Communicator, cooker, drinker, poet. Grew up in a mining town, wore a hard hat.

Monday, March 27, 2006

misquoting marx

there is something very calming
about a gaggle of middle-aged men
feeding their addictions together
misquoting marx over value-brand cigarettes
and pints of draught. i'm beginning
to know them, to recognize their rants
although they know not mine, this room
full of fathers white and tired with hearts
warmed by habit. some of us just have
a harder time of it. but we understand
eachother, i think, we solitary social bunch.
it is, whether you'll take my word for it
or not, a very honest enterprise: alcoholism.

Sunday, March 26, 2006

deep and still digging

in a basement somewhere in west toronto
past the big park and before the river
you are twenty-three years deep and still digging
(pace is such a difficult beast to tame)
the day is four nights gone, the cake
has been eaten, the pan cleaned, those
colourful worms skewered by cocktail swords
(some dirty metaphor, i'm sure) have made
their peace with the material world and retired
to a darker den where you speak loudly, with
intent, slow to wake and quick to love (just as i
remembered you) beneath the many layers
which you'll soon begin to shed because winter
is six nights gone and nakedness is easier
than ever and as you slip on your shoes
with a casual confidence that has taken
seasons to acquire, leaning on the wooden
frame of a childhood doorway, eyeing the distance
before you, the rank stench of work-to-come
hanging heavily in the air -- you are not alone.
somewhere in east toronto between university
and a great valley, i am twenty-one years old
deep and still digging, pen in hand, heart on sleeve,
warm beneath your sweater and smiling.

Saturday, March 25, 2006

i hate apologizing

telling her that i was wrong, wasn't thinking and am terribly sorry. i hate that. and i never am sorry. i'm always laughing softly at the end of my sentences. listen carefully next time.

Sunday, March 19, 2006

red is the new black

hanging casually from your frame, tighter the in right parts
tucked awkwardly into the waistband of your jeans, you'll kill me
for not having told you but it was her idea not mine, i swear
we shared a few words staring at your ass as you walked away
and both thought (surely) how good you looked in red and vodka
and both thought (surely) how good you always looked in black and beer

her gentle jawbone and that damn smile (or) words from a wasted morning

It was cold outside, I think.
Cold when I first met you.
It was a month of steam-thick words
and slow fingers. St-Clair was slippery
as hell. Early on there was talk of Israel,
as I recall. But my mind often betrays me
on the details, so I can’t be certain.
Spring of that year was sloppy, wet
and remains buried somewhere
beneath the dark sequined particles of time
that keep me wondering nervously
what I might’ve said. To you, at least.

Longer days found me writing messy
and far-too-frequent emails. That much
I remember because of the paper trail
that led me to wonder if I might escape
with you to New York and never return.
It was a cold Canadian summer spent scribbling
half-finished sentences in many places:
sweaty subway cars, badly-lit bedrooms
and siren-filled streets. I took you home
once in September, to my bachelor apartment
in that neighbourhood I’d rather forget.
You left in a taxi, I think.
You often leave in taxis, I think.

There was the bathhouse.
There was your birthday.
There was that election.
Sangria, martinis, Thursdays turned Wednesdays
and all of the dirty bathrooms in between.
And after having spent a morning contemplating
these lost but not forgotten moments
there are a few things I’d like to share:
I detest seeing you pinned up against
walls by other women, hate the way
the night ends when they’d like it to,
am angered by your had-a-great time
phone calls and loathe being reminded

Of how electric you are, whatever the occasion.

Friday, March 17, 2006

it's one of the only pieces of him she kept...

a poster of temagami. trees thicker than small houses in a sea of wet leaves. some organic southern city wading through green beads with light pushing through a few insistant cracks. matted and framed with a simple inch of brass on each of its four sides, it has been taller than me for most of my life.

Wednesday, March 15, 2006

i was hoping you might

she worries about his punctuation
use of question marks escalating
adverbs are so tiresome but he's
got something and it's not news
patience perhaps or that boyish
smile an ability that he developed
with the guidance of a good father
to listen and care softly with a quiet
calm about him biting his lip and
sniffling stubbled chin up and capable
of much more than she suspected
from her solitary corner she wishes
that she’d thought more carefully about
the bag the conversation the outcome
wishes that she had special combinations
of moments and time to offer him
as tokens of her good will but she
doesn’t instead some vague sense
of promise inhabits her stomach sick
with anger and uncertainty visited
by the look of those boyish eyes
and that all-forgiving smile thick with
intricate grey webs of thought and
bright simple blossoms as though in film
bundled, finally, with the brown string satisfaction
that it’s enough, that it’s always been enough…

