Over wine

So here we all are,

discussing art, poetry and the modern poets.

Here we are, with our quirks

our tattoos, our playlists

our countries of origin.

I’m one hundred percent Greek,

my friend is Mexican, Australian,

American, Indian, Albanian,

Portuguese,

a mini-multicultural microcosm

of poets. We share the best lines

over morning coffee, exchange smiles

over lunch and family pictures over supper.

In another life we were at the courts

with a glass of wine and time on our hands,

quill and ink, ideologies and war,

we had each other close.

Now technology draws us so close

we can almost smell each other’s

perfume. We can almost feel

each other’s pain. We can create  a

movement, change CEO’s reports,

shock them with a poetic force.

We are turning the hands

of time forward,

over wine.

And still art

doesn’t sell,

and poets do not make money

let us work our two jobs,

go back to school,

raise a family,

write at midnight,

check our status updates.

Here we are.

Ready for the darts

and critics.

Here we are

at your disposal

for abuse,

but at least

we have each other’s back

from oceans and miles away.

The poet’s circle

revives

itself.

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poems

have some poems in my pocket

under my skirt

between my legs

along the highway to the city

writing them in my head

in my bed

everywhere but here,

i’ll come back sooner or later

but they take control now

and my notebooks aren’t empty enough

and my love is not as full as i want it

so i drown it

add some ice to it

and shake the shaker with

instant cosmos on the table.

i’m the best suburban downtown barmaid

around,

my heart never ages

you look like sisters and other lies

i hear.

oh, come on, you know the drill

the thrill

you can find it anywhere else

but here.

poems set me aflame now

let reality burn down

to the ground

i won’t call 911.

i’d rather be a ghost.

I see nothing but love

and even that covers itself up

and hides from this painting.

leave my blindfolds on

i like it that way.

Sitting in my car

If you want to know what I thought
all you have to do is ask
and when I said
well nobody walked out of the theatre/
most of the audience don’t know why
they laughed on cue/
rolled their eyes when needed/
and romanticized all/
because what can you do
in denial of your life
bring out the ties and sex acts
one by one
you can butt plug your existence
or pretend you know why he doesn’t want to be touched
like most men do
or why she likes her ass slapped
like most women do.
I can offend but a prompt is just that
and fan fiction is still fiction
and New York movie critics
need a sundown on this topic
and Madonna needs an opinion
all wait for the review
just have your own fucking nonsense bottle of wine with their logo
plaster it all over the sites
like someone wants to be you.
How is that
no one cares about what the waiter said last night
arguing with me while he knows he is wrong
didn’t high school end?
Never
it goes on
with every new Leader
or heartbreaking news story.
Watch the news in pain
as literature drowns
and best sellers float
but my book will not bring out all the kings and queens
and if you read or not
nothing changes
it’s still Friday and tomorrow is Saturday
drinking and waiting for The Hip to feed the soul.
Another -33 day in love with the guitar and sounds
of refusal
to sell out.
Sorry, to disappoint
but it has to be done
every once in a while
to see how
there is nothing closer to fiction
than reviews.
Every reader
wants to escape,
I hope my rope
is long enough
to touch the ground.

Used to this

Must I tell you more?
Or less?
Or shake the day off
with my bare shoulder.
Stuck between dreams
reading about your eyes
as I walk into my life
and walk right back out.
Throw adjectives
like knives
so used to my nine lives
and so glad you need me not
crystal clear as the ocean.
Tell me how
you are wanted
and blessed
I will be at the graveyard
in my unrest.
Your soul blows mine away
in its fading light
and I wait for you
to break my heart
so lovingly.
I hate all these emotions
pulling me toward you
yet I embrace them
as I would you.
You take me in
and sweetly take me out
I lay on the ground
defeated
arms wide.
Since you never asked, I’m not doing fine at all.
My feelings never change
I’ve always felt different
apart
You make me feel
beautiful
when I stare at nothing
but your face
I loved what we shared
and I
well I am just a girl
so many like me
ready for you.
It is rare to love like this
and I am grateful
for every kiss.

Ticket Train

Look up and watch the fall sky.
I keep on waiting
for the perfect day
to burn the notes
but they remain intact
an abstract Pollock painting
locked up
in some burgundy chest
bought at Winners.
No one holds the lock and key
as tightly as you do.
Even if you knew me then
against the high school wall
or now
as I wait in the sky
or in the future
writing you in my life
none of it would matter
except half-hour dates
and minutes to destiny
as love affairs
come and go
like snowstorms
leaving me under
to feel the freezing water
waiting to melt
at his warming touch
and thaw out
under his skin.

Murders in Montreal
rapists in hiding
driving on Sherbrooke Street
looking for tattoo parlours
to imprint your soul
upon my skin
as if it could even
be done.
None of it is real.

What a lively imagination
you have
just listen and maybe
you will hear the birds too
in -20 degrees
Tiffany did, she told
me so this morning.
I lit a candle for her
for her cat-scan
for her life.
I keep on praying for others
who will ever pray for me?
I know the dead do.
The only ones I can rely on.

