Spilt Wine

Start the night with wine

in my hair, on my dress,

in my stockings

brand new shoes

bare shoulder

and a few broken

apologies. I saw it

coming too,

and just watched it.

Kind of like life

that was yesterday.

Tonight,

now another bar

another jazz singer

singing the blues

under copper tiled ceilings

and feathers in her hair

you’d think it was suddenly

1920 art deco Paris.

But no,

it’s the house of Jazz

in Laval, Quebec.

Hanging with the girls

who sold my life away.

Do you pay the bill?

Cosmos and red chandeliers

blue bottine in the vitrine

and it’s a wonderful world

in here.

The only thing missing is you

with me.

It makes me cry

you’ll never see

what I see.

Not even pictures

do it justice.

Rita called me

she’ll be 20

minutes late,

god damn Montreal traffic.

It’s fine.

I’ll order another Cosmo

write a poem.

Listen to the jazz singer

and lament

you.

Muse me

Uploading photos to freeze time

sitting on Santa’s lap

to release laughs

singing songs to remember

the way it was. The time

we all spent Christmas together

in one home. When he woke

me with pancakes and smiles

and all the traditions really did

matter. Now I stare at

the ceiling while I should be

sleeping

instead of dreaming

about you and your made

up fantasies. I can be just

as creative while staring hard

at darkness. True artists

need the night more than

the day. I know I do.

Thinking is best done

while pumping heart and soul

into a poem. Guts and all.

Fright and the fall. Duck

and be gone.

Stoned at a party

drinking green cognac

how we hold onto

our youth while clutching

plastic cups in suburbanite

dynamite. I listen to the silence

and wait in the darkness.

How did you write a book?

How do you answer a question

with a question. That’s been

my biggest problem. Never want

to answer with truths so made

up stories of chapter sessions in

late night bars. I chase it hard.

I live hard. Surrounded by the love

that limits me, that wrecks me,

that adores me, that complicates me,

digging deep withing the bottles

to find the recipe

to nothing at all

but existentialism.

Open up The Little Prince

and see once again

the importance of Living.

Everything else I can watch burn

in a fire. Except You.