#937 of libraries and gyms

but they'll stare at me and think i don't belong
they'll know i don't belong
i'll ask a stupid question
i'll commit a faux-pas
no, i'll do more on my own
join when i feel ready

#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

#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

#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

#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

#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

#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,

#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

#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

#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

#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

#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

#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

#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

#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

#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...

#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

#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

#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

#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

#912 ...in the sky

the chief's daughter- beautiful, naive
the european man- exotic, powerful
he pursues
she succumbs
the chief- obstinate, stoic
strikes a deal
to save face and pride
but the white man's promise was a a white lie
and now the daughter appears black, to those who know where look
and how

#911

a weekend away, ignoring the mounting chores and tasks
but upon return, they await
complete a few to reduce the guilt
but, you have to wonder
is this what you want life to be

#910 25-something

oops, i mean 2308
simple mistakes make for complicated calgary cab-rides
and don't forget the schwarma
but one ninja, two randoms, and three sabotage cops make for a great last night in october

#909 the little man in my head is pissed

there's a little man in my head
and the little man is draggin' his left heel in the dirt, drawin' a line
see he's been pushed and ignored and insulted
for himself, he had to draw the line for others
and pity the person who crosses the line
for theirs will be the welcome of rage

#908 the game

many men shoot game
with and without respect
enjoy the benefits

but i heard about a man
who spent the weekend in one spot
so he was a bush to the deer
they wandered by him, aimless

moments like that cannot be shot with a rifle

#907 supper walk

at the end of the yelling, and the cold rain, and the boring meetings, and the reprimands
at the end of each day
at the end of monday and friday and each day between
i arrive home and i breathe
i walk with my wife and my dog
and i understand, the world is a good place

#906 the fringe

squish all the paranoid people into the same hospital floor
jam all the criminals into prison together
isolate the members of society we dislike,
until we are left with the best bland-middle-of-the-road
exile them all,
feel fear and appreciation
that you are neglected to stay

#905 orangutans and aardvarks: 3 chunks of advice

first:
list, in your head, the people who make you laugh
i mean laugh,
like there was a buffoonery of orangutans trying to escape your belly, kind of laugh
memorize that list


second:
do something kind for those people
and double the time you spend with them
if your list is empty, start seeking new friends
sign up for a course, volunteer for a cause, pick a new hobby

third:
ask yourself-
would i be on anyone else's list?
if yes, great
if no, go to the mirror
and do your best impression of an aardvark in heat

#904 earl gray

the doorbell rings
i walk
through the window, i see two officers
inside, my heart turns to a november sunflower
i open the door
their mouths search for words and fill the space between us with uh's and um's
then the sounds turn to words
accident... everything they could... so sorry
they enter and i ask if they want a cup of tea

#903 petals to the ground

she lent me a pencil today
  she loves me
she walked by me in the hall without eye contact
  she loves me not

she watched the stars with me the final night of grade 10
  she loves me
she started dating the new kid
  she loves me not

she shared her blackest secret with me
  she loves me
she left for college
  she loves me not

she's moving back home
  she loves me
she says she needs space
 she loves me not

i asked her and she says i do
 she loves me
her car rolled off the straight, dry highway, driving to work after our final fight
  she loves me not

#902 down vest over wool sweater

the leaves crunch underfoot
(the happiest sound i've heard from death)
adding reflection and weight to my walk 

the autumn temperature pushes me into myself
i watch two leaves fall
spinning and fluttering and crashing into one another
journeying to being grounded in this, the third season
i name them
My Past and My Future

#901 crossing the lake

i thought we would feel the same
together for a decade before exchanging rings
and we feel similar to before, but change is sneaky
overnight we swam across a lake
from the town of Couple
to the village of Family
we swam, two people, together

the lake is the same, the two sides are the same
i am the same, you are the same
but "we" and "perspective' changed

now we rest on the shore's edge
resting up from the swim
ready for the next swim

#900 angel garden lake (Am,E, D)

lost my new oar
lost my old roar
out on the lake
must have been some
kind of mistake
out on the lake
now she floats all alone
never knowing her home
bobs alone on the lake
i paddled by hand
until i found land
out off the lake
stumbled through fog
then carved her a log
...
now she lives in a rose
in the garden corner
...
i arrive at her tomb
ripped from the womb
...
....

