November 30, 2011

#936 Break Point

a cairn at the edge
the edge of ocean's water, the edge of land's exterior
a marker for this moment in my life
the cairn left by a stranger at yesterday's high tide
this is my low tide
i search for a message, a clue for direction
but only significance is marked

i hear the ocean-smoothed rocks
tinkle inches out to sea
in the gurgling undertow of the surf
after each wave breaks
                         breaks
                         breaks

November 29, 2011

#935 time for a change

i am passing time, and failing life
my brain detests creativity
i fight motivation and spark
my friends Oblivion and Auto-pilot
help me through each day
i hide my mile-high messes
under two inches of pseudo-neatness
yet
digital clocks
continue
chronological

November 27, 2011

#934 pinholes

boys, growing up in different stages of a shared childhood
shared stories
memories of one river
one cabin
now each is a different thumbtack on the map
but when they re-unite
childhood and memories return to life

November 25, 2011

#933 teeth gnawing on varathane

the statue looks down at me
and i'm so i bored, i contemplate
creepy
fancy building with a bearded man nailed to the front wall
staring at me
i suppose every kid here thinks that
jesus and mrs. lisa have that in common
that and fame
oh-oh, kneel, kneel, people kneeling
the robed guy is droning about something
but the bearded guy distracts me
i mean, if he was alive, i'd think he was trying to get me in trouble
c'mon, pay attention to the robe

#932 sharing

words in a box in a closet
written and unread
would you cook a meal for no one to eat
paint a masterpiece for no one to see
build a car for no one to drive
turn the closet inside out
share
when it is ready, write the words on the bedroom walls
on the exterior walls
on the street

November 24, 2011

#931 an age, but not a number

i was old enough to talk
and young enough that the outlet tempted my finger
old enough to pretend to drink from the bottom of my baby sister's bottle
and young enough to be told to finish my vegetables
old enough to have a piggy bank
and young enough to think i'd be rich when it filled

#930 dear murderer,

i want to thank you for your gift of death
you killed me with your poetry
stuck a serrated knife between my ribs with each line
pulled the knife out with each line break

i was reading
felt my self die
your letters on my monitor
you changed me

i skipped old Me's funeral
not enough time
what with the ginormous to-be list you inspired in me

before your poem, i thought the world was one thing
like, for example, the colour green
until you removed my green-lensed glasses
folded them, inserted in your breast pocket

i still saw green, but now understood and knew green
beside white and blue and red
and all colours lips ever said

murderer,
thank you for your gift of birth
i see sidewalks and kitchen clocks,
like kellogg's corn flakes,
again
for the first time

i taste larger happiness in one sip of wine
than in a vat
i smell the zen in a one-bite supper
not every night
but some now and some then
i touch the visceral satsfaction
inside my bodied soul
a soul that glows like a lighthouse,
when i see at the end of my work day's commute,
my wife's mouth,
shape-shifting into a horseshoe, aligned for luck

i know you weren't advising me to be patient to the kids i work with
weren't warning me to learn that fly rods and figure skating mattered to two of them
weren't suggesting that one smile beats ten perfect instructions
i know you weren't
but you did

you aimed for truth, released your bowstring, and struck truth's meat
whatever lesson was in that meat for you
must have differed from me
for poetry is an imperfect translator

but truth means truth
in my language too

so
may old Me rest in peace
may the life that walked away from the chalk outline
honour him, honour me, honour you

November 23, 2011

#929 murder

crows stand silent
around a dead of their own
all in respectful black tuxes
then
they fly
a little closer to understanding life's limits
a little closer to understanding death

#928 The school bus


She gave us each 3990 minutes that year,
even Jenny, the fat retarded girl who sat front-seat
I was a kid then, worried about having the right shoes
And, like everyone else, we avoided her
Like Jenny
Not as bad, but we all avoided them both
Afraid they’d misconstrue a smile as an invitation for friendship
Which would make having the wrong shoes, a minor problem

This girl was the first stop after school, and the last stop each morning
Adding ten minutes to each of our mornings; ten more to our afternoons
But not my grad year
That fall, the bus didn’t drive to her house,
her soggy, tired driveway
We all knew why
We heard the adults’ whispered rumours
Her mother found her a few hours after they fought,
No, it was the younger brother found her, they shared a room
She gave us each 3990 minutes that year,



