Cat Walk

The pitter patter, plain and eventful,
of hundreds of muscles of trees in sway,
that trace the winding catwalk
where the walker takes his walk,
in the boredom of night
finding the same alley cat
as most other nights,
and the memory it jogs of the
drug dealers pretty girlfriend
and her tattoos, universal & easy,
how she smoked and he, pierced to fuck
went on and on about having to quit another job
and the way she smoked and looked vacant
all at once, and the alley cat so
affectionate, like a thing starved for touch
and how the walker felt that way, too,
and the failure of it all
to change anything

but the beauty of it, too.

Boneadenus

the wrong ones always teach you the most
about why they’re wrongs are yours
and how you’ll need to fix your own
before the next ones any different

but you always dream
you’ll meet someone in the exact scene
and time
and you’ll both escape
like some kinda new age cliffhanger

you are the kiss you begin with
you are the dance you end on
you are every night’s the best night
you always dream this free
you always look so enchanting?

in here
in this
in with me now
you are the best thing

but for me to really know you to love you I can’t really get that close to it or we will change this thing
this little thing we got right here
is called a conundrum
and it stings
as it is sweet

to be this cool
we have to lose something
been this way since
I was just skinny
and then, into scrawny
into scaled even,

I have yet to see anything go well
if it was just beds and knobsticks

we need it to work too
because more than just everything
depends on rain barrows

it’s impossibility that shadows love

and its them we need most
when we run short of lust
when we lose the ghost

the skeleton remains

and let me tell you
of all phenomenon to see it
dance like that

is it

Net Born

everywhere you go
you get caught up in it
the people are the throng
and the truth
and the trip itself
is made of their shared dreamscapes
the patterns are the closest we get to religion
we do them that justice
gyrating to the new because of its title
and nothing else
but the smell of street vendors at last call
and the army of slipping heeled legs
almost broken under the weight of the night
but still too young to shame a cab

Age Syndicate

The people who eventually do something
never look like they were about to
or ever capable of doing it
they were derelict or strange
on a good day

I have to remind this fact
to the threading and style death
of my self and its lingerie

I’ll replay the same thing over in my head
until it rhymes
becomes a mime, a mine
a mind

and it will still fall flat
before the pharaoh in my next loves mythos

there is always the danger of merely aging
but we seek something worse –
to lose as men.

Furman and Lily

The heart of two white
cats, old siblings
upon the white windowsill

they narrate silent
in meditation of
outside realms

the sister knows
every aging tactic
of the brother’s
annoyance arsenal
mixed with play
and snuggling moments

the space they occupy
without ever knowing
any of the earthly pleasures
but for the easiest one,

in death.

pulp common people

sweet
so
you’ve seen it then?

how it overlaps
and flows
in directions
it’s not supposed to?

and since you’ve left
have you any clue
how it’s gotten?

like some new screwdriver blue?
like some unknown duck
do?

you go
you go and we go with you until
the dance margin forgets you
and the hardship it’s such
a fucking hangover

it could break your
nails off
in the keyhole
to be free

they were never easy
pieces and
you will never have them
regardless

of how close
we came
and you would still sing
its name

as sacrosanct
and petty
beyond it all

I want to make a tired wing
of your arms, lurching misandry
I want to tease your hair,
to dance on the command
of this tempo

(although first)
you need to know things
that could only ever be shown

shewn,
screwn,
doomed,
and loomed

along the song slung
harp
of our poor nights

(you cannot)
have them, for
have they, no matter,
how close,

we came, to kissing them,
just, burning bday candle bodies,
lain against cheap stain glasses,
with ease

and we will crawl
and we will creep
and we will crescendo

above the holler,
just to say…

Taxi,

Taxi…

Taxi!

And ease
into the casey load
of another Anthony

who doesn’t know
he’s just another
new york city
detective’s depiction
by tv’s finest

and in turn you help me
to know the causative
difference
between those

and me
and mine
and hoist me,

up into the booth
from when’s I can
claim
some sort of soon
becoming,

and reach me
three days from
the
shadow
of the crime,

of believing, for once,
we might be fine
(but also fucked)

to ruins,
sand, crushed fine,
let me go,
into that mind,

and when I come back
ill let me
be mine

I’ll let him
get shines,
get kinds
all manner
of them,
those clean highs will

be all the
worth having
suspending inches
from, for so fucking
many, many years.

House-hold

coming up the stairs
with all the lovers
you have had

at once
a party,
a rebels march,
a taking back,

of the creaking tomb
now owning your morning
and your night walks,

I can see myself,
falling, into the ocean
or, a pendulum swinging
on a crooked branch.

you can’t see me
like I can

and that’s what makes it
easy, like yours,
hard, like ours,
complete, then mine.

a set of advantages
builds,
oceanic

and all that rests
is the applause
of crowd laugh,
of foot twitch,
of airs,

untold,

of a tour,
of a chorus,
of everything,
in-between,

buy the hat,
sing the dance,
make it yours,
and mine,

mine
is an easy calligraphy
in-between the mad,
coarse
dance that
shuffles us,

into new, exotic
singularities

we want to raise
our finger
into the air

and ask it for anything
but what we already know

so that,
and this,
and our dream
meet,

a half burning finger
in-between

that stings,
and sings,
and singes,

that easy binge,
it brings
us cover
to honesty

it brings us
closer to sovereignty,

and it clings us
to the envelope
so that we cannot
grow
without
that

and we go
we go until
there is none left

and that is it
for us

isn’t it?

Freezes & Thaws [I & II]

Freezes and Thaws I

She was sure the package
would not arrive Friday.

