Featured Work Archive
Presenter's greasy chin shines
like a full English breakfast.
Muted, I guess his words
from accented eyebrows.
Blow on a hot espresso and
soundlessly watch a feature
on a baby sloth,
headlines spool underneath-
'Terror threat raised to critical'.
Make-up touch-up in ad break;
everything is matte again.
Text loops beneath weather map-
'22 confirmed dead'.
Long days, back when the sun was beneficial,
my sister and I lay on our stomachs
reading Agatha Christie mysteries.
We couldn’t imagine being anything but
seventeen and slender, but just in case,
as a hedge against age and thickening,
we drank Tab, ate salads, smoked Marlboro Lights,
smeared Bain de Soleil on each other's backs.
The days were endless.
The days were exactly the same.
We lay in our fenced back yard,
desperate for something violent, interesting.
Neither of us knew how sunlight
can disappear, that we might spend years,
decades, trying to find another place
that would hold us, would say, now, you can turn your backs, safely.
first in Blast Furnace Press.
Being elderly is a pre-existing condition.
Yes, being middle-aged and young
were pre-existing even earlier.
Thus, sorry: youth is part
of this whole aging illness,
so it’s time to start to pay the piper now.
We’re sorry, sir, but if you buy a policy
that doesn’t cover pregnancy,
the discount doesn’t count.
If you were female, of a fertile age,
there’d be a discount then,
when it might be a claim we could deny.
You’re poor? You work a full-time job—two—
but you’re struggling?
I don’t think we can help your girl at all.
A broken leg, okay. Or mumps.
But poverty’s a state of mind,
a moral failure, as Ben Carson says.
full series so far @ https://docs.google.com/document/d/1U5t4KTFyZtpYsyJNgwg3UMeRUkbsVbQ4LNNhqODP-k4/edit#
poised with a few friends at a table
across the bar it seems casual
glance but then a few
it happens again
her lapis blues lock
with mine as a rifle shot shatters
the panes of time I stumble across
eternity 9 steps arrive
in the afterlife haunted
by the everlasting con
sequences of rising
to the occasion
Hand me that, will you? she asks
without turning around. My silence
A word is missing, the noun
on a fence post at the end
of the path, legs dangling,
trying to think what it had
for breakfast last Tuesday.
I’m trying to make a fire here
without any kindling, reach
charade-like, hither and fro:
Scissors? Remote? Newspaper?
She shakes her head,
she is the mime now,
and I try to follow her eyes.
I must have the will to do
what must be done—
imagine instead kissing her
neck, cupping her breast
in my hand, the hell
with the noun, the hell
with the fence post—
No… she smiles, finally nods
her pretty head. …the spoon,
I pass it to her, feel the warmth
of her hand from her fingers.
I have always walked away:
from the centre,
from the edge;
from vengeance, hatred, love;
“any club that would have me as a member.”
I’m limping now,
my shoes have holes,
my faithful dogs long gone.
Recently I thought I heard footsteps,
lighter than mine, close by.
Last night I dreamt of a wider path
and the hint of a goal that isn’t at my back.
By a valley going south on 83,
I and everyone else tumbled down the cliffside, our
semis, vans, and all grinding on the remnants of
the railing and highway, flaring and sparking like shards of the sun,
the sun that
too—unhinged and unbound—put on its high heels and
hightailed itself from the face of this Earth,
no gods or gravitational bonds
to keep it and its hot secrets from other worlds.
And so, in those brief moments,
and in my final thoughts, I knew—somehow—that somewhere,
a squirrel was surprised to be
Caught in the beak of a squid--a squid
whose every organ had failed, whose
every other muscle was functionless, who had never
seen a squirrel. . . or air. . . or land,
yet felt the urge to eat the furry bastard:
to suction-cup the uncanny in its maw.
And as a fragment of glass reflected my mangled body,
I looked at myself and wondered: where was my squid?
You should have known, she said.
When you told me you didn’t not want me,
A doctor wakes his wife in the night;
she lifts her head from her pillow and sighs:
her husband is holding a mechanical baby.
He exclaims, 'It's a boy!' It has freckles
and one porcelain tooth. It mewls.
The doctor's wife lays the baby
in a dressing table drawer.
There are mechanical babies
in every drawer
and every cupboard in the doctor's house.