November 21, 2011

#927 back-country road

you are my back-country road
i didn't know how much i missed your turns
until i made three wrong of my own
this road weren't built for speedin'
this driver won't bury the needle
when it's gravel beneath the wheels
weren't built for boostin' tourism neither
just for getting from one Somewhere to the next
but now i'm drivin' here
i forget what was so important 'bout gettin' Somewhere
i want to learn every pull-off, every driveway
every hairpin, every straight stretch
do i love this road, or the distraction it provides
am i happy here
or is this feeling the lack of the hollowness that usually rides my shotgun
i could drive forever, without another traffic light
i could grow to love stopping at the intersections
just to chat with you
rolling our eyes in agreement at the tie behind me barmpin' on his horn
i guess he still has two wrong turns to go
before he finds his love
before he finds his back-country road

November 20, 2011

#926 Dear Abigail

the librarian wipes tears with her sleeve
after her third read of the handwritten letter
to an unborn daughter
some patron's bookmark
a recipe for apple crisp on the back

November 19, 2011

#925 i the atheist, have seen the face of god (on a childhood storybook)

gorilla on the front cover
my holy trinity
filling the whole page
scary but inviting
my holy father calls me

now
i see how loud the voice of the belief in god
was
for me to see all this
on a childhood storybook

#924 this is me

lost like a child at the bank
i am a football in a gumball machine
galoshes on a dance floor

odd like lightning in february
i am no-name ketchup in a bistro
an f-bomb in kindergarten

November 16, 2011

#923 making up one's mind

my mind is made up
i'm not sure who made it up
but this mind is a figment of some imagination
and if i'm wrong
let me be content in my ignorance
for if this mind of mine were real
i could not handle that
and might be tempted to make it go the way of pasta sauce

November 15, 2011

#922 net violation

while watching her daughter's junior high volleyball game
the mother wonders why teams now score even when the opponent is serving
one of her favourite things about her own volleyball days
was how the sport offered second chances
you could lose the rally
but not lose a point to the opponent
and, the sport did not go too far, by offering third chances
something the mother thought her daughter's generation was too often offered

why do they play rally-point now?
for advertisers
...
in order to compete with other televised sports
william morgan's sport needed to have a more predictable time duration
when the pros changed, the amateurs and schools followed
trading second chances for 30-second spots

November 13, 2011

#921 upon reading Elements of Design and thinking about teens in hoodies

a place of refuge
being inside looking out
      a kid's nook under the stairs
      or under in the floor-level kitchen cupboards
      later, a covered balcony
these spaces give us a defined area in which we exercise control
and grow the confidence
to exit said spaces
and to enter the world beyond them
      the hallway
      the kitchen
      the neighbourhood

November 12, 2011

#920 refecting on deflecting

sometimes, small changes
make more trouble than large ones
ask the goalie about deflections
ask the bruised knee of the guy whose wife
rearranged the furniture

November 10, 2011

#919 11

two minutes, once a year
and wear a red flower on your chest
and
remember
appreciate
respect
they fought, so we might not
those black-and-white figures are people
someone's neighbour, someone's hero
lest we forget

November 8, 2011

#918 born in june

a leaf scratches across november's icy road
as parents pack away ghouls and clowns and pop stars
for another year

such a waste
gowns and swords and plastic noses, sitting, useless for 364 days a year
maybe i'll have a themed birthday next year...

November 7, 2011

#917 blame

a sound, the rushing of air,
buttcheeks applauding the earlier supper
the woman giggles,
looks at their dog,
accusation in her eyes
then, fighting a smile, the woman reprimands the innocent dog...
beware the ventrilo-farter

November 6, 2011

#916 half-empty bed

where are you tonight
on whose chest is your head
do you make him feel as good as you made me feel
do his rolled up laundry socks annoy you
this music is too loud but the silence was too quiet
for sleep

on the worst days, i wished you away
imagining you held me back
now i stay in bed until noon
not because i like sleeping in
but because i hate getting up
for life

November 5, 2011

#915 on listening to the braveheart soundtrack for the first time in years

wealth is a way of seeing life's moments
abundance to be found in each lyric
to hear the richness in each note,
the music in the space between the notes,
even the space between the songs
as the last song echoes in your brain's ear
while giving an adrenaline blip of expectation for the next one

#914 between

ball bearings and a rocking chair
reality and dreamland
the drool on the pillow
this is the large pieces of lumber beneath the expensive pieces of lumber

November 2, 2011

#913 $14.97

my jaw has been clenched so long i don't remember what relaxed feels like
angry adrenalin creates a constant creek through my bloodstream
how do i bust this shackle i built around my ankle
all the days feel the same
all the days end in Y
if only happiness could be bought for rollback prices from aisle 52 
though i suppose, that is what we try to do