#899 a bad day at work

weep for all your money cost you
cry for the memories and lament the moments
8 to 5 times 5 times 52 times you
trade your hands your mind your back your time
for a pay cheque and a pension
is it worth it

#898 the atlantic

the flower in its vase drinks water, drinks life, so slowly i do not see
so it is with me and this place
but, like the flower, my roots are cut, and i wonder how long
how long before i wither, how long before this vase and its water grow murky
can i go back to the garden
are my roots still there
is my garden still there

#897 to those in the know

how many barrels must a man stare down, before you call him a man
how many bikinis must a video have, before you can call it cool
yes and how many black friends must a non-black man have, before he can call himself black
the answer my friend is blowing in the wind. the answer is blowing in the wind

#896 reflections of a white person

I am white.
Unfairly, that gives me unwritten rights.

When the stranger crosses her street, I don’t question if it’s a product of my pigment.
When I am hired, I don’t wonder if they chose me, to meet some job equality policy.
When I received my degree, no one called me, “a tribute to my race,” and I do not carry the weight that can come with such a title.

I am white. As a kid, my parents did not have to drive to the city to find me white action heroes. They did not need to research to find movies and shows with white lead actresses and actors.


There is no pressure on me to be a great basketball player, or a genius mathematician, or to attend a powwow. I know little about my ancestry, and no one tells me that’s a shame.

I do not need to wonder if my native tongue (English) conspires against me with words like blackmail and blacklist and indian-giver.


I am white. I can find people of my colour that are powerful examples in a any profession or pusuit.

I am from Canada, like my mother and hers, like my father and his. I am proud to be Canadian, proud to be Scottish, proud to be MacDonald, and many other identities intertwined with the paleness of my skin. I am not proud of being white.

But nor am i guilty. Sure, I never had to lay awake at night, and justify hanging a human from a tree; but i have dealt with the guilt of wondering if, born there and then, would the lynch-mob list include me.

I am white.

I do not apologize for being white. Nor do I feel pride. I feel lucky. Fortunate. Unfairly so.

I am white. Unfairly, that gives me unwritten rights.

I do not need to fight for respect, it is assumed. I do not need to worry I’ll be the only white kid in a class full of kids studying white history month and, to date, I have never been asked to speak as a representative of white people.

Unlike the native man across the street, I can stumble home from my favourite bar with zero fear of being called a dirty drunk Caucasian.

When I am interrogated at the border… okay, hypothetically, IF I am ever interrogated at the border, I will not wonder if it’s because of racial profiling.

I have two sentences I will separate by a period, not join by a semi-colon. Let grammar reflect my belief that the statements are separate, not joined.

I am white.

I am proud.

I am not proud to be white. But I dropped the guilt years ago.

I did not choose to be white, I will not wish not to be white.

I am white. I am privileged. My life is easy and advantaged in ways I will never know. My privileges are not invisible; they are so visible I do not see them. Like the air in front of my eyeball, my privileges have been in front of me my whole life, so I don’t know what they look like. Like the wind, I cannot see my advantage, I can only try to describe it by its results.

You can hate me because I’m white. I can see how that would happen. And if you do, I feel for you, and I hope life delivers you happiness. I hope you use the anger i provide to do something good.

I do not look back on the history of white people to find my pride. I look at my brothers and my sister (siblings) who each fight their own fights. I look at my mum, who raised six kids. I look at my dad who worked hard, as hard as anyone I know, to provide. I look at my wife,  my aunts, my uncles, my cousins, at my friends, and at my neighbours.

I am white.

Unfairly, that gives me unwritten rights.

