Buried Deep

You've been dead for 16 years now
nearly half my life
and I still have one of your shirts
a striped polo 
buried amongst clothes in my closet 
that are either too small 
or too bulky 
or splattered in paint.

Your shirt has seen
paint, mortar, sawdust
and my sweat
but somehow 
it's still your shirt.

Now the collar has become itchy
and makes my neck and mind burn
with thoughts of your death:

your car parked
on the side of a deserted
tree-lined highway
your head flooding
with love and betrayal
as you fumble blindly 
for the shotgun in your trunk.

When we heard the news
your sister and I walked for hours
and then sat on a curb
eating homemade vanilla cupcakes with sprinkles 
that our friend's mother always
had stockpiled in the freezer.

Your shirt 
with its itchy hot collar
still lays folded
on a shelf in my closet
buried deep.

Summer

Summers are for living.

Sidewalks are warm.

Trees are lush.

Moments are too bright and fast for words.

Poetry Lives

I don't remember 
meeting you 
the first time
but this time
you brought a poem 
for my mom
on her birthday.

You both sat quietly
while I stood there
bowed head
paper in hand
eyes recognizing words
that could be my own.

When I looked up 
(my eyes swirling
with hope and wonder and love)
you smiled and said,
"I made that copy for you."

Every Other Today

Today I remembered to forget you.
Memories of you once whole, now erased.
Forever.

Today I denounced should.
Fantasies of obligation shrugged away.
Forever.

Today I stepped outside of time.
Impressions of now made loose and present.
Forever.

*********************************************

Today I felt a numb haziness.
Something beyond the powers of caffeine.

Today I felt sedated and compulsive.
The sum of boredom and madness.

Today I felt warm and lonely.
An estimation of humanity and distance.

*********************************************

Today there will be no whispering.

Today there will be no sidelong glances.

Today all judgements will be withheld.

Today all thoughts will be dispelled.

Today and every other today will quake

And rise like a phoenix in your outstretched hands.

*********************************************

Wood Paneling Makes Me Sentimental

Memories return in strange snippets:

The industrial buckle and zipper from my childhood ski boots, stuffed nylon bodies of cabbage patch kid dolls, the web-toed girl at the sleepover party, American strawberry soda and individually wrapped fruit-filled pies, algae-filled ponds and giant cones of ice cream, thrashing about in muddy creeks, mismatched socks, inner tubes speeding down snow-covered hills…

Dreams flood back in similar ways:

Lost skeleton keys in shag carpeting, rickety suspension bridges, black rabid dogs with sleek shiny fur, ghosts of dead grandparents, over-sized above ground pools, barrels of guns, washroom stalls, siblings I never had…

I like the stuff that dreams and memories are made of –

Real and unreal,

Floating in the ether of consciousness,

Making us whole, making us human.

Alphabetical Recommendations: Music (II)

Air
Blonde Redhead
Coltrane (Alice & John)
Dead Meadow
Elevator
Fucked Up
Girls
Hope Sandoval & the Warm Inventions
Iron & Wine
Julie Doiron
Kid Koala
LCD Soundsystem
Marine Girls
Neutral Milk Hotel
Organ (The)
Pavement
Queen
Raveonettes (The)
Suicide
Tobacco
Unknown Mortal Orchestra
Vanilla Fudge
Washed Out
XX (The)
Youth Lagoon
Zombies (The)

Alphabetical Recommendations: Music (I)

Aphex Twin
Black Moth Super Rainbow
Can
Deerhoof
Erase Errata
Frightened Rabbit
Grinderman
Heartless Bastards
Iggy Pop
Joy Division
Kinski
Liars
Morrissey
New Order
Oneida
Parquet Courts
Quasi
Radiohead
Spiritualized
Thee Oh Sees
Uilab
Vaselines
Wolf Parade
Xiu xiu
Yo La Tengo
Zeena Parkins

Now there are years

Upon our first meeting

The glances were stolen

Quick and furtively

Because our images

Were like that of the sun:

Overwhelming warmth and blindness,

Too much and not enough.

Time wears on and passions transform

But now there are years

In a wink, nod, brush of the hand:

A renewal in every exchange.

Flashing grins transcend intimacy,

Lips on skin trace eternity,

And peeling paint and cracked concrete

And cat’s fur and flower petals

And crocheted blankets and antique lamps

Continually sing synchronicity.

I Love You

Can’t

Should

Did

Again, again, and again.

Drug prayer

Angel hair

Coming down the stairs.

Solitude

Sanctuary

Can’t escape myself.

Attitude

Alienate

Gimme mental health.

Glass heart alibi

Cat purr lullaby

Truck stop butterfly

Again, again and again.

Donny's Lament

Time to get my goddamn shit together.

