It Evaporates​

You never lose a word from under the sheets

it can evaporate into desire within lightbulbs

of dark fiction. You tend to write about them,

blue octagons of your nightmares, the

lined frames of wisdom you neglected

to admonish. All these poets, they

love to see you crawl through utopian

skies. They love to see you die

a poetic death, make sure theirs

becomes immortal while your vampire

stories die under golden

Greek suns. I have unimpressed you

with bath time fun

you stopped playing mindless games

showed me your grey hair.

I can still cross my legs

be a drunken listener.

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In the bones

Most times I try to hide it under my grief

but when I think of how eleven years pass

and how scientifically the skin and body

becomes all bones and maggots, this

freaks the fuck out of me. I think

of how his skin once touched mine and

how his love made me feel completely

human. Most days, I struggle to get

out of bed and feed my medical

condition. I hate the daylight

it sucks up my dreams. I hate the night

time, it eats up my worries. I hate

locks, they control me. I know how

my mind works under this umbrella,

it takes hold of all my bones

and caresses them while I’m alive.

You are not scared of death

he had told me, while lying there

dying from a freaky accident

that he should have never

even had. It was my fault,

I wanted him to get me

a burger and fries at eleven at night

on a slippery Montreal night

and the police officer said

all the things you don’t want

to hear, while waiting for

your husband and the food

and the love he will bring.

Death has holes.

The funeral was a blur

as are the memories now

and the sound of his voice

which I have long

forgotten.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Justify the tears

People keep lies in their pockets

like bubble gum

I tell a lie

my heart aches

my nose should grow

live in a fairytale for a while.

I should get spanked

I can lie like a jazz singer full of trouble

in the twenties,

cheating on myself

but I prefer to tell my lover

I feel him

when he leaves

love him

when I cannot see him

and child of mine

things do not get easier

or brighter.

He brings me gifts I cannot open

kisses of tomorrow

yet nothing can wrap me up as perfectly

as staring

into each other’s flaws

naked on a Sunday morning

with nothing to do

but loving every moment

and existing

merely for each other.

If only

the music and words in our veins

could walk together

in the bright sun.

I suppose being a vampire

has its privileges

like some royalty.

Still, I see the sky

has opened up for me again

and is opening its arms.

 

Sleeping in the snow

It can be cold

my hands will surely fall off

I should have been hospitalized

a few times.

I never ran home

I always ran the other way

the yellow lined highways

I flipped my phone over

and closed it down

yet I did not forget you.

You live somewhere else now

in a world

far from violin sounds

and toxic words.

best thing you did was leave

this hell hole

in xmas and easter.

You may have given me my

first sip of wine

but this shitty place

does not care for the snow

or the sun.

It wants your soul

to be eaten up by benjamins

and twenty-five percent rebates.

cards with points from every store

you’ve ever walked into

you are so much better by the ocean

trust me

this place is full of fakes

and loveless faces

that replace your body for your soul.

I walked away from it

and gave my enterprise up

for freedom

listening to dead poets

and kissing myself.

My lips taste sweet

coconut oil

rubbed in between my lines.

ten years up or down

and my eyesight will go

then my memory

and death is just waiting

to snatch up my sanity

and hand me down a disorder

of some sorts

so I can never see you again.

It was tragic while it lasted

and epic while it slipped away.

Even if you love someone else

you and me

kept quiet

hushed

silenced

into the snow

to hibernate

our love

into another season

in another life

where we stared out the same window

every morning.

More

I want more

of what I cannot have

and less of what I have.

It is always the poem of the day

that brings me joy

written in some notebook

or on a piece of paper

from an obscure poet

that I research in the middle of a lineup

of free coffee.

Where do you come from?

I tried to answer that question once

but failed miserably.

Such vagueness requires a multitude

of tides

each with its own seashell story.

I try to be normal

but fall flat on my face.

I am raising my children too freely

I should restrict them

deny them

border them up

but I show them to fly instead

and when they leave me too

I will cry

for not holding them closer

than I should have

like all the Greek mothers before me.

I know I speak too much of this and that

and I probably bore you

and it’s so easy to move onto the next poet

who rhymes and meets your IQ requirement

but I left my soul at the beach again,

death recited lines

lit a candle for the dead again

prayed for other’s lives.