He builds babies from tin cans and bicycle
parts and the innards of broken clocks.
He tinkers. Oils smudges and shiny metal
mark out each revision.
All his life
the doctor suffers labour pains.
A surgeon opens his body
but there is no womb.
I’m always missing the bus, the driver speeds up
when she sees me approach,
and why shouldn’t she?
My timetable isn’t hers.
The beautiful man I loved, who opened me like a map
hides from me now,
still I go on talking to him,
saying, there’s a project I didn’t finish,
a job I didn't show up for.
If this rain would stop.
if I could catch up with my bills,
if my sink would empty itself of dishes,
if I could stop trying to find my red sandals,
if I could rearrange cloud furniture I see lying on my back,
if I could have my appaloosa mare again and feed her hay cake.
We won’t enter each other's houses again.
You won’t walk the sidewalk like a prisoner
going to his execution
When you lift the bird-shaped knocker,
it will not be me who greets you
My arms won’t open as if to say,
shed your coat, it’s warm in here
It won’t be these black shadows turning
their heads to hear bells pealing
in the inner rooms
One bell pull for each disappointment,
each fisted grudge
We’ll forget if we got lost coming here
the first time; if we had to consult maps
or ask if anyone had lived on that
dreary street before.
I'm speaking to that hollow core in you—
the empty shirt box
from the dry cleaners, &
I know these words
have no effect on you,
no more than a vacant bus stop cares
about cars whizzing past it,
but if my plea is a series of empty phrases, so is yours—
torn bits of paper are meant to blow across streets,
unnoticed, aren’t they?
knowing this, I’m still trying.
how could I not throw a cold, unreturnable kiss?
I think the birch tree knew
as its leaves fell for the last time,
when sap ceased to complete its trek
and rot overwhelmed the trunk.
I think the birch tree knew
when it would surrender its place,
topple to the edge of the pond
and prod the world diagonal --
a white line cantilevered
to perfect angle with its own reflection,
a sight as breathtaking as God could make
or as nature could do on its own.
You would like birch trees -
this is the world they always choose.
The secret about war, she thinks, is what a bore it is,
the leaky government shacks, feckless roaches,
harsh shampoo if you can find it,
staticky radio tuned to cooking tips,
worst of all—the community clothesline
with mountains of wet shirts and sheets
ready to pin up beside a stranger’s underwear
and worse even than that—sad-sack shirts and pants
abandoned on the line,
gimpy legs shimmy and shake in rough winds,
or hang desolate in the rain, smelling
like river water.
But once, his band played the islands
and oh dear God,
we danced to String of Pearls.
day one: todasci
it was a college of sciences
the oak tree. solvay wastebeds: it felt like foam
you’re a bad friend. after the woodsmen party, all men: on the steps of a stranger’s home, keystone. our voices dust-fiddling the night.
day 392: I’m glad you didn’t rape me. A gentleman.
day 467: my heart is racing. I’m dying. “No, no, it’s okay, give it a couple hours.” outside. concord. it was a beautiful home. the windows in the house to the left were gone, the sheets danced through them; a howl. I’m screaming. “Shut-up kids [mumbled] call the police.” inside. inside. Inside.
day 803: your poetry is very sexual. lake ontario. seven months. 5th street. 5. the ice cream parlor.
day 904: the door broke. we have to evaluate you. in the van, the yellow moon. Full. her husband left her. we call her the valium trophy wife. her pink polo. she talks to herself.
"MIKE TYSON FUCKED ME UP THE ASS!" I don’t belong here. he liked my drawing.
Ignore the glaciers on your first attempt,
get a toe-hold, tie yourself on;
this mountain might shrug,
throw you off, if you approach armed
with ice picks, crampons and maps
for the trek out.
This is no extinct volcano after all,
ramrod stiff and waiting to be conquered;
the core still churns and boils
somewhere below the surface,
no-one knows how far, or when it will erupt,
but she could tilt the land and flush the rivers
on a whim. Once started,
she could divide the ocean, found continents,
explode the earth across the sky.
This mother knows better than you.
Ducts that nourished a generation
still flow with dreams for a new world.
She might wait forever and be content
beyond the reach of travellers, hidden
from the explorer’s eye, or she might shift
and drop a tear that vaporises rock,
makes the ocean sizzle on my shore.
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