Poem 45

It has gotten so that every time I pick up

A book, cup or pair of shoes

I expect the scattering swarm of small insects.

Too much time in the garden I know

Overturning rocks then jumping back at first

In horror, then stepping closer in a morbid curiosity

Not to spray these futuristic looking ancient creatures

But to check my gloves my shoes my hair

It is enough to frighten the weaker bipeds

But not me at least not now 

While I dig and push & pull

Like the relentless invader I have become.

Poem 44

Because we've arrived at poem forty-four

Allow me to take you through death's dark door

From belief Cantonese, well it’s pure superstition

an unfortunate link & a plea nay admission

That onomatopoeia has dictated decision

from Address to Birthdate

it’s time to obliterate

This crazy conception

a way of deception

That 2 times 2 which is 4 to most

but over on that Far East Coast

They cringe and deny

That what to you & I

Is a digit, a symbol, plainly just a number

Not the last thing you’ll see b4 your final slumber.

Because the Cantonese word for the number 4 sounds like the word

for death it is avoided whenever possible, addresses that end in 4 might

be changed to 4A birthdates may be changed & check the 4th, 14th etc floors

of buildings for Cantonese.   There will no doubt be revisions to this piece.

Poem 43

There was an edge to this dinner

The dinner in my dream

The timing was crucial & we were late

Someone was with me in the car 

Careening into  Car Park Sub Level 9

There were no cars but a woman was down there 

Mopping up water that oozed from the walls

I worried the car might rust over dinner

Down there in that damp enclave

Undoubtedly Freudian at this point.

Like some meta-fiction that dreams are

The missed engagement 

The chase of time in the form of

a subterranean journey one might be hard-pressed

not to reference Orpheus 

But I will not fall for that.

Poem 42

It is not with Dickinsons’ sense of dread I greet you

But with the luck bestowed upon my dreary head

(So say those from Quebec anyway)

When I spotted the first Robin on our lawn last week

Now almost daily this

Turdus migratorius, large Thrush, wanderer

Unaware of Latin leanings

Perches on our sill to look at us.

Cautious & curious outside & in

Even dog has noticed your red breast 

Pressed against  window you stand taller than I knew

You were.  At least 12 inches high, they say

Your average life is two years but one was known to have lived 14.

What was his secret I wonder?

Curiosity? Not likely.

Socialized & outgoing after all 

It’s years were tallied 

Every morning now I wait inside

For this plumed voyeur  

Warmed beneath the same bright star

Carried by the same swift breeze.

Poem 41

He says hell
is other people
She says life
is other people
It does not follow
that life is hell   rather
that judgement can be impaired by perspective.
She should not build her outlook upon such
shipwrecked emotions.
She should have left him years ago but for the
Conversation on otherwise quiet Sundays
Spent reading Le Nationel sipping at a cafe
Cigarettes shrinking while the Spanish Civil War
Tears them apart from time to time
Jean Paul sits in contemplative silence while
Simone smokes unfiltered American cigarettes &
contemplates a character stronger than herself
who could say to Jean - you simply must make up your mind or
Jean  go to Hell
but this time
without indifference.

Poem 40

From a country with a flag yellow & blue
like its fields of grain and large prairie sky
I should not wonder why there was so little spoken at home
especially in my grandparents' who fled
who denied any stories too afraid to speak the words
when I was a child & hungry to know.

Hungry like I would never know.
The people of Ukraine
under Stalin were crushed
hushed starved to death
In 1932 no one would resist
there was no strength when the grain seeds
for next years crops became something to fight over.

Fear of our story made me ashamed
creating the worst imaginings
But not the horrors of the unimaginable.
Planned & purposeful
a quarter of the population starved
The rest later told this never happened the way they saw it
told it was a famine
not a genocide.
it is estimated that between 8-11 million people died between 1932-1933

Poem 39

I am catching the dispersing molecules
of the dead tonight
All poets are opportunists at heart
you'd do the same if not for sleep
The sparks that flicker like dust from the moon
swirl then land upon this pillowed head
force me to salvage what I can in
ragged notebook & tentative pen
But nothing lands in order
as fragmented as a dream
No logic  no message
no rhythmic beat

Poem 38

Once it was suggested to me that I think of libraries
as stores where I need never buy anything -- I began
to frequent them religiously, spending whole Sundays
just browsing  grabbing armfuls at a time charging
them to my limitless card   Today so carried away with
this new outlook the keeper of books asked if I needed any help
I asked if she had Woolf in any other colour and will
I be able to exchange my Dickens for somthing lighter?

Anything is possible here
note the quiet reserve of others
under the same spell
a magnetic pull from shelves
a hum from leather-bound volumes
a crackle from obscure texts
Like the scene from Wings of Desire where
behind the shoulders of each quiet reader stands an Angel
The librarian was surely earning her wings
with each suggestion and every time she gently smoothed
dog-eared corners before putting the book to rest.