breaking news: son of (supposed) war criminal looks hot in dark suit

He's looking quite strapping, that "thuggish businessman," son of Slobodan Milosevic. SIDE NOTE: Am I the only one who remembers it being pronounced SLO-bo-dan instead of Slo-BO-dan? Scruffy, tired and a bit sad, I like his tie in today's Globe and Mail. My father says that his father was framed, "it's a complicated situation...American anti-socialist free media, these days..." told me that over grilled calamari (perfer it deep fried) somewhere on the Danforth. Thanks for dinner, Daddy! Still, I'm a bit concerned. Are there ethical issues involved in being attracted to the sons of war criminals? Maybe I shouldn't be so flippant...I definitely shouldn't be so flippant. Apologies. He's a bit old for me, anyway. Not a bad suit, though.

Monday, March 13, 2006

thirteen cents a minute

i think it's fucked that telco companies don't pay any attention to changes in country names, political often doesn't affect their margins or bottom lines and i think that says something huge about the world. myanmar might as well be burma, it's still 13 cents a minute. there's no difference unless money knows it.

i wonder if my dad knows abortions are free in this country...

he should and if he does, it means we can't hit him up for money. too bad. it would've been a good scheme.

Sunday, March 12, 2006

six degrees says yonge and bloor

it's a mild toronto night, april has its blond head
in the doorway like a child at a dinner party
asks if its time for dessert, i saw a woman show
a little shoulder on the street today and i sense
that the wait won't last much longer, the guests
are getting anxious i've seen more bicycles this
week than i did last and the bay street wind
doesn't seem as hungry makes me wonder
what'll be on the menu for next season aren't you
excited for fruit? the sun on college, proper hangovers
and fifty cent mangoes, st. lawrence market sweat,
bike rides without shirts or shoes, lake ontario...
the forecast looks good, kids. damn good.

how do you think beethoven would feel...

about having his moonlight sonata as some man's cellphone ring? he's a cabby, brown and unable to produce sentences that i can understand. breaks a twenty with quarters, takes queen street when he should be on shuter, slows down at a yellow light. where have all the good drivers gone? the ones that cheat a little, cut off the teenager in the honda, leave the lincoln in the dust. where have all the good cabbies gone? the ones who blow smoke at the red cigarette circle sign on the dash listening to ethiopian classical and laughing because you're drunk. back in the good old days, when dinosaurs ruled the earth (i think it was december) some cabby gave me a cd, cared that i got home okay, waited until i'd unlocked the door...back in the good old days, some cabby let me use his cellphone (i don't think beethoven was involved) to call my have-we-broken-up-yet boyfriend eighteen times while we waited outside his door. cabby turned off the meter and drove me around while i cried, drunk and smoking. took me to casa loma. made me feel like some white trash queen in an orange car with green sides, he was great. tonight the cabby (they're citizens of some secret nation-state) didn't talk, let his cellphone ring the minor notes, gave no smiles, got no tip. where have all the good cabbies gone? and by the would you spell that taxi driver's name?

Friday, March 10, 2006

i've been accused of not updating and here's my reply

the people at the table next door are talking
about a hot cross bun mess of things
sticky sweet red jubejube union bites
electic green tidbits of provinical politics
digress to aboriginals for good measure
let sit and soak in domestic anything

someone said plato! someone said plato!
the men remind me of my father...
every man reminds me of my father
isn't that the case with you, friend?

if they were more attractive, those bakers
at the nearby table, they'd be having a different
conversation and there'd be sex on the horizon
dirty, drunken sex with some young thing
her black thong dangling from the corner
of a guilty chair like a casualty of war
or some teenager from a tough highscool
the smell of cheap perfume and ovulation
spread across the room like cream cheese
on a tim horton's bagel. hungry, boys?

the obese man likes to challenge his stick-man
company, the oily-faced girl stands too close to be
so adverserial in response and tucked away behind
the bar the more symmetrical of the three is attempting
an escape into a different conversation with the
broad-shouldered man next door who likes sports
and is a bit old but smells of old spice and cigars and
she seems to like that

the waitress is writing tuesday on the menu board
it's after midnight and she'd rather be home with her
cat who i'm sure is a black knight in his own right
but monday should be safe until last call if you ask
me, which you didn't and i apologize for offering

good night


all a girl needs is a drink, a good pen,
and maybe a cigarette

i have all three and my thesis comes apart
as quickly as it came together
i didn't expect it to last...

i am decided on more adjectives:
thick brown glass domestic bottles broken sharp wet
glistening slippery dangerous wonderfully blurred

and stale