#895 two trees

as a tree-climber, i saw loved both trees, as i do now, but with naivete
then, as i grew taller, the trees grew together
winding and turning and intertwining
and this shaped me
then life took me away for a time, across the lines of maps, through various colours of globes
and when i returned, i saw those two trees again
saw them choking one another, competing for all the sun in the sky
overshadowing, strangling, hurting

i sat
on the empty lawn 
away from the shade and false comfort
i listened to myself cry

#894 road trip

i know a girl,straighter than a prairie highway double-solid
but one night with your body, would turn her into the cabot trail
your shoulders and your straight stretches
your loops and your beautiful bends
would turn her into a trans-sexual
to experience your trans-canada

the word miracle has been made as cliche as the needle in the haystack, by hallmark and human mouths
but i know a real miracle and that is this:
each night, i get to park my body alongside yours

#893 smiling out

fraught is my life
fraud is my life
my life is fraught with fraud
my life is fraud with fraught
fraud is my username and my password
for banking, for loving, for singing
everything
because routine is easier than living
and the couch more seductive than the garden
although the crack behind her cushions
steals both my soul and my loonies

#892 on a rainy october 1st

fog and rain and drear shrink my world
mountains and views disappear
shrinking my world
curtains are drawn and fires lit
shrinking my world
thoughts erase curtains and flames
an hour passes as i travel inside my head, inside myself

#891 here's to sprawl-mart

a great wedding gift
two wedding glasses
nicer than any we would've bought for ourselves
and here i stand, washing them
imagining a crack

#890 mother mary

i buried mother mary, in the wet sands of time
dry landscape at my back, wet horizon ahead
i walked ahead until i was over my head
walked back to shore and drew a new name, in the wet sands of time

#889 112

with a slight accent
and silent ignored tears
she marches on
and that will change, but it won't
the body will retire, the heart will persist

#888 inspiration is a sneaky beast

inspiration is a sneaky beast
it can come from your garbage can
or your playlist
mine usually comes when i'm not looking for it
in fact, the more i force it, the more it hides
BUT
inspiration thrives in soil with at least some routine and a lot of epHort

#887 the world is wet

the world is wet
water seeped into earth last night, inches deep
i listened from my pillow
water hit my tin roof
no wind
just dump-trucks of rain

now i watch stillness
as townspeople wake up silent
like the blossoms and the worms

#886 like gravity

solutions fall from trees
as i run through the forest
struggling to be under the right tree at the right moment
a force weighs on me no matter how many steps i run
the hip would sing
i need to believe in us tonight
or i need to be leavin' us tonight
we all fall down

#885 mr. harper

you cannot call it a defence budget
if it is an american-offence assistant
helping them with offensive attacks
o-ffensive
if we insist on being strong and on the offense
let's spread love and peace
let us help those in need
through flood and famine and fear
then, we will have less need "to defend ourselves"
and when we do, we will have many friends wanting to help us

#884 what's on

you are the yang to my 6 o'clock news
filling me with positive views

i am your
sit
calm
but i give you credits

you are the best of my prime time
and you forgive my juvenile rhyme

you are my favourite movie i watch a hundred times
enough that my lips know all your lines

but yet you always give me new release
in General you R my favourite show

comedy, drama, action
you've got it all

you make my breath run off a cliff and pause and fall like an animated anvil
i am the lead and you are the girl that i get; not "get" as in own, but as in understand

you are my rewind, my fast-forward and my play-on-words
you are my tv and i love to turn you on

you are my remote control and i love to curl up with you on the couch
my guide and i love to read you

i fall asleep to you and your static and snowstorming til morning
 you, you are the yang to my 6 o'clock news
and you are my anchor, and the channel i choose