Poem 37

rodentia asks me for change & I tell him
every cell in your body is breaking down
not to mention that skin is sloughing
especially with that wool scarf &
hair follicles are closing  as bankrupt
as your favorite deli
did he want me to mention the latest terror plot?
the ozone or big medicine?
he tells me to eff someone  maybe even myself but
I'm not going for idle threats from an idle soul  so I say
Look  if money is what you are after    then why not
ask for it -- maybe that's been your whole problem
maybe that's how you ended up this way
I'm not in a good mood today & how was he to know
I mean it's random selection on his part
so I smile half hearted & cold too
notice his red cracked skin
his brown hooked nails  & say
here take this and go in there and buy yourself some soup
but he's not going for plastic offers from plastic people
turning on his lack of heels he
spits & walks away  says
you ain't my advisor.

Poem 36

To exist in a state of grace  while
inside contemptuous coals are stoked with every
thought--more gratifying than you'd think.

Not to say that feeding the poor &
housing the lame won't leave your cupboards
empty & rooms overflowing
but that is the essence of such notions.

It's the widest smile bearing most teeth
that make me look away.

Poem 35

There's nothing at my fingertips right now
I blame my brain, no my heart
when really it is neither
It's the day I've had carving into the ground
until these empty fingers ached
from stone & thick clay
clearing a path
shocking each worm
displacing or disecting
a violent act in the name or order.

Poem 34

I come from a city where two rivers flow
they meet in the centre
one going one direction
the other, another
and like two rivers with their
own agendas
their meeting is brief   and
they're gone   like any two
rivers in a hurry to get where
they are needed.

In that city
people sleepwalk
they freeze in the winter
then complain about summer's heat.
Not that they are not content
but very involved in the weather.
I know about those who sleepwalk because it's haunted
son Guy Maddin has
captured this fuzzy phenomenon.
When the sleeper arrives at your door
you must let them in.
They may have lived in that house before
or they may know you.
They may have the keys with them
but in sleep they will fumble and
it is the civic duty of those who answer
their doors not to behave like a cold
rushing river.

Poem 33

Loquacious is the mosquito in your bedroom
the buzz in your head when you don't know the answer
it's the effect of too much day & not enough night
It's the word you want if you are at the bottom of a well
It's the word you know you can count on
Maybe no one uses it anymore but it's like the best colloquial
oh, I meant collegial
it's the best collegial accompaniment you can find.

Poem 32

Lugubrious is a slug who is happy in the slimy water forgotten since last spring
it is sure to make itself known, to catch your eye to show that it's there
alone and unfed.  It will surface then sink to the bottom as if that were it.
But it returns to see your concern to listen to your plans of rescue
Take my advice, leave that word alone and all that it holds dear
It has a way of moving in and never leaving   of wrapping itself
around your good intentions and squeezing and squeezing.

Poem 31

The inconvenience of language
an oil slick
a bed of wet clay
That's not what I wanted to say.
Today the sky was blue
except that may not be true
I did not look up
was busy digging a hole
but the heat on my back &
the blackness of the hole
all add up to clear skies above.
I could smell the damp
with each cut
slicing  roots
listening to songbirds almost
understanding them.

Poem 30

You’re no cliche

if you smoke foreign cigarettes

or roll your own

Read Heinrich Boll or Roberto Bolano

ride bicycles even in the rain

wear boots in summer

prefer black  or  army surplus

If you still believe in social evolution

with no evidence to go on

No cliche cuts deep enough for you

when your social circle can be

counted on one hand

the one in your pocket &

your dog’s name is a literary reference--

If you live outside society

above shops hanging on for dear life.

You don’t think about money

you think about art

Heart to hand

Hand to mouth

Before your eyes

the work you do

the cheques you cash

your straight spine & the

curved line that winds around your life.

Poem 29

The sun is midway in the sky     

the lake has not yet melted 

but is beginning along its edges    

A woman stands silhouetted

by the glare off the shiny ice  

Any brighter and you could see her bones.

She’s holding a stick  &  pokes at the shell 

of this sleeping white tortoise

It refuses to yield   remains asleep    

There are droplets melting from her

eyes  let loose by winter’s end   

a fire within puffs smoke from her mouth.

As if in sympathy  a piece of this glacial beast crumbles 

as she is pulled by impulse    left foot    right foot   

origin of the species

leaves the lake’s shore  

upright  forward   then gone.

Poem 28

Watching the man pose before his friend for a shot
He is no doubt thinking of his girl  or another
who will see this photo  of
a dashing young man  posed with
one leg up   elbow on knee
teeth white & generous
granite building behind
His dark skin against bright shirt
windblown on a Saturday afternoon
or that kind of mood.
Are they tourists or exchange students
from somewhere hot & well populated?
What will she make of this snapshot-- a building
seemingly unoccupied  on a deserted street on a Saturday
or that kind of mood.

Poem 27

Is what is left  always

later desired

Do our memories

cloak the naked bones of our past

into presentability      properly attired

any ghost can make his way through a room 

full of friends   avoiding handshakes & solid food

he can fit right in

make you believe the past 

was another country

your memory

the unstamped visa