misquoting marx 8:04 p.m.

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.

deep and still digging 9:46 p.m.

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.

i hate apologizing 3:01 p.m.

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.

red is the new black 4:05 p.m.

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 3:28 p.m.

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.

it's one of the only pieces of him she kept... 9:51 p.m.

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.

i was hoping you might 6:55 p.m.

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 6:38 p.m.

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 sentiment...no 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.

thirteen cents a minute 9:52 p.m.

i think it's fucked that telco companies don't pay any attention to changes in country names, political nuances...it 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... 5:48 p.m.

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.

six degrees says yonge and bloor 11:18 p.m.

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... 1:51 a.m.

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 way...how would you spell that taxi driver's name?

i've been accused of not updating and here's my reply 12:56 a.m.

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

if only unedited meant raw - how do you feel about parentheses? 10:13 p.m.

it doesn't really, mostly it means rough in a few choice spots, in need of a little attention which i don't have time to provide it with at the moment...and for the record, i like them. i like them a lot.

build the walls, brick by brick and stop to contemplate the ceiling

the sky is black like a milne watercolour in a gallery
too small for its city but well-intentioned like the rest of us,
tired and trying like the rest of us in the stormy epilogues
of sunlight our kings and our men (jokers all of them)
invading some warmer plane with brighter lights
and properly thought out plans of attack in some more
radiant place with raked sand and sparkling children
(captains all of them) sensitive and blessed with grand
brush strokes (lilies)—left with impressions the rest of us,
thinner coats of paint and earmuffs packed away like the dirty
ghosts of sound from the last great conversation
which begs to be repeated beneath a lighter expanse
beneath a brighter expanse and those city signs will not trick us,
will not have us believe that we’ve arrived, we know better,
the rest of us, having been deprived, having tried
the honest costume and having been discovered in the most
painful circumstance (bare) we will afford the rest of them
no grace and no advance we will orchestrate this war from
beneath our black sky (violins) and we will be victorious
we will die victorious with the blood of our slaughtered
borrowed futures testifying to our glory, testifying to a breed
of success so twisted that only the trampled spirits
of our generation will know its celebration will know
the walls that we have built in these afterthought years, bound
and blistered by modernity (and what should follow) only they
will know the brick to lay, the pride and secret, the dry
dust-filled breath and only they will know that we’ve kept
at bay the demons of our black skies for one day, more
fighting with the cruel vigor of orphaned warriors,
the sparkle of our unborn babes sharpening our dirty blades

the qualities of a good local bar 4:10 p.m.

you’re talking like you’ve got cab fare home
says jack, although he’d prefer we call him drummond
working steadily on his fourth pint his tar-stained
fingers quietly tapping on the bar drum drum drum
his daughter was steven tyler’s main squeeze
and his son went to harvard, he says. honours.
he’s got that james dean cool about him, some
kind of swagger he picked up flying twin-engine airplanes
in nearly three major wars and several wives later
he’s got the grit down to a science. let me buy you
a beer, sweetface, he says with cataract confidence
and a satisfied smile. there’s nothing sweet about it,
i reply, but i’ll drink your beer, jack, and smoke your
stories so long as you stop that tappity tap tap
and keep your hands where i can see them, jack.

david milne @ the AGO 3:29 p.m.

my favourite from the milne exhibit - King, Queen, and Jokers V: It's a Democratic Age 1943-44

saturday style and the birth of a blogger 1:40 p.m.

i like to think i'm one of those people who reads the newspaper: wakes up saturday morning while it's still morning, walks across the hardwood in an oversized t-shirt and setlles in the sunny seat at the kitchen table with the weekend edition of the globe and mail beaming at them from between my knife and fork. i like turning the awkwardly sized pages and assigning to each article an ex-boyfriend or past lover. i select, for my own consumption, short and fluffy write-ups which require little investment.

truth be told, i read barely a tenth of the weekend paper alternating between the lighter stuff of the front section and the colourful dreamworld of stlye. the law student with whom i shared my mornings a few years ago introduced me to the ritual. and it's the ritual that i like, not the paper. i recognize the occaisional columnist, mostly because i've made a point of remembering them, having been embarassed in some previous conversation. leah mclaren is one of those. the law student and his partners in crime loved to hate her. leah mclaren this, leah mclaren that. she's such a bitch, i recall one of them saying. i've since had tried, not all that successfully, to nurture an interest in her column. i love a good bitch.

this morning, after having stumbled quite inelegantly into the red room with my current love interest and my copy of the weekend edition, i was particularly excited about getting to the mclaren column. i delayed a bit, occupying myself with a story about a recently canadian child who's spelling talent was worthy of the cover and cursing the french public school system for having deprived me of spelling bees. after a few minutes of slightly offputting jealousy and a brief forray into the world of cross-border organ transplants it was time for style. i was a bit disappointed, at first, to see that i was going to be subjected to talk of blogs and bloggers, since i find those words to be spectacularly irritating. but after a few paragraphs, my reluctance gave way. i'd never really given much thought to the "blogosphere", so to speak. never really properly appreciated the fact that paul wells' postings, among others, were the stuff of "blogs."

i like to think i'm the kind of person who reads the newspaper. however, as previously confessed, i'm mostly around for the coffee and the sun. the article i read this morning over grease at college and spadina didn't encourage blogging as a passtime, quite the opposite actually. but having read it and having contemplated the prospect on a crowded spadina streetcar, i was happy to realized that i'd gone beyond the ritual a little. somewhere between the eggs and the hashbrowns i'd taken in a little content and changed my afternoon plans. believe it or not, and think less of me for it, it was a bit of a first.

maybe mclaren would be mortified to know that her article contributed in some way to the expansion of the ego-filled quiltwork of mediocre, diary-style essays that is the blogosphere. or more likely she wouldn't care. either way, i thought it was fun, that in the midst of coffee i listened to leah and felt like a legitimate reader. maybe i'll graduate to things more substantial next time saturday rolls around. or maybe not.