#883 a bundle of sticks (and stones)

the word started a fight

Fag

and i don't know which made me sadder
the, caller thinking the word was an insult
or the, insulted thinking the word was worth hitting fist into face

they put, male skin and hands to, male skin and
bodies rolling and grappling on the school's corridor floor
upping heartbeats and penetrating punches
together as artists they draw
       they draw blood
on canvas of 12inch-by-12inch neutral tiles

all from violence
nothing from love
because male love is gross
despicable
ostracizable 
yet using your birth-given hands hurting another human being is
worth bragging about in the cafeteria
adds points to status-counts

blame schools, blame kids, blame parents
politicians, and media

squeezing them into our babysitter-buildings by the hundreds
providing each a, half-locker of semi-privacy
forcing them to, drink from a shared fountain while guests and suits get water-coolers
write kids off as entitled because, it's easy
blame tv and gaming
bullying and shaming

finger-point all you want, they'll point their tallest finger back at you
amidst broken mailboxes and shattered glass and stolen pumpkins
pumpkins smashed on streets they feel
don't belong to them
pumpkins smashed on streets they feel  
own them

you will not find a stanza herein with an answer-
     just questions and anger

give me one stick for each time an adult says
names will never hurt you
i will build one enormous faggot
names hurt in a way that's harder to fix and in a way that
lasts forever

#882 everything good

4th, 5th, home to 1st
rising action, climax, denouement
intro, conflict, resolution
tension, more tension, release

#881 the bear facts of a misunderstanding

drunk idiots
someone bashed my driver side mirror
scratched my door
some drunk idiot
happened overnight while i was sleeping

#881 what is the answer

words blur
black and white turn grey
blue lines morph into daydreams

i am king of a magic planet
i am a kind king
everyone loves me
i give no homework and demand only that people worship me

the teacher asked me a question
but her voice was the ocean beside my kingdom
i did not hear the words
she looks at me for an answer
with eyes that do not show worship

#880 r.i.p.

i like to read in the cemetery
it provides lots of company
but no one interrupts
i read biographies and mysteries and kids' books
whatever grabs me

i read in peace while
the others listen to my thoughts
and i lose the feeling of being a loner
just me, and the words, and the headstones

#879 abundance

i saw something today that made me stop
a miracle
it was near the middle of a large field
breathtaking
it grew from the earth
stunning
it was a clover
one-of-a-kind
a 3-leaf clover
in a field of 3-leaf clovers

#878 the happy life of my grampy

the radio on the washer
the swing in the backyard
a bucket for blueberries
a stick for fishing
a sharp chainsaw
a full-tank truck
these are the luxuries in a happy life

#877 after the first day back

he is in grade 3
on his way home
his heavy head rattles against the bus window
massaging his brain

the bus stops and he jumps awake, his stop
his shining shos walk down the aisle and down the stairs and into the driveway

#876 clover

a pair of 3-leaf clovers met last week
when each had lived three-fourths of an average clover life
and formed something new
yes, there were still two clovers
but something new had also formed
the new thing was not a 6-leaf clover
it was not a clover

#875 lucy in disguise

diamonds in the skies
diamonds in disguise
diamonds in her eyes
diamonds in disguise

#874 "what could be better than now"

as he walks through the music shop, guitars clamour
like front-row teenage groupies
hoping he'll touch them, choose them
that he will enable them to realize a new self in themselves

the speed and the silence and the noise, the forms and the innovation
this is truth in the form of sound waves
this is music

#873 teachers teach, painters paint, and writers write

writing is not about waiting for a muse to visit,
but about what you do while waiting for the visit
writing is putting letters together,
and good writing is re-writing those letters,
in head or on paper
i have 26 tools in my writers tool kit,
some are used more often,
others for precision work
but that's all it is:
26 letters, discipline, and doing it

#872 the school of Mr. Hathaway

i ignored her larger-than-life life
assuming no talent lived there
but then came her death,
larger than her life
and, as all too often
i found her talent and her soul
through her death
and still i wonder
what tortures these souls

#871 human, being

not self-criticizing
not complaining
not talking over others

not thinking ahead
not planning
not even reflecting

just sitting
breathing
being

#870 dos cervezas por favor

his skin is dark, from centuries of sun
his language makes a doctor's prescription musical
he throws out more food in a day than his large, young family will see in a month
he smiles and speeds and sweats
smiles when watched, because it pays 150 pesos a day
smiles when alone, because he is among the lucky

