barely bathed
weeks of laundry piled in corners of darkened rooms

Heading toward leaning forward
to greet you as I thought I ought
forehead to forehead
having to all but chase you down the hallway
to simply hold your hand
wondering once again if it were you
or a mirage of someone I’d met
months ago

Kissing your fictitious kisses
there on the street for no one to see
perhaps that’s why there are so many alley ways
in this frozen town
too many couples like us with too many,
far too many complex issues,
too many to talk about some times
I realized then
we were talking on the street or talking in a mall or talking in a bowling alley
that’s all we’re ever seen to do

and I’m not sure you want to talk about it at all.

Let’s be civil you said
and I believed you then
and now I’m a stranger in my own home
lost amid the music, food
and lost happiness

Civility, in my terms entails a
certain awareness of one another’s feelings
weren’t you thinking - dropping by at the drop of a hat
with those you’d be ashamed to be
seen with had it been my invitation to you
rather than theirs

It was you who touted that you’d be
embarrassed when you were invited to my home,
“it just doesn’t feel right”, you told me
“they’re too close to me to make me feel comfortable”,
and now I can’t seem to share this evening's laughter.

The invitations faded as we spent more and more time
alone, together
and now that you’re alone with them,
and I with my thoughts
I wonder if you can feel any pain through that laughter
likely not.

Standing there, tears in eyes
unbelievable after all of twenty-seven days in captivity -
unbelievable still.

The beauty of the south-central Yukon tour by pouring ducts
purged by pain, anger, disappointment, wonder, pain, anger, anger
twisted wreck of unemployment all of a sudden

Torn emotion of having to say how you felt - all of a sudden
I felt it - all of a sudden I knew our lives had changed.

Your recent empty plate of practical unemployment
giving way to the truth of how we’d felt about one another
somehow - all of a sudden.

I didn’t stand a chance trying to tell you that.

The cops appeared with the bosses boss and time was of the essence
and we couldn’t make a scene and we didn’t know what to do
and I didn’t know what to say and you did  - and you had
and it mattered to me - it mattered a lot that you’d confided in me
and it mattered that you cared and it mattered to you that you let me know
and it mattered that I call you that evening (sorry but we couldn’t talk)
and it mattered to me that I mattered to you
I was all there -
all at once.

We were young and foolish, she the younger –
I the more foolish
hair falling softly from the table she would lie on
using keys to the dark-room during lunch hour
so we could “finish the yearbook”
excited by thoughts of getting caught during those encounters

The red light accentuated the perkiness of her *******, taught
filled with passion and energy.
I would lick my way past her belly button and could taste the chlorine from her recent swim practice.
her pool-noodle legs arched up, inviting me to stare at her
newly formed mound, still growing into her thighs
it was delightful.

She was beautiful.

Years on I’d come to spend more time with the woman from
cash register four – Thursdays noon till 8.
we were uncommitted to commitment thus,  
neither of us took too much, too seriously

She wore her hair shorter on a-countta’ it got so ****** hot
in that store,
        she would sometimes dehydrate – her neck glistening.
from the store and the hot flashes.

Her ******* would sway from side to side as she lay there waiting for me to undress
the evenings were rather unceremonious –
though quite memorable.  We never lacked energy.
Quite memorable.

Once golf-ball sized ******* had begun to sink into her abundant pillowy chest.
I would take forever it seemed ******* like a child
        until they obeyed the demand for attention.

Rounding her hips, I could taste the day-long sweat
smothered under that poly-nylon store smock
Later, she would toss her leg over mine, allowing me more than a glimpse
of her “womanhood” she called it.
all matted and twisted from the long afternoon
her greying ***** beginning to show her age
along the rest of her body.

She was beautiful.

The -older woman- referred to me as “well rounded” – the lady four years my senior
summer afternoons we’d spend quietly just sitting on the bed
Sometimes, with nothing to say
Most of her hair had left her head by now from the months of chemo

Gentle massage to her shoulders and upper arms somehow quelled her headaches
from time to time she would welcome me
“be gentle” she would whisper
I would

Kissing the nape of her neck to make way for her remaining breast
She’d had the other removed months ago.

