Sunday, January 23, 2011


I’m not writing
but feeling the weight

a pen in my hand



listening -

dull ache in the left side of my brain.

Gravity Bites the Big

Apple, Adam, Eve
sparrows from a bell-

Lucifer too
tumbled – a wished
upon star.

Fruit from every tree
litters gardens every
where, sunken tombstones

across from a farm
dead tracks that once sang
parallel songs to yellow fields.

My abs, your hair, rusted cars
little black flies swirl in the red
of my Cabernet

Last night I swear I saw
Humpty sat on a wall, today
shells in the eggs.

Even the doves have flown -
leaving peace as a bite-mark
on the branches of olives.

The Truth Behind Chicken Little

In the end

The sky was not falling -
Chicken Little
was only growing


Something like the Blues

thunder rolls out its familiar timpani
wind turns grass into flutes -
a train in the distance wails for rain

Junk Mail

Papers everywhere
little bits, torn or whole;
newsprint, blank cheques,
lined paper, ruled paper, graph
paper with those little squares.
Moleskins, fake moleskins,
faxes, emails printed, unprinted
receipts, money, cookbooks
journals, telephone messages
labels, assembly instructions
Christmas flyers, catalogues
paper bags, paper towels
napkins, tampons, toilet
paper, kleenex......

all my books
all my unwritten books


She knew when the refrigerator light went out
that so much more would fall apart.

Words no longer transmitted between
heart and hand, no feeling in the fingertips.

The sun began to erode into winter,
bright but without the substance of warmth

or happiness, what about happiness?
No longer a funny kitten with a limp

or a dog with one eye. It’s the small things
that slowly leave us. Like dusk to sundown

queer indigo space where nothing matters
just a fraction of what used to be before it disappears.

With everythig in shreds, she revels
in the null of quiet white spaces.


I am the stranger you should have kissed
over there in the corner, against the wall –
me, in a little orange dress, silver stockings,
real lips, real time. Instead, you settled for
the same old thing, a lack of everything
but the same old new year.

I watched her little black dress swing
as you walked out of the place.
But I saw you look back -
I swear, I saw you look back.

Saturday, January 8, 2011

White Out

I guess there is always something new
to look at or learn, something like living

through the first snowfall upon settling
in Manitoba when all the trees were ripe
with leaf, rivers full of survival.

Until the mosquitoes
in May -
Until the yellow orange leaves
in September -

It’s still a place you can see for miles;
here, they still hang a sheet
on the line when someone dies.

Until everything prairie howls
white .

Saturday, January 1, 2011

The Great Thaw

And suddenly, words
melted, ran, flowed down-
stream, mesmerizing as they
ran clear, brighter than any sun
day and the forests flexed with the
muscle of loggers, lakes crested
heavy with shippers, next to fields
full of poppies, lavender, spring
anenomes that only nod their white heads
for over a week - yet all these brightened
as the words tumbled by, in love with
themselves, clothed in a magical purple -
their own bruised truths. When darkness
fell you could hear them all singing, as if
they had just become something
closer to magnificence.