#869 bling

his favourite colour is brown
      calming, peaceful, relaxing, practical
      maybe even boring
and these are what he vows to her

her favourite is a crazy aqua-turqoise
      fun, breathtaking, bright, full of life
      opposite of boring
and these are the things he vows to appreciate in her

#868 memory upon memory

six of them all on one couch
the memory of the last time and
the memory of the picture, blend
altering truth, updating it
as another memory is snapped, another memory built

#867 the calendar hanging from the nail on the kitchen wall

searching for the good ol' days
in overpriced meals and expensive alcohol
days we did not know were good ol' days
until they were disposed of
along with the calendars in which they were blocked and recorded

time is a depressing friend
and depression is the sound of fear winning
the fear our best days are our yesterdays
the fear we are living a drawn out denouement 

#866 i get around town

i drive, the gas tank full, mine empty
the bobble-head terrier mocks me from my dashboard
my speed is going up
my life is going down
100% tread left on my tires
0% for me, wires poking through rubber
the radio is silent
my thoughts scream blind spots are clear
but these objects in the mirror, are closer than they appear

#865 "sat on a fence but it don't work"

the belt tightens around my chest
as demands pile with to-do lists on scrap-bits of paper
rescued from the recycle bin
red ink, blue ink, graphite
these are my bosses
and that's the last belt-notch

#864 Deadly Crash at 4th Street and 1st

even though Smalltown was a small town indeed then
Mr. Morton and Mr. Gregors owned similar businesses, competitors fierce
they were friends as kids but that went down one Saturday evening
a misunderstanding involving a missed curfew, and a sister full of teenage tears

now one Tuesday, each drove his black car for work
with passengers in the back, more silent than a ride in a music-less elevator
from North and from East, both men approached one 4-way stop
each thinking i'll beat that jerk
years of anger came down on their accelerators

before the sounds of metal and glass hit the intersection of 4th Street and 1st
Morton was silent and Gregors let go a string of reflexive curses
and that is Smalltownville's story, of the crash of two hearses

#863 clanched fists and shallow breaths

here's to anger
for your motivation
for your help in stopping the unacceptable things in this world
here's to anger
for speaking up
for action
for the energy you create
physical, spiritual, emotional

#862 dad's love

short grass and a clean car
baseball games on tv
lawn games and car-chats

#861 picking the melody

fretting away our frets
stress leaves in soundwaves
turning into good memories
changing chords and outlooks
tuning up and tuning in

#860 helmets are mandatory

there is no inspiration for life any strong than death
yet we squirm to talk about it
death
death
death

our fear of death
has grown into a fear of age
and now, with policies and safety
with helmets and seatbelts
we are growing a fear of life, of living

#859 a snapshot

old pictures deceive
confusing one generation with the next
playing tricks on my present
adjusting and influencing my past

and now
instead of having a few treasured moments
we have a hundred pictures a month that count for nothing
only filling up memory not my own

#858 mountains

what was once a mountain
is now a smooth wrinkle in the land
coming east to mountains
like visiting your kindergarten school for sky-high coathooks
these hills' beauty demand there own awe
but for height these eyes have new perspective

#857 memories and old underwear

i will not throw them out
they are old and tattered
worn and frayed
unattractive and ugly to some
but they are mine
i cannot throw them out
someday i might lose them
but i cannot throw them out

#856 the crybaby

she thinks her bruise is big
like a kid who thinks they're dying at the sight of their own blood
and we let her think it's a big deal
that we think she's tough
with her Ziplock baggie of ice and her Band-Aid

#855 Y

the ratio is wrong

to many mean nice words

beautiful phony smiles

no elegant behaviour to impress the other half

each word has hidden meanings

and feelings are something to stab before yours get stabbed

#854 upon cleaning the closet

no more clutter
no more floor-covering crumpled jeans
no more dust bunnies
no more mismatched socks
no more scraps of paper with scrawled to-do lists
no more
i cleaned the closet today
and promised myself to keep it tidy this time
again

#853 853

readers are impressed i have 853
that i wrote them all myself
writers are impressed i write one a day
that i share the ones that aren't ready
which impresses you more?