I could taste the dusty sun-screen from her gardening
just above the tops of her hips
kissing my way down the pudge folds of her belly to her thigh
then what remained of her once neatly trimmed mound
now silver/grey/white
muddled and untidy if at all.

She was so beautiful.

Huh - some hero
a broken man of broken dreams
found crawling from the ditch dredged by strangers
while his own ruination, a physical half-shell
emotional snakes and ladders

Ever courageous through – always the light-hearted of the herd
not quite nerdy but an intellect (of sorts)
a man of letters
sometimes “too many notes”

Poured from the gravy boat of left-overs
the wannabe saviour swims to rescue the damsel
whom he knows will know better
she’s seen his ilk before
all shining armour, will tarnish given time
those cathedral etchings from years gone by
with the sunlight shining from his mouth
spouting poetry from centuries past
nary an original thought will develop from what’s left
of his imagination
dulled by realities of daily news

The saviour has pledged allegiance
an honour to truth both unspoken and said
a respect for taking turns
to laugh, cry or feel nothing sometimes

The damsel knows he can’t make up his mind
about much at all.  

If he can’t save his own life – how the hell will
he ever pretend to prop hers

Huh – some hero.

A no hot-water turns Friday hotel frivolity into
“****-it” fortune and we just wanna’ go home

Burned toast with hard margarine, returns of
peanut butter and honey
makes most of morning’s breakfast
plugged sewers back toilets up non-serviceable
the bus is late, and the garage band sound-track is far too loud
conversation is inaudible, speed detrimental
spirit now dented

Stressors of first steps toward tomorrow’s last long look at love lost
bright financial future seeming more like
rainy Sunday afternoons

I needed a giggle more than ever
from you dear friend, a simple text
proved enough to lighten the load, broaden the smile
put it all into perspective while looking forward to our
one day together.

Run away with me like we wanted to
when were twelve
toss it all to join my circus
we’ll see the world through rose coloured glasses
we bought from the dollar store
on our way past the thrift shop

Steal away my time, like you have
in my dreams
necking near the water’s edge
making love in hotel rooms vacated by vagrants
with ***** linen
and empty plastic mickey bottles

Spend a day with me, unplanned, uncharted
we’ll *** cigarettes to pretend we smoke
dine in a fancy establishment and spend the last
of our sixty-four dollars and twelve cents
tax and tip included
reminding each other what it’s like to just enjoy
enjoy the day free of what freedom takes away when
freedom isn’t free

Take a moment with me, breathe in fresh new friendships
hug one another like we mean it
look into one-another’s eyes for so long, it reminds us that we have
but this moment.

WOMAN SPEAK

Loud, raucous, at times rude
she makes fun of me in front of my friends
noting how I root for the wrong team,
can’t remember people’s names,
other earth shattering idiosyncrasies,
obviously annoying
buddies ask – why bother

     Sunday morning, my friend
     when sun pours through lace by the barrel
     listen to her breathe, watch her ******* up and down
     now taste ******’s milk,
     listen to her whisper ***** words into my ear

Lousy at fighting, two topics simultaneously
she dares me to leave, hit her, whatever.
Spitting at me through tones reserved to discipline
an eight year old,
screaming how much I am wrong, why I can’t get my **** together,
the boiling point of near-hatred surpassed
and I consider departure

     Recalling lips parted kissing me here
     yes-and there, her astride
     the pumping madman within me deep within her
     pleasure almost painful, joyous to recite
     sweat pouring down our faces
     another Friday night alone

We roll our bodies laden in massage oil with stinking passion
She rolls over – sighs - lights a smoke – exhausted – dreams

     The only time she ever shuts up.

At the risk of overdoing it, I find myself thinking about you again
Summers are gone, and as days fly by
soft evenings, curtains drawn
won’t give way to fireplace warmth
time and distance are the nare-sayer yet again.