They’re kicking up
an awful fuss!
The Post is cutting back
deliveries!

The people of St. John’s were they,
especially in matters concerning
government, doctors,
or postal workers.

In her account of things,
it’s us, vs. them.

They’re closing everything
down here now.
Nothing left in Newfoundland,
no work, sure not a store left Downtown!

I’d almost believe her
if not for the waves of
new store-fronts.

It’s clear.
Nan’s world,
not the city,
is shrinking.

Oh, no mail Fridays now
?
I ask, knowing
this is not so.

She’s a cold one today.
Be sure you keep your hat on tight,

her morning words
are often weather related.
Blow ‘da head off a ya.

It doesn’t seem that bad
by my window, Nan!

I use the fact
the living room
is at the opposite end
of the apartment,
to defend incoming predictions
of untenable weather.

Nan often concedes,
since it’s a theory
she thought up.

Yes the wind is on the back, see,
so when ya go out be careful!

We’ve lived together
since Pop passed away,
and I came from Ontario
to attend University.

Not raining at least, hey?

This is my tactic:
to negate one element,
with the absence of another.

If there’s enough wind to blow the head off ya,
at least it isn’t the rain whose
every drop would fill a bucket!

Too hot? At least it would
be dark soon.

Well, at least it isn’t snowing, hey?

and the battle continued.

No, she returns,
but they’re callin’
for heavy snowfall
around the Bay,
whether or not now
we’ll have it,
nobody knows.

Hard ole day lookin’ out!

Freezes and Thaws II

Last semester,
in German Post-War Film,
I learned about
freezes and thaws.

Relations with Nan
are like the wax and wane
of Soviet-ruled East Germany
before re-unification,
when, The Wall torn apart,
thousands of separated hands,
grasped to reconnect.

Like the professor says,
it’s a matter of
constant freezes and thaws.

This fact’s echoed again
this term, in Soviet Cinema.
Khrushchev would allow
more liberal arts to be made,
then, in a cold-snap,
everything has to tow
the party line again.

Did you hear about the
ghost ship from Newfoundland, Nan?

I don’t bother mentioning
its name, Lyubov Orlova,
is that of a Russian film starlet.

Keep it simple.
Current events.
Weather.

During periods of thaw
our exchanges are
almost fluidic.

The warm water of
communication extends
beyond courtesy.

I keep my door open and
she can see me
from her rocking chair.

This leads to
open fraternization
on a variety of news items.

Yes, and wherever that ship
ends up now my son,
them rats are getting off her!

She’s heard about the ship,
which means we can
further the discussion.

The boat is lost.

Nan suspects,
it was intentionally set adrift,
by the Port Authority,
most conveniently,
in International waters.

It’s filled with
what the British tabloids
are calling cannibal rats.

Yes that’s true Nan,
I mean there is no way
to track the thing now,
since the rats took over.
No radar or nothing, hey?

I know that when I move out
in the Spring
it will be harder.

The mornings quiet
as an empty water.

Instead of painting her apartment
twice a year,
she might have to do it
every four months.

The fleet of miniature spoons
that adorn the walls
on massive collector shelves
will be taken down more often,
each one soaked in a sink
of polish and hot water,
then returned
to individual hanging positions,
like hundreds of miniature
violins, dangling by their necks.

They tell of her life and family,
who always send a spoon
when they move West.

Every province is there,
even the Territory’s.

The Prime Ministers up until,
and including, that fella Trudeau.

The royal family,
one spoon for every marriage
worth mentioning,
up until poor old Diana.

Birthstones.
Provincial flowers.

Their cleaning is
guaranteed to soak up
at least half of a day.

Well, at least it’s gone from our area, hey Nan?
Do you need anything while I’m over at Sobeys?

I’m good, Nan.
I have my key if you’re going, just lock the door.

Yeah I have class shortly.
Talk to ya after!

I sip on coffee,
and scour the paper for
something to top the ghost ship.

It won’t be easy, but,
something always washes up.

Just then,
the familiar boots
followed by the shuffling
of our mail box
being filled.

Lying, All Week

I went around with
The Blower’s Daughter and Delicate
in my ears
because I wanted to
look at every person in the street
like we were in the
credits of a movie,
of a great life,
together, and
we didn’t even know it.

I try not to do this anymore
it is too hard to go home
after that rush of eyes
meeting for once,
for only one moment,
just one brief smile,
and a hundred moments

that flicker in futures
that are no more real

than love at first sight,
left alone in an elevator
or peace on earth,
rolled up in a newspaper,
or a last unicorn,
scratching on maps
its last whereabouts,

or anything else they’ve sold
out of existence,
cornered into stalls
of soundtracks,
made typical like
lucky trolls or
Marguerite umbrellas.

I still go out.
Music is still my wet street.
It’s still filled, too,
with eyes like that.
I just don’t write about it anymore.
And that, more than any of the rest,
is the best lie I’ve told,
all week.

poem for La Mer [NIN]

Graduation

I am almost done it,
that quest I told you about, and
I promise I will make it back,
and I will no longer try to
save you from yourself.

I will let the kiss in the bus stop
rain go unnoticed I will not
smile at the driver from
outside, dampening with
every extra tug back toward you
in your sleek bomber
you with those Docs on your feet.

Because I have read more
of Gilbert and Gubar now.
I know it is me who,
like every power hungry fool,
has been your bane, and
I know the boon is knowing better
than to tie rocks to a feather,

I am going to shut in on myself,
I am the book of hate for objectified
love,
but I still miss you.

I will find a way
to make it back
but I will first
eradicate, even that
foolish desire.

I will run through the library
with the scissor of open books,
I will emulate no other poets.

I am here now.