Shit's gonna hit the fan.

I'm late for my growing season.

Gotta get off the grid, man.

I don't need no piece of paper to say I can drive.

Like hell I'm giving that truck away...

It's gonna be my home!

I can't stand this shit:

Cutting grass, paying the hydro bill, Wheel of Fortune, cupcakes

Fuck.

Suburban Spring

cats in windows
dogs inside of houses barking
curtains drawn and hanging neatly

distant roars of lawnmowers
aromas of freshly cut grass and grilling meat
the urgent joys of playing children on the wind

square patches of green
brilliantly coloured flowers in pots
miniature trees, ornamental grass, concrete animals

a swish of a car like a soft wave
the zippy whir of a floating bicycle
perfunctory nods of passer-bys

sunlit leaves sparkle and rustle gently
cars sit with sad purpose in driveways
spider web cracks split ashphalt

lawn chairs wait empty on porches
sprinklers flit endlessly
lines of siding, mortar, and shingles mark infinity

as I continue to look 
for the phantom cluck of a single bird
beckoning, warm, and lost.

Perspective

Most of the time

a gentle washing

is all one needs

to cleanse and

make float away

all the nastiness

of the day.

Myths

You really can't say that myths aren't true

Because they are most likely the truest of all things

Ancient narratives that pulse through your mind and tongue

An almost animal understanding always already there.

Greatness?

The goal is pursuit.

Be the chaser.

Harness the warm human magic

And make life possess you

With such raw intensity

That the business of the day  

Simply and gently falls away.

It’s so difficult to be interesting these days.

The greatest parties have the saddest hosts.

Mrs. Dalloway:

Buy the flowers for yourself.

Gatsby:

You are the pursued and the pursuing,

But so busy and tired.

I will keep wondering

most painfully

about greatness

and what makes it so.

Alone = All one

Metal trees

Subtle breeze.

Metal teachers

Deep freeze.

Metal heart

Perfect chart.

Metal offspring

Falls apart.

Music seeps through a suburban screen door, 
a concrete step is cracked, dirty and ready, 
paint peels, blades trim
flashes of blue flicker through chinks in the curtains:  
life inside.

I like the sound of pencil on paper

Harsh but fluid, urgent, intimate.

The letters stretch and anchor

Thoughts, moments, memories, you.

I like the sound of fingers clicking keys

An officious frenzy:  important, immediate, imperial.

He said he would kill his parents if he could fuck John Lennon.

Crooked teeth teacher

Rookie heathen preacher

I took you for a keeper

Delusion ran deeper.

Those goddamn champagne gangsters sure did a number on you.

Drunk on status
The saddest
Bullshit apparatus
Of ironic immersions
And corporate conversions.

Take it free and easy while you can,

But if it’s too easy, too much of the time

Then it probably doesn’t count.

Straight out leech

Sad angry freak

Carrier of the weak

Mild meek streak --

     Please

Rattle and seek.

Rattle and seek.

Rattle and seek:

    For peace.

Yesterday

Yesterday two bombs went off at the Boston Marathon.

Yesterday I annoyed my mother and disappointed my father.

Yesterday dust gathered in the corners.

Yesterday pictures of dead girls flashed on newscasts.

Yesterday I took deep breaths of fresh Spring air.

Yesterday we hooked up a satellite.

Yesterday my niece complained of sadness.

Yesterday I smiled at a room full of strangers.

Yesterday we sat silently in a room.

Yesterday my Nan thought her sleeping friend was dead.

Yesterday a dog walked through a field with me.

Yesterday I learned that cuttlefish are born motherless.

Yesterday glaucoma took away a friend’s driver’s license.

Yesterday we hugged in front of the kitchen window.

Dreams and Bliss: Dostoyevsky's Paradox

Reading Dostoyevsky 
on an icy April morning 
makes for strange moods:

the tender fears 
of lovers and dreamers 
are carefully unveiled
and left to make us wonder 
why moments of bliss 
can never last 
a lifetime.

The very nature 
of those lost moments
                        (fleeting and poignant)
will return to us 
on long evenings
only to 
render our dreams useless 
and make the mundane 
all the more real.

Suburban Haiku

Every time I hear
a distant car door slamming
I await a knock.

Poles of Inaccessibility

• The most distant point
• Most challenging to reach
• Remoteness prevents access
• A construct, not an actual phenomenon
• Subject to varying definitions
• Of interest to explorers

A Daily Affirmation

I love and approve of myself.

I love and approve of myself.

I love and approve of myself.

I love and approve of myself.

I love and approve of myself.

I love and approve of myself.

I love and approve of myself.

I love and approve of myself.

I love and approve of myself.

I love and approve of myself.

I love and approve of myself.