At the risk of losing my sanity, I find a quiet coffee corner that hasn’t given way to gas station convenience.
The wifi-lessness forces pen to page in hopes of finding
the inner me to reach out
to upper you, when headspace gives way to life-changing, life-long decisions
about the kids, the car, the commute, the kitchen cupboards, the commitment
the chaos

At the risk of underdoing it, you plan with military precision every last detail of your move
Each fateful false move joined and re-joined
as you would lose puzzle pieces

At the risk of losing it all, you won’t have the time to work on a proverbial “we”
There is no “we” to re-join
so it can’t be overdone
you deny the “we” never was.

At the risk of losing what might be “we” entirely, my pen and paper dictate that
now is not the time to pursue such matters,
whatever “we” is or will be, will have to wait

as will your puzzle.

There’s no point in trying to become
the best umpire that ever lived.
There’s always someone who’s gonna’ call your game otherwise
no matter how well you play that day, or any other

There’s the time spent practicing with little tykes,
triple A, Grapefruit Leagues and more practice,
there’s never any respite for those who are right
only someone else to refute your best judgement.

There’s no right/wrong regarding calls, strikes/*****
it’s Olympic swimming, diving, ice skating,
subjective.
There’s no life like it, ‘cept maybe the Army

Betting of all sorts, you know not where or when
you just know it’s going on somewhere with somebody/somewise.
There’s no accounting for mans indiscretion to sport
nor the improprieties of professional sport/entertainment.

There’s no telling if you’re gonna’ call good or bad games
or if your kindness or mean streak will exude on any given day
There’s no telling if you’ll make or break at one call or another.

No telling if your taxi will drive or stop
while you’re in a cab
There’s no telling if it’s your time or not
to face the lost angel of death…or not
   it will happen
   in the taxi on the street
   or the garden you’re tending
   the house league diamond
   or the major league ball park
   it will happen
   but there’s no telling……
   when

Beware our first kiss
that uncrossed line of
once done is done
ours will not be a tickled fancy
nor plain nor incidental

First kiss will come from deep within our souls
where desire has slept for months,

Our ****** lip-lock longing
with the torrent of rivers Teslin and Yukon merging
the craving colours change from soft navy blue, shadows of olive
to stark aqua marine, glowing brilliant teal
seen through eyes closed, the witness of deep arousal
from deep within

Mouth water poaches an intensity, hearts race, we forget to breathe
teeth gnarl one another in a **** or flight instinct
towers of oral energy cascade through a single line of longing
faces twisting right and left in attempts to find suitable alignment
not caring when they don’t
nothing else matters
when uncrossed lines are crossed

Beware the first kiss
once
    there is no turning back
let go the vertigo, we will hold one another
while tearing our tongues into one another’s souls
push deeper with all passion’s purpose

this once
will be
      – just once

I am powerfully drawn toward and yet must remain cautions
one false word out of context is ruination
of my career, my life
wrong word – bad time – didn’t mean it
out of context - will all add up

I am weary and need to be held
2019 social media kangaroo-court will tag me
an “inappropriate predator”
my physical person has need that cannot be
expressed as or when I want

I am lost in spirit hoping to find some direction
time was when I could free-spirit my way
through just about anything
my years have found me, I recognize my own shadow,
the spirit has since left

I am torn between heart and head
strong enough in both as in body with rational ability
to decide between the two
knowing that one decision will have consequences
for the other - and others

I am alone with my thoughts undecided
your hair bundled to one side an invitation to caress,
converse and be loved
yet I want no part of my bad things happening
to your good people

Those who study deep human relationships
understand that therapists - Buscaglia and the like,
have advice that,
when heeded
can ease the pain of our life’s loves.

They are apt to tout the benefits of
“writing down the top ten reasons why you love that person”
“and when the going gets rough, read the list”
yadda – yadda
More stuff like
“you can’t love people the same - all the time, people change”
blah – blah -blah
“Remember to laugh and enjoy each other”
and so on and so on
ad nauseum

Rules were made to be broken
so when the going gets tough, pull out
“the twenty reasons why you should get the hell out of the relationship”
Then when the going gets tough
you can retreat gracefully
knowing you “did the right thing”

It is because you cannont love people the same way – all the time
due to the complexities of human nature
and for when they turn their back on you,
you get stood up and they
tear-away the tears from your eyes,
swill their double scotch and
walk away

Somehow, a prescription for laughter’s medicine
doesn’t quite cut it.