My third eye aches

wishes to go blind,

one disappointment after another

another brain cancer tumor

and all the memories flood back

holding everyone else up

with courage I never even thought I had.

I come from places I’ve never been to

and people I’ll never meet.

I want more of what you have. 

 

 

 

 

Driving my New Car

It was a cool night in May

my brother’s birthday

and my sunroof off on the highway.

I picked up my girlfriends

to bring them back to 1984.

We bear the cross with our outings

leaving dishes and kids

in sink

husbands in disarray

wide-eyed and handing out cash

for popcorn and music legends.

Do you need consoling again?

All the time.

I sped to 1030 in a hurry

and cried in the front row

with a sore neck.

It’s like reliving Rocky Horror

at Vanier

and living through another first time.

 

I love all my firsts

and dread the last.

The view from Brossard is epic

over the bridge

but please drive my brand new car

I got that tingling sensation again

to anxious

to look down

so let the night

feel me up.

I imagine backseat limousines

and cab rides

where our hands are free

to touch each other.

This is what races

through my 110 km ride

off of the Montreal lights

as Purple Rain never runs

out of gas.

I never bore

and my friends joke

the author formerly known as Chrissy.

It seems that strangers can see through me

but

they believe what they read

and think that every you

is a living person

but most of the time

it is the dead

who speak to me more

than the living.

 

Funk

I already went to the cemetery yesterday

to make my goodbyes a hello again.

I would rather kiss tombstones

than nothing at all. Eight years ago

I drove to Sherbrooke street for morphine

and here I am, lighting candles and adding

more flowers my dad would have loved.

He had all his words in place

made me appreciate sunsets

and opera singers.

The moment I found my

elementary handwriting

my Greek essays

and hand-made cards

my tears welled up.

D for daddy

a for awesome

d for dynamic

d for deep

y for you.

Even at ten I knew the truth

and believed no lies.

He came to me

and sang this morning

I heard him through the music

and I knew his funk

was with me.

April is the month I lost

all my favorite men. Two dads

and a musician.

Poke fun at my colors

but I know the loss

is the soundtrack

of my life.

 

Poetry

I am in an interview and everyone wants to know

why? why write? why omit? why publish?

why self-publish? why do anything at all?

I am at a wedding and everyone wants to know

what my book is about,

how about you buy it and read it

my sarcasm

getting the better of me.

I am at retirement party and everyone tells me

I saw you on TV. How’s the little girl?

You’re a hero.

I roll my eyes,

grateful to have survived at all. Drink up.

I wouldn’t be here if time held me hostage.

I am at a staff meeting

and everyone wants to know

how did I save that boy in 1999 with an EpiPen shot.

I am at the movie theater

I tell my daughter,

hide me from my ex-boyfriend.

I am at Starbucks flirting with a twenty-year old

I could be mid-thirties

so I nod my head, quick smile.

I am at the red light,

crying.

I wonder why being alive

has to hurt so much.

I wonder why I liked you in the first place

when I cannot stand you now.

And no, it is not a song lyric,

it is my poem.

 

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.

Brand New

Every dress she wore

had a hole in it. She used to sew

but they always came apart,

she was never as good as

her grandmother. Now it is

a stand she takes

to break down

the hold he has on her waist

on her tight fitting dress,

she refuses to make it

brand new

preferring the tattered one

for it is the perfect shade of black

she paid five-hundred dollars

and still has the receipt.

It never fades. Everyone knows

she loves that dress,

but his jacket covers her moles.

He could buy her more,

but having names on her ass

means nothing to her

if it is not poetry.

She believed in old hockey cards,

the ones she found in his attic,

The Rocket

close to his heart,

she competed with dead hockey players,

he competed with dead poets.

She found his hockey skates

in a crate dated 1977

an expo hat that his uncle

from Greece left behind

in a rush to get back to the olive trees.

He found nothing of hers 

ever

this pained her

this idea that he would discover her soul

in death,

this burial of all her poems

only to be unearthed by him.

If only she had driven him that night,

he would be here

reading her words

and not under the frozen earth

and she using words like

Forever

Always

and meaning them.