Fresh face

Wrap you up in my lovely lies
lay you down in horrible highs
deceive you with myself
bands that have that
sound
like The Pains of Being…
you could probably fill in the gaps
know how to walk backwards
in a forward world.
I meant to lie only to the
tiny parts that screamed out
but know you’re in
in on my conspiracy
my own warped way
when lights go off
as dark as the forest
the deep ocean
with only the moonlight
guiding me
the place where I recognize you
lower case magic
upper case rules.

So many layers
you can never imagine
how many lights I have shut
how many still flicker
how many highways divide
or
snowstorms collide
you can hear me in the silence
it’s a rare gift
passed on from generation
to generation
but only the few have both
the lock and key
sometimes there is only one
without the other
but when I was high
I saw them both.
Who needs sleep
when you have all this love
these dance moves to show
how I dip
how we fly
I am living in another world
while parked
waiting for
the doors of my dreams
to open.

Stuck between

The best part of the day

is the love you send

like flowers on a grave.

The dead know that none of this matters

as much as we hope it would. The dead

know how you can fault on your knees.

Better to not know yourself. Cry all

day under your glare. Escape in the

middle of the night and hunger for the

lustful cravings among

the banks of your shore.

I will kill your beauty, watch it

pass me by like a dead freight train.

I will add Greek olives to it as a gesture

of my hate.

Ugly me

has no will to look anyone in the eyes.

Beautiful me

will spread her legs

for you to go deep

shakes your knees

at my touchdown.

The theme escapes me daily

the words all gone again, starting

over on a new screen

to begin in another lifetime.

Untitled

Lying in bed right before dawn
listening to silence
it makes a noise
(Jack White)
it is my muse
you might think
I have many. The way my mind works
I do. The way you twist my arm to make me love you. The way you order for me. The way you forget about me.
Treat me like my notebook.
Rip me up
put me together again.
I think clearer when you sleep
kiss you hard when you wake
and look at me in that sexy way.

In my bed
the angels whisper in my ears
about all that crap I forget during the day
the way you walk in a room
the way you touch my soul from a plane
the song you choose to fill my pain
the seriousness and lighthearted
strain
of my fucked up brain.

Sylvia saves me,
has a way with running words on a train track
I wave at her all the time
talk to her
and she is the best silent listener.
She knows.
You might think I love you
when I know not where I packed
my eyeliner
my bra
in this paper mill town
in Quebec.
I am fearless for only you.
I am frozen and warm only for you.
I think you want the
parts of me
I cannot give
but now that more arrive
at our hockey game
you can dump and chase
whomever has prettier eyes
you can punish
and put me in your penalty box
for being so naughty.
You can have all the power plays
you so desire
but watch out for
those cherry pickers
ready
to score.
In this town
it feels like nothing is possible.

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Happy Holidays

Dearest readers,

I start out by thinking perhaps I’ll write you a quick thank you for reading and blah blah blah but then it’s like lightning strikes and a poem evolves. Inspired by my friend who wants to go see Father John Misty in February and suddenly I’m listening to every lyric as if my life depended on it more than it did on shopping. Should be at the mall, but I’d much rather be here listening to how he writes a novel and how I have a poem. Here goes.

I wrote a novel

it’s not the first

it won’t be my last.

In just a few weeks

you’ll read it too.

I want to thank you

all for connecting

reading

commenting

inhaling each word

as passionately as I tap

them out

late at night

or too early in the bloody morning

spewing words like coffee beans.

I can’t possibly read everyone’s blogs

or words

but I try. And I thank you

ENORMOUSLY

for stopping by

loving the energy. I’m full of that.

Hardly sleep or eat. Still

in the same body as my teens

don’t ask how God made me this

way, but who knows how the mind

and soul empties its contents

onto this page and how the body

reacts to age. The soul though

it never dies. Relives. Sees more

than we ever can.

I unloaded my truck full

of clothes and food

and cried. Off to charge

thousands on the credit card

and roll around in debt and wine

on my name day.

Well Happy Holidays

my friends and let’s

hope peace is on

everyone’s mind for 2015.

I highly doubt that,

but I know that doubt

is one of my slow killers.

Shine on with your words

and thanks for reading mine.

– Christina Strigas

Mystery night

Head pounding after drink
binging
creating beautiful worlds
to let in the innocent
and their dreams.
Midnight driving from
the west of the island
to the east
from north to south
listen to GNR to remind
myself of how
the Big O almost burnt
and I was chasing shots
that night
watching from above
always being your angel
saving you from dying.
I see how you adore me
when you look at me
if it wasn’t for me
you’d still be searching,
you stopped when you
found me
and want every piece
you can’t have.
It’s funny how
I see the highway lights
glaring the truth
the voices
creating the poems
under the tunnel.
Skipping conversations
because the poem is
in my blood now
don’t care about yellow
lights, speed limits
all I feel are the words
thirsty
for their paper
to land, to penetrate,
to feel alive
as bodies would
could
and needs take over
this mellow night
of headache
sexy legs you wrap
around yours
like an early Christmas
present.
Do we need a list?
A list of what not to do
to lose a lover.
I will be under my blanket
the rest I leave to
your imagination.
All of it
for it is
and will always be
a mystery.