First Love

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.

It’s a fucking miracle we survive every day.

This poem is best read to this:

It’s a fucking miracle we survive every day.
I don’t ever forget that fact that the internet shows you
that every single terrible piece of shit you thought was out there
is just the first stage of the real hell of them all out there, in their undecided,
cynical, high and drunk and violent natures, casting their own shit in verse all over the world.

You can tell me that you see a world of rainbows and honeysuckle at midnight
out there in the one and the zero forever fields, but it is also slain bodies of a million
and it is the empty crevice of idiocy that drives all of them together to fight for their
own pop star suicide and it is the end on repeat in your room for three days and
it is the spectacle of it all removed of all repercussions and given all manner
of righteousness and it will always be this way until we finally go right over the edge.

Some of us will praise
the coming back
of the night.

Some of us will go right on back to our supermarket mimesis,
wandering through a burning, rat-filled Wal-Mart
aisles of melting celluloid and human fat,
everything seeping into the new history and tainting all the fresh ideas again,
it’s a fucking miracle we are less like the matrix trilogy than we are.

But I guess we have Baudrillard
and Nietzsche to thank for that.

You can tell me all you want that it is just a movie, that it is just reality,
that it is just Africa, that it is just truth, that it is just some beat poem or elegy.

I will be left,
in the night of reason
to fiddle my way into
seeing something more.

It is just in some of us,
just in some of us
to be curious with anger
to have an angry
curiosity is the only
healthy aggression you can
ever hope to inherit from
anything you take into your body
your eye
your mind.

Treat them with some fucking Respect.
Then tell me you don’t see the potential for doom in everything else.

Tell me it’s not a miracle,
every day
we get another.

Crazy Butterfly,

Crazy Moth

If Crazy was all moths’,
baby I’d be a bulb, like 80-watt!
I would give shop-talk
something to squawk
about and I’d chalk
my own crooked outline,

I’d rip the shadow
off-a-Rip-Van,
and do the James Brown
half walk off
the stage with it, son,
ima’ rage when the time come!

See spots? hell I see flower pots
with leering sunflower skulls on top!

I want to sing the world a
hybrid of Imagine and Hurt
turn the hysterical mob up
to full blown tangent, demand it!

If I was an episode of Crypt Keeper
Tales, they’d a never aired it!
If Crazy were a punishment,
I’d have three sleeves of demerits’,

so let’s take the concertos’ out
back and blow the angel kiss,
see how weird the symphony can get,
fantasia meets heavy metals freakiest .

I’m Always ready for all that and more, shit,
I was born crazy, practically inherited it!

If ghetto life were an asylum
I be the asshole warden,
the tremens jittery janitor
and the public enemy #1 up in it!

Come unlock the red devil.
The truth is like the shallow
to the grave to the shovel.

Un-muzzle me I promise,
I’ll quiet down.
I’ll do better.

(by promise mean never)
(by never mean ever)
(by all means not)

The Girl and the Good

-when we meet she is trying to pop a
pop tart and I am so
caught up seeing her
smile as she did this
I plum forget that I
am not planning to
fall ever again
so quick and so hard,

because
it is not a really
fair thing to do
to someone, or yourself.

She has been to Gibraltar.
I have been to Maine.

We are both art minded
but she loves the visual,
I am bogged down in wordplay,
and besides all that she is beautiful
in all the easily located ways.

I am a map buried beneath
torn flesh
hidden behind bookshelf eyes,
begging limbs like prison bars,
twitchy pyrotechnical hair,

I am under there,
somewhere, the sheets are
never going to come
out from over my head again,
not for you, or anyone,

I swear.

Hey what kind of pop tart is that anyway?

It is not

for KW

It is not for you, it is for me
to walk the streets at all hours still
and sing a little, maybe a dance move or too even
if I feel especially on the end of it all,
I’ll weep uncontrollably.

It is just when I am off the stuff for “a few”,
even text the old Argentine “Yeah no drink till June”
that he’ll get a dozen garbled after-texts
which barely make any sense at all.

Well, if they were from anyone
but me,
that is.

It is not you kicking cop cars and slipping them the finger
before running. Unless you’re one of my cohorts.
In which case you’re likely also wielding a trumpet,
the car is likely on fire, the police are likely, confused and
powerless.

I thought of him the other night
when CTV National exposed some random stories,
one where a rape chant originated at my old University.

One about a strange incident in Parry Sound,
in which dozens of Garden Gnomes,
stolen over a period of time, or was it one night?

Who can be sure, they were all lined up in a parking lot,
though
that much is for sure, all in rows, neat and uniform
and giddy and frolicking

like they didn’t give a fuck,
like nobody had abducted them at all,
like, well, foolish garden Gnomes look,
is all.

It reminded me of the great Gnome slaughter of ’98.
I wish I could remember it.
Like King and Salem’s Lot,
some of the demons are yours but
you can never get un-got.

It is not me I seek in the mad ones I have
followed, like weird news-reel made real,
it is within me, that I hope to share even a shard
of them, like a Skesis trying to get a Gelfling,
in Dark Crystal, to sell him some
more soul.