So re-read your happy list when your together to remind yourself
of all you’ll miss when you’re alone
on New Years Eve
or spending another Birthday quietly celebrating by yourself

When tending to your garden with your own tears
     you can shred that happy list
     then use it for compost

She caught me staring
not that she was beautiful or gorgeous
attractive, you know

While she didn’t let it get to her
that attraction was used to her advantage from time to time

You could see it through both her persona
Blonde hair all up in a bun
“Hi - I’m from the middle of nowhere
no one else is from there”
the uniform hiding the voluptuous shape
broad yet firm, hardened ***
this was a woman with spare time to walk.

Carrying herself in that cool, friendly, easy-going way
she likely loved what she did
more than a hobby - less than a career.

The following day - with her hair fully exposed
her face showed the no-nonsense style
“What do you want?
What’s up with you?”
the straightforward tone –
not a raised a voice
her face and hands-on-hips
          gave it away.

Those hips ready for the child-bearing years
to the light curvature in her long, strong back
while her *******, notably soft while youngish firm

To feel those hips beyond where anyone other than her husband
and two other college lovers had been,
would have been a life’s-measure

To suckle the sweet nectar of her firm, pointed ******* fully aroused
the kind of memory that memories are made of

Sauntering in and out of my life so quickly
me staring long enough to dream to distraction
- not long enough to become a nuisance, I shouldn’t think

So went my attraction

Hello all you beautiful people
that’s how I would start my dissertation
beautiful people with nothing to lose
and everything to gain

while ugly people,
plain people persons like me
have to work so hard, softened, while you,
intent on being beautiful,
are nothing
if not beautiful

My one thought gets lonely when I see you
what ought to be considered entire and whole
will one day also grow old
the beautiful are nothing if
not beautiful

For me thought comes naturally and I
consider myself fortunate as I must be
content at not being beautiful,
am forced to say something so profound
that a phrase line like
“I broke a nail”
is not as life threatening
or
“How about the price of gas”
won’t seem as wonderfully global
as it would from beautiful persons,
intent on being simply beautiful
when beautiful is simple
or vice-verse

Ugly person you see must work at being
charming, quick witted and swift
while you polish nails
I polish my lines for a play in which
the only star is the beautiful person
behind my ugly shell

A treatise on Bach, formal judgments of global peace
Orwellian theory into practice
both animalistic and I-Robotesque
work their way into ugly people conversation.

Not, “the price of gas”
but "why" the price of gas
or *how" the price of gas
and knowing the answers.

Plain persons have so much more going their way
for the effort expended learning something crucial
something literal, may one day eke a way into
beautiful persons conversation
beautiful people intent on being beautiful
are only beautiful and nothing
if not beautiful.

As for the cockeyed slim-jim like me
I’ve got a lot of learning to do
my hopes of ever being beautiful have long since passed
I thank the Gods and technology for the quest to question
and the simple beauty of not being beautiful

For if I knew nothing except how to be beautiful
I’d be lost for last words
and as for being beautiful
I’d be nothing if
only beautiful

Watching, waiting
almost patiently for you to return from whatever
may have been

Worrying, wondering
if, when I looked into your eyes
passion spark had been - really had been.

Here we are then
waiting for the immediate Cancerian moon
to offer us our mettle in life
proactive financing versus
unpredictable circumstance

Passive, powerful
glimmers of the sun dogs to take
us away from this “civilized” world
painful pleasures ensured upon arrival
of what may

Dark eyes darting past
naked souls
and my wondering how you manage
you asking me “how I’m doing”
perplexed, confused
wasted per-se

Still
Still the thoughts and memory of you
soaking till your hands withered
making my every word matter

Here we are then
so close to the inevitable Cancerian moon
to test what is ours
and hours and hours have past
since our last

Still
Still I look forward, anticipating
the next
as yet, another last

There are days that pass
for days when a man simply needs to lie on the floor
and pet his dog
prone, scratching, yawning, scratching
a dog’s day
connections between man and his best friend
found right there on the living room floor
feeding each other a steady diet of
biscuits and love

