Sunday, 14 April 2019

1 New Poem

Light Spectrum

I was talking in mystic chord
memory, in chime and pulling through
the light of all things

Across, across the battered bookkeeping
dollar sense of where we left to
stream beyond, looking up to stark

Shimmering blackness, whole points
of galactic time swallowed in
blinking pace before us.

When you take the raw end of things,
clasping and human against the bloody
edge of time, it gleams weary

Of all worked through sentiments,
the reduction to a firm figure
that brokers no wonder, no fancy flight,

It’s not me you toss to wolves,
to sharpened teeth, matted fur;

Only the sense-memory
of being there before.

Tuesday, 9 April 2019

1 New Poem

What You Keep

I rolled out the sigil for you:
not breaking against waves of
grain amber, swinging vines of
palm, standing in the middle of
seconds ticking, turning cold
from blank standing of lights
after dusk.

You swam to shore, dripping:
I had been breathing (heavy, deep,
swirling), gathering words for
matchsticks to keep warm against
the flashing white righteousness,
the ink jet print of runaway

The pulley systems, dumbwaiters that
take us across the life stage,
curtains closing behind with velvet
precision are not the things
for me;

I just kept them in reserve,
just in case of failure.

Saturday, 23 March 2019

1 New Poem

Downtown Lullaby

When I’d hang with sputtering
car engine blocks and rusted paint
fumes, the comfort wasn’t from

A blank space between walls
and light boxes in plastic
frames that flashed bold language.

It wasn’t from tracking tires that
made mess of ice and brine
split shuttering to bring bells of

Unfogging spring to eye-cough
sense we took in trade as costs
of the hibernating season’s panic.

It wasn’t the passion crimes behind
windows, made out in breathy silhouette
to corner stores below;

Kind of sentiment to take the
broken rising feeling that was
numbed across from brass rubbing etch.

It was the pitter-patter of stiff
soles on hard ground, reminding I
wasn’t the only one out.

Monday, 11 March 2019

1 New Poem

Party Blocs

We were there in the last shivers
of incandescence: chip-paint hallways
past pulses of tin can sound
rolling through brickwork backs,
out across a forbearing
season’s snow-slush concrete.

We were there when things went
split-separate, turned all around:
I didn’t talk of smoke signals
and floating sinktops in the
beer can wages we made from
punch-card precision and crackled
toffee wrapping blunted turf.

We were there at the heat-rushed
steps of the crowd: when air
replaced body flesh and pressed
red faces to glass around back
stairs and basements.

We were there, clocks striking
points of lime green glow: discomfort
found in a numb bathwater submergence
from places still and broken.

We were there in the swinging
up-down pieces of cloying car honk;
kinds of thing that tears in two.

We were there for it all,
with our brutalist smiles shining through.

Saturday, 19 January 2019

2 New Poems

Soda Fountains

It springs back, Coca-Cola fizzy,
through moments I never
lived except as a split-screen
drive-in triple feature;

Sticky sweet the summer mist
of insert cut-clips scissor
snipping and hasty tape.

It’s not Victory Garden harsh:
bare root vegetation and
careful-measured state loaf
I took a strange fancy to
after years;

But something lively, pressed to
tongue and offered grand,
withdrawn too quick from base
and bucket.

It wasn’t wanting, the infinite
universe of pop-snapping sounds
that made up the glass work
spaces contained;

A red velvet shade that
takes over dreams, seeps
to the staining cracks
like billboard light

That still trails me on
street corners.

Montreal Rose

You make me think about
the steam bagel heat outside
of Saint Viateur on sidewalk slabs
before nights begin,

Being so unexpected, yet welcome,
yet wafting through a lazy
summer breeze with dodging
of bicycle spokes and
selling of cold drinks outside.

You come in like McGill
ivy, timeless in elegance,
traced too deep in impression
for an easy forgetting.

The way you harbour so much
of wounded worlds and
grew still, clanging against
city brick and northern waterfront

You make me think of the
tussle motions that happen when
bars would close so late

and I’d switch Greyhound tickets
for early morning routes,
thinking something would stick
around against the wish-wash of rain;

You’re more like the flower garden
piece outside the modern art gallery,

Most of all,

You make me wish I was
Leonard Cohen,

so I would have some worthier
words to send you.

Thursday, 27 December 2018

1 New Poem

Painted Radiators

It’s ticking like a metronome,
this worried thought running
between two potted plants and
the mattress-blank walls,
that gives me a peace

Yet kills all the same
a vibe the room had before
we showed up, blew it apart.

It wasn’t like me to slip
into things so quiet, fish skin
and rowing up boats to

Not like me at all, I’d say,
protest of hanging lamps,
gaslights flickering blankly
against the painted-over heat
switches that keep me worried
about how much power it took,
keeping things warm so long.

When we ice-crackle, snow-crunch
outdoors between lights and music
spiral twisting in the breeze of
mountain slush;

I had a timely expression,
one that might have borne remembrance.

Saturday, 20 October 2018

1 New Poem

Paths That Cross

We started so deliberate, along
the followed page scraps crossed
up with ink, compass-exact
strokes against dying candles,
closing walls, to chart a way

Swiping about,
smearing fingers through
facades and oil print; when
it comes across as knife
edge to throat, it is a
darkening of presence.

We were not burning, blazing
testaments to higher-lived
purpose, not speeding toward
some sitting in light-streaked
field at the quadrangle piece;
only a touch of spark.

Shutting off, zig-zag coiling
electric lamps in antique clutter
that drives us away from
finishing what was started;

Talking into one another’s
straightened lines.