Would anyone care to join me
in flicking a few pebbles in the direction
of teachers who are fond of asking the question:
“What is the poet trying to say?”
-Billy Colins, from his poem The Effort
I walked down Mont-Royal after looking
twenty minutes for parking. Just another
walk in the mountains on a Sunday afternoon.
Just another coffee afterwards to Vito
who makes the best goddamn coffee in Montreal.
Fuck Olympus cafe,
is the main deal.
And my friend Peter wanted to open a cafe
I chopped my head off to be in a photo
behind some row housing with blue hues,
cool doors that I stare at
like designer shoes.
I camouflage my eyes
with dark makeup,
but for two days
I did not wear any.
I do not think you know
the power of the words
you never say. I do not
think you know the power
of your hands that never
I am looking for a vintage typewriter
with a heavy history. Sending emails
to strangers about the condition
of the keys, the way the typewriter
breathes as if it could reach through
the screen and tell me
I will save you.
When are your poems going to be about me?
I am holding on tight to Billy Collins’
Decided to read that instead of Instagram poets,
decided to read poetry
instead of quotes,
decided to never save myself
in my own words.
Say what you want about me,
you can never know how
more than humans
Raymond Carver said that he writes poems
because he has no time
for writing books.
I feel the same way.
Camouflage my life with
a never ending poem
about all the words