Evenings pass for nights out
once in a while when a man yearns to lie on the floor
and pass passing gasses
his own scratching, belching
with no one to hear
fuses of events flash between reality / fiction
last night there in a haze
finding himself between thoughts, words
loosely passing for poetics politics

Night after night after
night’s out lying here on the floor with you
our nakedness shining
stretching, caressing, massaging temples
for lovers self exposed
secretly, we’re finding more and more about
one another lying here, honestly - the best policy
the most difficult to accept for you it would seem
I confess my love and you cringe
I love you there, lying on the floor and you smile
“forever”, I claim
“never”, you answer afraid of my honesty

Sometimes a guy’s just gotta’ be honest
with himself, spend a few minutes lying there
on the floor
pet his dog, evade a memory
love someone
laying there, in all honesty.

Kiss me
and you’ll remember just how beautiful it can be
when our lips touched
it’s almost as though it were some oral obligation
that our lips should meet
our tongues, the tongues of dragons
should touch so delicately.

Hold me
and I’ll you recall just how wonderful it is
when our arms locked
I feel the power of ten hundred Herculean lovers
supporting the temple of passion
our fingers, the fingers of surgeons
should entwine so gently.

Teach me
and recount the magic we have found this weekend
when our lives exploded
your words are the knowledge of  one ‘chronologically advantaged'
and the years, years of study
your words, words of uncertainty
should engage my perception

Love me
and reveal to yourself the years of ******* oppression
when our hearts meet
we will know what it is to be as one
as two can become
while in the deep of the deepest of all raptures
our bodies, our bodies of sensitivity
should meet so gently.

Kiss me…
  Hold me…
    Teach me…
      Love me ….
         Kiss me….

I’m tired
thankfully, not sick-and-tired
but the world is working on that

Tired of being lied to by young and old alike
as though someone had something to hide from me
even after these months and years

Lied to that their qualifications are not as they seemed
lied to about responsibility and blame laying
versus cooperation and team work

Lied at about relationships that seemed to have no end
until they did
then lied to further still about new beginnings
with promise of future bright.

Lied to about hope, tenacity, hard work
honesty, closing time, last call, caloric content
receipt of goods and services

Lied to about death and taxes being the only two things certain
for I have found – and I’m getting tired of it all -
that being lied to is not only a certainty
in some cases it is a constant.

A quest to watch the 2018 match made in heaven
in the worst of all possible seats
the worst of all possible local locations

smells mix of stale *****, yesterdays cigarettes and ****
oozes through clothing
to no end

Not a seat in the house with idiots screaming over one another
cursing through what has never been considered sensibility
hurling insults meant to hurt, seriously, and they do
to no end

This is where you might have been
all those Saturday afternoons
left alone to fend for yourself with
enough 7Up to ruin Saturday supper.

Hours later, daddy lovingly stroking his ego
living vicariously through your tears
waiting for just the right moment to remind you that
he loves you
one of life’s many riddles

WonderWoman underwear bunched between Dora the Explorer socks
at your feet
curling into a corner after you’ve ruined mom’s home-made Saturday supper
with too much 7Up

The tears don’t come when you cry alone
to no end.





((To: JM in hopes she heals))

I cannot take back the rain
any more than I can take it with me
I do hold it dear now though
not at the time
neither of us thought it was funny
still don’t laugh about it

Gosh it rained that day
it soaked through my spirit
it was the new moon and the rain and the too much beer
and all the rest of it - all that frustration

Some ****** Cuban foreigner behind the counter asking for ID -
are you kidding- don’t’ you know who I am
her and the Manager going on about “iss no possible”
the clerk’s look of determination is what hurt most
our transaction was over as soon as “NO” were my answer
to which she answered “NEXT”

The rain would not let up
it would not make it any easier
the rain, the rain, that long walk
the rain and another long walk in the rain

I miss that rain.
To stand in that rain to know what I know now.
take your passport everywhere you go
they don’t give free money away like in free countries
without ID you’re still a nobody
and to you - they’re just a bunch of foreigners

I caught the chill that day in the rain
and I was angry
and I was disappointed
showing my darker side to you on a silver platter
a dark day loomed before us - ahead of me.