I love and approve of myself.

I love and approve of myself.

I love and approve of myself.

I love and approve of myself.

I love and approve of myself.

I love and approve of myself.

An Easter Poem

Easter came early this year,

but the narrative’s still the same.

He died for you.

Irony with teeth?

Steadfast declaration?

Moral codebook?

Good story?

Bad joke?

But it’s still the same:

mythological martyrs,

scapegoat saturation,

a willful worship

of pity and prayer,

blame and sacrifice;

So deep and so thorough

that even if you don’t believe,

you still succeed in thinking

that worth is measured

by the inconveniences you bear

and the suffering you endure.

13 Verse Anti-Fantasy

Last night I saw a nun

On highway 61

Shoulda slowed down

But I was on the run

Robbed a bank with my old lover

Tried not to blow the cover

But the teller was my brother

And he called my fucking mother

We had it all worked out

But my brother had his doubts

Started to bloody well pout

Cause he lost what he’s about

He’s been trying to change his ways

But the steady jobs don’t pay

His banking by the day

Was turning him sick and gray

He missed his drugs and money

He missed banging all the honies

His criminal days seemed sunny

And that bank boss, a fucking dummy

So we cooked up a little scheme

The parts of a seamless dream

A lover, a brother, a queen

The supreme criminal team

But my brother’s flagging worries

Put him in a hurry

To call our goddamn mother

And blow the fucking cover

So now I’m on the run

On highway 61

I saw that poor old nun

And out came my loaded gun

I pointed it at the window

And drove by real slow

My maniac obsession

Starting to take hold

Our eyes met for a minute

And I was feeling lit

The looting was a hit

I didn’t want to quit

When she saw that gun

Her face went blank and stunned

She broke out in a run

And nearly spoiled my fun

I could hear the sirens wailing

The cops must have been tailing

My mind was busy railing

A love of money hailing

The plan was quick and dirty

Get rich by the time you’re 30

Live your life on the lamb

And stop giving a fucking damn

A Harbinger of Spring (2 Haikus)

Yank of the rip cord
Lawnmower sirens greeting
Smells of gas, cut grass

OR

Lawnmower sirens
Sweet mix of gas and cut grass
Suburban summer

Oh, Prufrock...

There must be a still point

amongst these turning thoughts,

a time for quiet hands,

and coffee spoons

that defy measurement.

There must be a way to push through

the yellow fog and curling smoke 

that rubs against us

and sleeps within us

like soft animals.

And yes, there will be time

To rip away from that wall,

Remove the pins from your hands,

March through the eyes and voices,

And fully disturb the universe.

Start murdering and creating already.

Bite off matters indefinitely.

After 100 indecisions and revisions

There must surely be a vision

While you eat your toast and tea.

Do moments really need to be forced to crisis?

Is it always this pendulum of presuming and beginning?

Can you not just eat the goddamn peach?

Feel its soft skin against your palm and lips?

Let the sweet juices run sinfully down your chin?

Here, the women do not come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

The white, braceleted, bare arms

Are not privy to porcelain and cushions and charms,

But the idle chatter still buzzes about, still swarms.

So, the evening is spread out against the sky

Streets are sprinkled with terraces and doors
Slender arms and smooth fingers trail by 

Let us peacefully stretch out on the floors

Watch greatness flicker and want nothing more.

The Need to Mother

You & I will drink coffee later

And I will listen to you

Lament your sad, sad life

And with every sorry word

A thin wavering wall

Slowly rises between us

And you can hear it rustling

And feel its presence

But the need to mother

Your ugly overgrown pain

Is stronger than any of us.

Prepare for Death

Prepare for death.

Live fully.

Be connected and separate.

Find security and adventure.

Smile for duty and play.

Prepare to die.

Don’t organize desire:

Let it tumble out of your imagination

and shun responsibility and judgement 

and all the other politically correct 

shit you worry about.

Leave yourself vulnerable to wanting and eroticism and failure.

Prepare to face the day 

even though 

there's no dynamo 

in the dark starless morning.

On Melancholy

The gentleness of it sags like thick tires loosely around the neck to make expiration easy.

The weight of it makes laughter erupt in delightful and insane bursts cracking open walls.

The fullness of it makes edges sharper, and music warmer because everyone’s touch is so far away.

The voices of it are soft, subtle, insidious songs that suffuse singularity.

The spirit of it is a dark distillation of breath and breadth, weighing softly on rage and courage.

Lengths of Memory

Bad liars

Rarely travel

Lengths of memory

Truth-tellers

Need not succumb

To death and other things

Big evils

Recall everything,

Smile doubt, and make us need them.

Winter Haiku #2

Tips of winter trees

Softly touch the cloudless sky

Like fanning fingers.