Categories
poetry

Freedom

I wrote it on the beach

while staring at the ocean

but forgot to send it

deleted it somehow

and poetry faded into

the sand under my feet.

I hear what you say

but I’m nodding at the sky

it’s talking to me

so be silent.

listen. i told you to

stare and you did,

listening to the wind

and how the earth moved

with the clouds.

You breathe deeply.

she was the one

who never got

away from your thoughts

and she was the one

that reminded you

of me. no spells

required. it was

word play. tricks

that poets perform

on cue. i trust no one

but my lover

who knows every

mole on my skin.

every beach is different

yet the same,

and every man is you

and every woman

is me.

That freedom of

saying you’re mine

or I’m yours

or other lovely phrases

that confuse the horizon

are Purolator express

packages of signed poems

I sent to Pakistan, London,

Lebanon, and other exotic

places that poets meet.

Remember how we ruled

the scene with teased hair

and duMaurier cigs

no line ups, no hash tags,

no texts, no pictures?

You just wanted to

get next to me.

That was all

that mattered.

Now everything matters.

My shoes, my hair,

my fake promises.

Yet you see nothing

but what you

have always seen

and that is one

of the myriad ways

that I love you

in every song.

Categories
poetry

June second

the lights are red, but i want to go up

into the sky. drive right through

the pink and purple all night long.

this is my porn. you text me

your naughty, i’ll dream

in the fucking clouds. it’s june

second, two thousand and fifteen,

remember the 80’s? i relive them.

another full moon? do you

really care all that much? stop

howling. i feel it in every cell.

you’re fucked up.

I think my imagination

is so wild

even you

would run away.

but, you stay, you

make me believe

that the sunset

was a masterpiece

and the darkness

its palette.

the moon controls us

like love, we’re

helpless

to its pulling effect.

catch me tonight at

nine pm…its’ my son’s

award ceremony,

but i’ll still be falling

from the sky.

don’t forget to look up

and extend your arms,

even if you don’t see me.

Categories
poetry

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.

Categories
poetry

My Assignment

Is the day over yet? How

I want it to be so over,

this damp cold day

how your words are on

constant replay.

My theory is:

I’ll meet you in the bedroom

in the backseat, deep in the night

on the hood of a car

in broad daylight

on the pool table

after we locked up the bar

meet you at 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

any time we need a fix.

The paragraphs are:

kilometers become steps

on a street

a drive becomes a walk

in the forest

a pre-dinner meet.

Catching up, I need catching up.

Breaking up, I need breaking up.

Your hands in mine (or theirs)

or his or hers.

Take me off of that list.

Take me off of that pile.

I might want to live in constant denial.

I might want to wait to find my own dial.

I have my own classroom to teach

I have my own lessons to learn

children to preach

but then you throw me a fish hook

in the middle of my day

and I bite.

I like your stars

your flowing river traps

you like

my late afternoon naps.

Conclusion:

Don’t analyze a poet

I believe nothing

until it comes from your lips

the next is just a story

unfolding.

I know how a poet thinks

blinks

drinks

I know how we confuse

reality with dreams

dreams with reality

stories with broken seams.

I know how artists

stare at the sky like pornography

erotica, read it like literature,

I know how I go out of my way

to step on crunched leaves.

Do you?

I know how music

is my muse that weaves.

I’m not that young and naive

not that blind to love

but I’m tired of all the pretense

the shaded color of my fence-

I can come to you

you can come to me

we can come to each other

right above the sea.

Did you grade me yet?

Am I a good pet?

I am too old for games

just write me something

that will blow me up

into flames

until I’m a ghost

and you bend at my grave

remember the walk

the talk

the skin

the breath

the scent

the way we fit so well.

I’m a poet

dramatic/visual/erotic.

How did I do?

Categories
poetry Some of my poems

Needs

Words need an exit
for writers.
Readers need
an entrance.
Some poems are meant
to be read aloud
lying naked in bed
drinking up each other’s
words.
Inhaling and exhaling words
skipping meals
poets are meant to look
into each other’s eyes
with no sunglasses
no lies.

Eliminate your disguise
and melt with me
onto the sheets
disappear on a break
run from the calls.
Sleeping in another galaxy.
Montreal is perfect
for summer acts
of love
and Art
Poetry
Music
Now I’ve emptied out my mind
replaced it with your poses.
You could have been
a model
but really
I could not care less
if your eyes were purple
For it is your one thousand year
old soul that speaks
to me
and recognizes our memories.
It could not have been
one mere lifetime
But many.
So many I refuse to breathe.
Disappearing behind
my typewriter
to recall
and write my stories.