Disappointed in myself, disappointed in you being disappointed in me
and had no right to be
Frustrated, tired, angry and cold
I hadn’t been that cold since we left the 60th.



Lying here back at home where rain like that won’t come
not a peso to count
what I wouldn’t do to walk through that rain
knowing what I know now of course
and heed the warnings of Canada council, holiday brochures
tour guides
and you.
Without a passport, doesn’t matter how hard it rains
or how cold you get or whether your spirit is water logged,
cashing travellers cheques without ID
“iss no possible”.

“NEXT”

I can’t honestly recall how many bereavement steps there are -
five – or is it seven?
death of a pet, loss of a family member, expiry of a relationship
endings as endings pass

Denial, anger, fear, forgiveness, anger, addictions, anger
that makes it seven.

This whole “lets be friends” thing.  
It’s over.  You’ve called us off.
You wouldn’t be friends with your late husband,
can’t cuddle your deceased dog (such a good boy)
what on earth would make anyone – let alone you
- a bright, animated, artistic, energetic woman -
what on earth would possess you to think the death
of our intimacy could manifest itself into to “friends”?

We are not a television show.  No “happily ever after” – after all.

I’m “friends” with my baseball team, theatre buddies
high school colleagues, university alma-matter.

Perhaps because I’ve not lain naked with them
talked of promise of future, crossed lines through intra and inter
personal relationships.
Most often these “friends” are wiling to stick with me when I drop the ball,
or don’t call, forget their phone numbers or
when I ask for them to simply listen.

The denial, I will live with forever if need be
pursuit of your company is well worth the efforts,
the disappointment is a given
If you felt the same, I wish you’d say so
forgiveness is one of the five-or-seven steps


Yet even with my addictions under control, somehow
somehow, I can’t seem to refute or deny the passion
Anger of self, anger of me
anger at what we could have become
if you’d only seen fit to accept the sincerity of my feelings
– not anger at you, or because of you
anger for angers sake
just for the sake of it sometimes.
Anger at loss and disappointment.

To feel
to feel something
anything to help myself feel that I matter at all
to anyone any more
I don’t feel that right now.
It’s been quite some time since I felt that.

It’s the passion I will miss the most.  
The comfort, the ease of expression,
appreciation of the moon, anticipation of calm days,
to walk and hold hands, to swim

Not feel that disappointment and
not feel alone
again
and try not to feel so heartbroken that it makes me cry
all at once.

While the disappointment,
the anger,
fear and heartache take hold
they supersede everything my “friendship” could offer.

Here I sit in our two-hundred channel first world
where expedient social media
has brought together friends from twenty - thirty - fourty years ago

Instant social messaging has precluded
mass rallies both lawful and not - started instantly,
NHL riots schemed just minutes ahead of scheduled network programming,
photos of an infant barely ten breaths old
available to grandma’s inbox as quickly as one can “press number sign”.

High definition of high frequency high turn-over television networks
for food, cartoons, comedy, westerns, classics, country music
and all day ****

Meanwhile here in the now unaptly named “City of Champions”
every screen on every television
in every bar, pub or club tonight
they’re watching the
World Championships
of
Poker.

I ******* trusted you
my heart on my sleeve
knowing you needed to be loved
so you said – so I heard
then stood by you when you were
alone at times in the middle of it all
when summer’s sun rose and set
on rocky shores used as wedding tides

You ******* lied to me
my ears not fully in my head
to hear your un-truths about where
you wanted to be,
who you wanted to remain,
what part of you letting go
while still so full of self
you’d had enough to throw around your weight
and beat me, my eyes in the clouds
unclear when to let go when I fell.

Don’t ******* tell me
to get my head out of my ***.
It’s been there for years
every time I run into the likes of you and your kind
hating every waking moment, unable to sleep
during the midnight sun, long since passed
while tracking down the influence of your problem
in my head.

