Anyway

I wish to die a slow death riddled

with something incurable -

that you would die for anyway. 

I don’t want to go unknowingly

in my sleep

or fiercely combust in a blaze of glory. 

I’d prefer to suffer

home to a number of infirmities

steeped in awareness

of my own tragic flaws.

I could lose my mother tongue

my ability to smell fries and vinegar

or a fresh summer rain on the fur

of spring violets. 

I might become a simple blank stare

where the trees once met the sky. 

Clouds would not matter

or the earthworm turn of seasons

save for the layers

I might need to assume. 

I wouldn’t mind keeping

some bodily functions

as in the basics;

peeing, drinking

knowing when to love

and when  the burner

should be turned to off.

My heart I’d also like to keep

close to my chest -

like a house of cards

so close to collapse that

all it would take

would be a puff of breath

or a  ghost of a hiccup.

I’d rather die a slow death riddled

with something incurable -

your afterimage still burning.

Anyway.

Good Luck Jonathan!

I was ill and could not attend, but check it out:


http://www.jonathanball.com/?p=1625


I'm betting against the odds.

Signals

They creak and sway, ancient tuned 
forks pitched to the language 
the steel of the track 

oblivious to crooked stones 
in parallel graveyards 
or the choke of wildflowers 

between live rails 
signals play witness 
to rail-riding tramps 

stoic conductors 
guardians of velocity   
they orchestrate commands 

observe the curved moon 
turned like a Grandmother’s hip 
bent to reap and sew 

measure the length of ghosts 
by the weight of a whistle 
as a slice of sun sets over iron backs 

we stand - watch the signals spin 
very much in awe 
of what just blew by

Give Me Something Beautiful

Eve needed to feel the pen
heavy in her hand so full of 

everything forbidden has always been
fair game

Pop

The first time she heard his voice

a bubble of champagne

caught in her throat like news of death

blooming darkly through the wire it fell

visceral as a bat’s night wings

sudden against sky

every string appeared to play

bass collapsed in fragments

of pitch and timbre

she curled into its character

no longer aware of street noise

in temporary search of destination.

A Bell Tower Speaks

Sky interrupted

birds fly from tiny chipped spaces

hollow bones turn flute

notes high and breathy

below the dirty snow melts

into dirtier puddles

a small boy jumps –

his red rubber boots

distort reflections

birds turn pinwheels

on the street corners

familiar curbs reveal their crumble

as winter erodes into liquid spring

a stranger smiles at nothing in particular

she grins too, orange coat open

as if to welcome anything other

than last year’s white

There is Nothing New Under the Kitchen Sink

Distracted, she stirs the kitchen with a spoon

Far, Far Away

She sat cross-legged

on the moon

waiting for answers

Moon stayed silent

ladled stars

into galaxies

Party Crasher

Uninvited, It sits with us, cold.
We try to ignore the way it stares.

It’s infringing on our space until the booth
becomes uncomfortable. One of us says

“I’m so busy I haven’t eaten or peed for three days.”
The waitress delivers the sandwiches and salads.

Barb rolls up her sleeve to show us her implantable port.
We see the tube running up her arm

into an incision in her neck, we know it also runs inside her.
“Only twenty rounds of radiation now

like a long slow round of of golf, one hole a day.“ We laugh.
Nobody seems to know that "golf" stands for gentlemen only

ladies forbidden. “Does my wig look like a wig?” we both shake
our heads vigorously, “No as a matter of fact

your wig looks fantastic, how often do you have to wash
it?” “Every seven to ten days I drop the wig off

at the hair salon to get primped. Sure cuts down time
getting ready in the morning.”

She winks, states twice that she will never again complain
about having to style her own hair.

It shifts uncomfortably in the booth, nudges me to move aside
while eyeing up a group of seniors at the next table.

It wants to go out to play. I shove it back, advise it to settle down.
Bad manners to leave the table when you haven't cleaned your plate.

The Art of Goodbye

Snowshoes are so much softer
than a heel on concrete
or boots down a hotel corridor

It’s one advantage of living here
leaving is easier than sucking an ice-cube
on a July terrace in Montreal

too many years of phantom pain
still reaching out to

Lament

I’m not writing
but feeling the weight

a pen in my hand

listening.

listening.

listening -

dull ache in the left side of my brain.

Gravity Bites the Big

Apple, Adam, Eve
sparrows from a bell-
tower

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

up.

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

Reclamation

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.

Midnight

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.

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 .

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.

Snow-Globe

Finally, there is peace and quiet.
From a distance this city might look
like a giant snow-globe, freshly shaken by
some invisible hand, all the building windows
glowing yellow. From back here there are no
beggars in the street, no homeless children,
no girl shivering on a dark sidewalk waiting
for her next trick, no rock star playing God
to a dwindling audience. A fireplace roars,
tries to mute the whistle of the wind as it
lassos the house and pulls the rope tight.

It’s winter in Winnipeg
even the devil knows -
it's best to leave by the back door.