#852 dry clean only

two men, friends
not best friends, but good friends

the first, dressed sharp
expensive leather shoes
expensive watch
clothes pressed, no wrinkles

the second, dressed haphazard
faded t-shirt
jeans that don't see the washer until they show stains
mismatched socks worn threadbare

the clothes make the man the first man said
trying to be helpful
to offer advice he'd learned

the second man smiled
glancing at the juxtaposing attires
i think
the man makes the clothes
 






 

#851 overprotecting

boys
in push-up positions
drinking from the brook
the same brook where horses crap and algae grows
cold clear quenching water
they finish and sit by the brook
talking of whatever boys of that age
before girls dominate conversation
then they go back to the yard and find baseball gloves and a once orange hockeyball
they arrive in the kitchen for supper
hungry, home
and they grow up
healthy, happy

#850 self-injure or self-endure?

universes swell while jesus plays toilet tag in the alley
kids use mower blades as weapons
while Christians sit content in proper pews
toddlers ecstatic over someone else's trash
while towns and cities self-hypnotize in half hour segments
and i type a poem about the problems
like a helpless teen gently cuts her wrists
letting enough pain and pressure out to get through another day
but not enough to fix even one problem

#849 "rocking horse of time"

we all want release
some, like me, achieve it through tv
the ones have stories that can make a sax talk
do it through drugs
but we all seek release
from the feeling we don't belong
and maybe we're all right

#848 exterior

peel away your layers of paint
each added to hide something you didn't like
pressure wash
strip your walls to nothing
scrape if need be
then choose your colour
and apply

#847 objects and objections

waiting in the passenger seat
in a parking lot
i daydream, staring at the side mirror

i remember my first grey hair
but when did the salt first outnumber the pepper
i stare at my age
at my future

thinking of the life left in front of me
of my mortality
adds weight to the words on the mirror

my hand finds the handle
my should leans in to open the door
i stand up on the asphalt
stretch
walk around the front of the car
and get in the driver seat

#846 staying busy

the buzz of doing pushes me ahead of the dog of grief
biting at my heels
stopping is dangerous
but inevitable
and when stopping happens
i will be ripped to shreds

#845 canadian summer

sunscreen and sandal tan
pasta salad and lemonade
green grass and blue sky
barbecue and smoke from campfire
icing bright drinks and playing yard games
hot steering wheels and hands out car windows
scorching outdoor asphalt and cool indoor concrete
sand between toes and summer on your feet

#844 check

sweat and dirt mix on my skin
and feel great
a clean garage
a visible tangible result
each thing in its place
above a fresh-swept floor
my soul needed that

#843 relaxing before bed

eyes closed
i pinch the bridge of my nose
with thumb and index
trying to squeeze away all the to-do list items
i failed to accomplish today
like yesterday and the day before
but for my last few birthdays
a fact has been growing in front of me
tomorrows are a limited resource

#842 miner covered in coal dust

he is a ghost
the weight of colour tricks my eyes
the whites of his eyes glow and seem to float
not belonging to his black face
his black body
his black clothes

his eyes remind me of one of pac-man's retreating ghosts
traveling without body
the illusion causes a fear in me
a fear i stifle
a fear not unlike that of a toddler
seeing a parent dressed as a halloween vampire
he showers, removing the costume
no longer a ghost

#841 pausing

familiar chords massage my mind
lost in the lyrics i've been listening to on repeat
my attempt
at slowing down this world while i catch up with myself
the same lyrics speak to something different each time
the music has never met the clock
an hour passes without my awareness or permission
now i must press pause
and give myself to this world

#840 launching the collection

there comes a moment
when i must dissociate myself
and push with my beak
launch my small creation

watch my baby fall
but it is not my baby
just some collection of bones and feathers
for if i admitted it was my baby
i couldn't push it out of this tiny safe bowl of grass
unknown to the world

soar or splat
i will, with detachment
feel for the pile of feathers

and soar or splat, in time
i will admit and i will second guess
i will rejoice and i will grieve