SWEATERS ON – SWEATERS OFF

Sitting board-room style for hours on end, her sweater on – sweater off
at times too cool to concentrate,
        other times not wanting to perspire
they both thought it a shame to waste such a lovely day indoors
at times staring out the window trash blustered along the street,
at times watching her, sweater on – sweater off

He was happy to buy lunch hoping they could leave office confines
      even for an hour
the sun and the brisk walk for sandwiches and tea
       would warm them sufficiently
to inevitably leave off, the sweater off that afternoon

He admired her – not just to look at - but appreciate
the nape of her neck, soft smooth shoulders giving way
        to the work-out bicepts
it was inconceivable that a man in his right mind
would cast such treasures aside
smallish ******* still-firm protruding from the blouse
        beneath the off-sweater
breathing in – breathing out

He knew so very little about female biology,
        being a man was difficult enough
curious to learn more about her “change of life”
almost apologetic about her wrestling with
         sweater on – sweater off
yet wise enough to steer clear, leaving such questions unasked.

The distraction for him was much more approval, than gawk
wondering whether she would quietly smile
during the occasional too long glare
or would she alley-slap him silly for being so brutishly insensitive
ogling while she struggled with sweater on – sweater off

Pen in hand, head down, back-to-work, such questions left unasked
                              although the appreciation continues.......

Last day on the job meant ensuring lines were tight,
tanks filled, hoses pumped,
     boots heavy, dry

Days of volunteering had long gone, years ago
hours of training, gym time, study time,
little time to rest, scant time for family,
     or friends fishing

Last day on the job meant sleeping light
ready for alarm’s alarming alarm,
pushing through lack of sleep,
ever conscious of the task
     the task

Route to the alarm during last day on the job
allowed a precious moment spent wondering about
stretching a fifty-thousand dollar city pension
through twelve months with sufficient money left for
moderate vacations, finishing the basement (finally),
trading in the beater for a “new-to-them” pick-up.

Colleagues wept openly during the last day on the job.
The hardest moments were spent
with the crew Captain making the long walk up the driveway
to break the news to his wife about
     his last day on the job.



Last day in the city was spent with laces tight,
hockey bag full, fans pumped,
     stick taped, dry

Years of minor leagues were well past due
training program’s ritual, airline schedules,
****** steak dinners in greasy spoons
left little time for autographs, rookie card poses,
     or friends fishing

Last day in the city meant sleeping late
through three time zones, restless in anticipation of front desk’s
wake-up call.


On route to the game during last day in the city
included hushed coach and trainer meetings
with news about trades,
draft picks, adequate compensation
including a five-hundred-thousand dollar signing bonus,
full-cost moves, maybe a trophy wife

The hardest moments of that day
were spent withholding tears
during a dealership visit with his girlfriend
to cancel the BMW lease on
     the last day in the city.

Caught in the road block between
time and space
that twilight of
what to say when the words are all said
what to do when heights of pinnacle
was long ago.

Together for love’s sake
when there is only one lover
Love making for *** sake
is merely *******
Talking for talk sake
forces words that ring untrue
in the ears of the beholder
Doing simply for the sake of doing
is going through motions
without emotion some would say,
almost uncaring, unfeeling, unfettered
the bird of passion flown into yesterday’s
ancient sun spot,
speckles of happiness
dimmed by time
too many words
not enough emotion.

Miles of nothingness for hundreds and
hundreds of miles
only flocks of geese, dozens of them
trapped between snow drifts and ice caps
turning rivers deeper than the ocean itself
creating white rapids filled with beauty
through crystal clear ice water
rushing over moss laden rock formations
colour beyond any city paint store
ice flows and water puddles
with snow patches for beach sand
turning pale blues into near blackness of depth
below clouds of cotton blown about by
the Buffallo hauling kids and kit back from Pangnirtung

My charges, from up this part of Canada
don’t see what the fuss is all about
For them, frankly, there’s nothing to see
miles of nothingness
oh yes and four clouds

A kind of man’s woman
a startling figure, carried well
well into her
(not to be spoken of) age

Wielding the kind of handshake to shake the world
with eye-catching stature to amplify strength of character
a hand shake with promise
strong, not arrogant
purposeful, not side-tracked
somehow elegant without being pretentious

Application of an undeniable grace, a composure recognized through trained eye
confident, yet curious
dedicated, yet flexible
complete packages are so rare, so uncommon, so worthwhile finding in
times of fake hair, fake nails, fake news

My Yin/Yang were caught guard down,
offering Shrek-like devotion to a park-side folk music princess

She need only shake hands, introduce herself with no ulterior motive
unencumbered by small talk, past pleasantries

Chivalry would have me drive her to the ends of a flat earth
and we’d only just met

Tomorrow is my tomorrow
My one and only chance to make
a second impression.

