Revival

On the days I feel I have nothing left to give

a root sprouts with verse. I have to be

a psychologist with no degree, give so much

to get nothing sometimes. Appreciation

flushed down the toilet. Revive me with

an oxygen of words. The revival of

the artist within

with raw poetry

in my veins. I have nothing else

to give you or make for you

but Greek hand me down recipes

that I botch up. My tired legs

and lifeless soul need ventilation,

pass the glory of self-publishing

into modern technology

reap no rewards. I try to revive

myself when the alarm rings

with caffeine and poetry.

Pack the lunch, make breakfast,

start the car, reminders,

doctors, appointments I forgot,

trace the outline of my body

with imaginative chalk

as I hold onto poetry

for dear life

and let everything else

fall apart.

mental blocks

How do I flee?

tell me  how to get rid of

mental blocks

show me how to stop

the voices

trust me when i say

i want you

to curse me

prepare my will

for all these walls

keep me locked inside

myself.

every time i want to escape from you

you bring me back

clean the snow off my car

let go of the facade

and i can complain

about mental blocks

come here, you say, i’ll show you

exactly how to get rid of them…

but you never realize that

these blocks keep me sane

to stop the intruders

from sucking my soul

and fucking up my brain.

Urges

I fell into his dream

did not want to wake up

are you believing everything you read again?

stop that shit

believe in nothing for a while

so drove into the city

bought vampire socks from sports stores

and white boots on St-Laurent

from a cute Parisian

twice his age and twice the addiction

everything is a message in the air

around me

straying and trespassing

into those brief moments

we shared

help me through

the long day

the snowstorm residue

lack of sunshine on my soul

press your lips up against mine

I will write you a romantic love poem

about how much of a beast I could be

instead of a beauty

block my love from your ego

my hair always hangs down

and when it doesn’t

that’s when you should worry

or never think of me at all

better off

ignoring my rants

poetry

books

you’re more of a pleasure seeker

more of a traveler into dark passages

I will lay on the grass

alone

staring at the sky right above Montreal

as if

a sky needs a name

or a poem

needs a title.

As if

you could ever understand me.