Saturday, February 28, 2009

Saturday Afternoon

Pretending that you were coming
for dinner I stopped at the butcher shop.
There were men in the store
they commented on the amount
and quality of meat I was purchasing.

Pretending that you were coming
for dinner I stopped at the wine store.
I left all the decisions to the clerk
as clerks in wine stores are not clerks
at all they are sommeliers, artists
swirlers, tasters, swallowers of only
the best. I imagined that I would
serve it to you naked.

Pretending that you were coming
for dinner I stopped at a French
bakery and ordered buttertarts
and caramel pecan tarts and fruit
tarts with whipping cream.

I arrived home, thrilled with it all.
You said that fountain pens represent
freedom, so much flow from the tip
of the finger. A sketch, a poem, a ribbon
of thought. Today freedom to me was

pretending -
that you were coming.

Friday, February 27, 2009

The Sum of Parts

Her spirit met her body on a rooftop
in the dead of winter at 11:08 p.m.
and it sat there awestruck
as each time he kissed her mouth
it sparked it was dry but oh so not
such a desert of snow there laid
out below them - above deep wet

moon held shy between clouds
and somewhere over there
a river caught below the ice kept
flowing as she cried out and he leapt
out into her and for that moment
there was only that world held
in the quiver of what was to begin

cold wind sighed
over fogged glass

Sunday, February 22, 2009

Untitled Anticipation

Same damn window
Same damn view
Same cold sun
setting one minute
later than last night.

How many sleeps until Thursday?

Saturday, February 21, 2009

The Beginning of

imperfect words disguised as poem
humanity bites the back of inhumanity
as poem takes off (with clear disregard
regarding edges) launches and flies
prior to de-icing fragile
wings that appear so infallible
until surrendering into great shudders
with a wobble of instruments poem begins
to tumble over itself somersault and leap
until all of the passengers dressed
as words we carry within begin to
scream panic hit the roof
as poem continues to hurtle out
of control nosedives towards hard land

now only one remains calm
reads the morning paper
in seat 13A
unbraced for impact

Tuesday, February 17, 2009


Happily ever
after the mockingbird sings

of evolution in the voice of a frog
(the frog does not become a prince)

(prince's kiss does not wake a princess)
no rag-tag heart seeps back to life beneath

her dress made from old bedroom curtains
magic is a kiss unscripted

bodies held together in repeated stitches
lips that strain to come together

unfurled into wet glossolalia
- learn to speak

Sunday, February 15, 2009

Three Petals

He would recreate her endlessly
Once, as he spoke
he covered her naked body
with the petals of wild orchids

Petals on her eyelids
a delicate sleep

plucked from their
moonlit stems
blossoms parted
parted and closed

until there was

nothing but her scent
in a crush of wild orchids

Last Night I Dreamt

He would not speak yet wrapped me
up in the thick coats of night
kept me close to high
cliffs over which we peered
into crevices of broken ground
over which we kaleidoscoped
tumbling like coloured glass

The world became a gnarly tree
sky obscured by branches
animal shapes between thickets offered
flashing eyes that pierced or winced
signaled night’s willingness no words
just beacons throwing lines and catching
the fishermen balanced tucked between cliffs
tiny flares flickered at the ends of limber poles

A fish trembled the line bobbed
something was taking the bait
now only trails of sighing bubbles
we stayed until there was
no breath

Saturday, February 14, 2009

Sunday, February 8, 2009

Ladybugs are Lucky

When a ladybird alights
its chosen landing pad
becomes new and improved

(fingers crossed)

Saturday, February 7, 2009


In 38 hours she'll know -
another decade
slips through her fingers

Canned Gulls

I'm trapped inside, it's just a recording
- this gift from my sister last Christmas
a small white contraption plugged
into an electrical socket fills my living
room with the sudden sound of surf
breaking onto shore to a background
squawk of canned gulls.

I wonder who stalked that beach
held shell to ear for Wal-Mart.
It’s strange, all of this - snow
in heaps outside my window
grim dark below the evergreen
wood-smoke rising from brick chimneys
and still this ceaseless white noise

of wave after wave to remind me
I really don’t belong here.

Sunday, February 1, 2009


the next poem I write you
scrawled across your left thigh
in the middle of the night