Did he feed you the line about how you’ve rekindled his need to write?
and how he can’t seem to stop thinking about you ahhhlll the tiiiimme?
How about that new take on sunlight
that he’s never seen before.
or how one day he’ll map the heavens for you

did he tell you he’s talked to his dog about you?
He’s full of ****.  
The dog is less full of **** than he is.  The difference is – the dog knows it.

He’s spent this dime a dozen times and the thing is
he won’t even keep his mouth shut about it.
He’s gotta go on and on and on to his buddies about his new “friend” and how he
can’t seem to keep his mind on something simple as driving.

And he’s all about the romance – oohhh the romance – this guy is good.
Flowers on a first date – his “favourite meal” for your first evening in.
And you’ll notice he’ll go easy on the wine –
only until you realize you’re going to have to take a cab home

Then he pours it on thick – thick and fast
So fast you don’t even know what’s happening –
Then you’ve got his phone number
and you know where he lives
and one day (you’ll find some excuse) you call him at work

Ohhh it’s all downhill from there so far as he’s concerned.
There will be one night – not to distant – there will be one night
while he’s reciting some romantic piece he just had to find
you wonder what it would be like to show this man what it is
to really be kissed
to be kissed by you – as only you can.

And he looks at you knowingly – and you at him almost hypnotically
He awwwll that and more – and so you think – it’s a work-night / school night / non-holiday
How far can this go??  How bad can this be?

Then - he’s pouring it on thicker and faster than you will ever remember
moving in with more predatory poetry – using a good meal as bait

You spend the night exploring each other as you never thought you could
as you’d never imagined you would – you think about letting go completely
you re-consider and you can’t quite decide why…  
nor do you consider when you reconsidered
there’s just something about this that…..

Ohhh fuckit – too young to live life wanting
and far too old for what ifs – how bad could this be
he’s a nice man – a good man – his poetry says so
you’re all the woman he’d hoped to be – you’ve shown him that
besides – after ** amount of months or years or decades
it’s time to relax, lie back and get laid.

Then you do  - and it’s beautiful – more beautiful than you’d ever thought possible
During the past ** number of months or years – at al.
He   is    as tender     as     his poetry – all he’d rumoured it would be

while you are as giving as an office Christmas party
– as if it may be the last time you lay with the same or opposite *** ever again

it’s so much more than that – it’s love making
---- well it’s romance making really – there’s no love involved  
-  but it ‘s more than ******* – it’s
the physical relation that makes the world whole
somehow – just makes the world whole….

Then – all at once – he’s a trapped lobster - he can’t find the words any more
There aren’t any romantic phrases left
and he’s read all the poetry ever written by anyone – ever
Deep down inside this “nice guy”
this poet of a million words - this artiesst
really is full of ****

Everyone can see it –they’ve known him for years -they’ve seen this play out time and again
Hell – even the dog knows he’s full of **** –
but the dog has been told – it’s none of his business
and with that in mind – the dog won’t say a word.

Spring had not quite blossomed in this city
almost too far north
even if the spring sales were in full bloom and the spring concerts set to stage
during the moments they met.

“One for P-1”,
a man who knew what he wanted, she admired that
During the first moments of the rest of their lives together
when the computer wouldn’t compute,
he had time to admire her
he liked that, she deserved it.

Tickets expunge, cash exchanged,
eyes met, fleeting (almost not), during those unspoken moments
the unspoken had been heard loud and clear.

Spring had sprung and hope sprang springing
across the stage, up into the office, along the catwalk and the tech booth
then back through the lobby.
It touched them both, they both knew it
during those first moments of the rest of their lives.

Paul McKee