Some more time, to live in digital youth.
Let’s dance tonight, on the old downtown roof.
The one from the past, all sticky with truth.
I’ve got a story for you, that nobody else will
get but you, & just have
to hear what happened next.

I’ve got a story and
it is not
for anyone else.

Burning to Matter

The easy thing to say has always
made me want to eat acid,
but, like, not the fun kind,
like the deadly-burn-yr-belly-like-Alien, kind.

But I would rather burn
than be burned.

I will be alive when you bury me, there still
when they scatter me back,
and I will be there,
there,
when all the easy things
have had their cheap dance,

to mean something,
is to outlast everything loud
and proud
and pomp.

Easy goes out the door,
when time stretches the canvas out,
large.

People,

-they have all these ideas
about love

all I think of as love
is people,

dancing first, alone
and in awe, perfectly
then stumbling into

a hall with another million
dancers,

and getting jumbled in each others styles
creating some sort of raucous rave.

When I think of love
I think of the dancers,
all their different moves:

the common trends,
the unique once-in-a whiles,
who go like Bob Marley
did on stage.

Like an oracle,
living myth,

and maybe kissing
my first love in the rain
and maybe some of the other

stuff that
came in the
rain as well,

while a fox watched us.

I caught him catching us
and that’s what love seems
to be to me now.

The coveting of that moment
over all others heard and having
been sung about
and filmed

and sewn and scratched,
cheap scars
and I don’t want to
belabor a poem

it’s little Witness
and I’m not going to even give it
a reference

except sex in the water
from The Crush
because that’s irresistible if
anything is.

Huntress

I want my flesh to be torn off
in a million dreams,
all of them ending
in your rescue.

I want to slowly breath
the ocean in and empty it
at your feet.

I will write all of your
hidden and unknown names
on our city scape.

I will use chalk
because it was one of our
guiding, falling-star-motifs.

Oh yes dearest,
I made it to the East
After everything, it was all you
hoped for in Hilroy,
spiral-red ink dream journal.

The world ate you up
with the rest of that day’s appetizers;

A shoeless joe soul,
another of Egyptian origin.
And someone who never really
got it together,

Never danced freely,
never got out of town.

“The Gleek”

“gleek”

building up saliva in the salivary glands using some stimulus, like sour food or yawning, and then pressing the tongue upon the glands, causing the saliva to shoot out, usually at an impressive distance. Urban Dictionary

for the gang.

I don’t know where this little atrocity began.
I can tell you what I know though.

For me it started with the kids from The Heights.
This one kid Deckard in particular, but the lot of them
Were like something out of The Sandlot. Literally.

Albeit, the cartoons and movies, the porn mags and weed
have all since increased in varying potency’s, so this
lot were a plenty more crude in their delinquency.

It was like art to them I swear.

One summer for various social-political reasons
I had left the safety of my gang and splintered off,

and somewhere between the first girl I loved and the
first one who shagged me up, I spent about 8 weeks
embedded in the tribe of the fixed income housing
that loomed over our streets relative calm like

Edward Scissorhands place, but they were always
The most fun to hang out with, the richer kids were
boring and as the middle class kids, you naturally
wanted something to do that wasn’t a reminder of
the fact your mother was still basically ruling your shit.

These were the closest thing I had to a gang for that period.
I admit when the time came to make amends with
Whatever tryst stricken friend I was eager to do so and get
back to more civil surroundings, (where I wasn’t wondering
when and if I had already been the next victim of “The Gleek”

The Gleek was one of a variety of means by which the
young demon boy child could take their saliva and turn it
into an assaulting weapon of mass disgust-ment.

There was a more crude one wherein the attacker uses
index and middle finger as launcher as well. Other, more
theatrical and ornate ones which I never attempted. I was
only there for a quick time and didn’t want to make waves,
spittle or otherwise. They used to take turns choking each
other out and once in awhile someone woke up Gleek’d on.

Come to think of it, that was a little funky.

“Epic Fantasy, Schmepick Scantasy”

Epic Fantasy Schmepick Scantasy,

give me the summer of our love,
and I will forever me oval faced,
pancake iris’d, enveloped by the arrows
and pointed spears and deadly artefacts
of your bad, bad love. I can get back to it,

but as of yet I am always confined
to the scrying scope of a neighborhood crow
who took up territory a block over,
by the used car lot and corner store,
that same hot, hot year. Once in awhile

I can see a glimmer of your head from
the strict hedges, unmistakable curls
no less telling than the very fingerprints
on your charcoal stained fingers. Once I heard
us make love, me and my cackling scrawny

soul’d salut, all bark and very little, limpid bite.
You, turning out the kids from the back porch.
Walking out into the summer when all
the lady bugs were mating, like jazz-dust
shook from the blanket of the night, trailing
around your vixen, freckle crescent smile.

Caw.

Your orange zest and patchouli and acrylic paint.

Caw. Caw.

The sound of your bangles smashed against
the august humidity of midday.

Caw.

And then I’m gone again over the downtown core,
past the burger stand and the grocery store and the
tacky Chinese restaurant awning, where some angry
Chef tries to beat me to death for shitting on his clean,
recently de-shit-if-ied walkway, so I caw again and swoop.

You can keep your epic fantasy series.
I’m making my own.