In the Middle

Once I was at the end of the love song

crying for years because it was over

before it even began. We were caught

loving the wrong person. I immersed

from my drowning and swam to the

beginning of the line. I sailed across

your poems and floated on your words.

You sent them to me by mail, on out-

dated postcards, you wrote them on

the back of my hand with your

fingertips. I sent you magic and

illusions with one needle on your

arm. We lived in a movie and

recited Shakespeare naked in bed.

You were not even close to being

who I thought you were. I was

too much for you to handle back

then, wanting to do everything

and doing absolutely nothing

about it. I climbed Mont-Royal

in heels and you laughed at

my absurdities. I was spontaneous

and explosive, until I wasn’t anymore.

I bent backwards on words

and the power of your hands.

Now I’m in the middle of something

that will change me forever.

I will never bet that girl again.

I have to be someone I thought

I would never be. Life throws you

these wicked curveballs

and I am catching them,

ready to be stuck here

hoping that it will not get

worse. All this hope

for songwriters and poets

but for a regular woman like me

it’s a waste of my time.

Never

I have one word answers

to statements

that do not get me

trapped under the snow

or hitting trees

speeding down slopes.

I am not even close

to being

who you think I am.

Over a coffee,

I aim to not impress you

with my silent eyes.

Over a drink,

I aim to not impress you

over my drunken innuendos

and real batty lashes.

I never

ever

get a grip

on reality

for if I do,

I will let it control me

in ways that anxiety does.

I would rather live in my head

be in control

half of the time,

accumulate speeding tickets

burn notebooks

and still

you would not be impressed

by my recklessness,

or my playlist

or my grocery list

for you care only

about the softness of my skin,

how I never age,

so, I do suppose,

in that

I could finally impress you

the most.

How you want to seduce

me with your lies,

your brilliant skies,

your magnetic eyes,

all under poetic disguise.

My dad whispered how he loved me

in my dream last night .

You care not for my poetry

or my dark eyeliner

all you care for

is my reality

to be yours

naked

under strange sheets.

I prefer the smell of fabric softener.

My dad said the words

I longed to hear. 

Even in death he knows what 

I need to hear. 

And still I can never be yours.

 

 

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.

The Sea

I’m just a tad more romantic

hopeless (to be exact)

the two combined

leave vomit on my shimmery and shine

same pants you rubbed

same sex you craved

and then the boxing bell rang loud

while we were in the bliss of all that fun

time to pack the bags

I have my train ticket

do you have the time?

I have my thongs with all the right words

do you have a rhyme?

I have my invites to the latest parties

do you want bits and pieces of my crime?

I confess to nothing

I embrace my sins

count me out

of the nails and pins

on the sleeves of your love

count me in

to the rhythm and blues of your heart

that’s all I wanted from the very start.

You, me, in all that denial

I sleep nude after I wake up

feel the sheets on my skin

as I press redial;

you hate when I call you

say the truth

stick me and you across in that booth

and your touching the letters

on my skin.

I dream in so much color

and waves of the ocean

the subtle drowning in me

wakes me up

I held my breath

from the bottom of the sea.

You might think I am a great storyteller

but I do not/cannot sit for four hours

in misery

reviewing colors and fabrics

with no glasses.

Just lay me down

I might float

or not.

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.

Floating Above My Deadline

If you want fire
light up a smoke,
it’s been too long
since I inhaled
your toxic words.
I am lounging
around, letting the cold air
fill my lungs.
Dragged from one city
to another in a state
of loss. Loss of the
astute ways you nudge
my knees apart
from the outskirts
of your town. Walls restrict
and leave me to build
fondness
admiration
of your fossilized words
that can bury me
under the frozen rivers
of this province.

I dreamed that you loved me
as you were meant to,
that you spoke to me,
as you would like to,
clearly
I saw your lips move
first in front of mine
soon after they traveled
along my frontiers.

It seems uncivilized to chase
a fox
yet honeyed words
will make most women
contradict and fool
even themselves.
She should stop.
She should go.
She should stop and go.

I teach my son how to drive
how to treat a woman
how to love
how to surpass men
and reach out and touch a soul.
He can do it. I have faith.
I cross my fingers as I wait
to see if my breasts
will continue to bring me
joy or pain.
I float above all my deadlines
punching numbers
and faces of years gone by.
I suppose it is best to dig up
the skeletons
tell you
how they sleep.
Best to add mortar
to my brick walls
peek through a crack
as I fade
paint
a new landscape
from my third eye.

Old past loves
never wave good-bye.
His last true words
carved into my heart
like the couples’ initials
forever on Mont-Royal.
Ink my name
on your skin
you talk about it so often
just do it
so you can be
reminded of how
I broke your heart.
Share a drink with me
one more time
give me everything in one hour
to last
years
meet me at the corner of Rue d’Amour
and Rue Je t’adore.
It exists
somewhere
we have never been before.

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.

Cold drive in

You think you have met
someone like me before
but
admit it
(At least to yourself)
that you may have not.

I think I met someone
like you
way back
in university
he was a philosophy major
and he followed me
with his eyes
until in front
of James Dean
exhibition he said
the right things
to get me to have cafe
but his notebooks
were complicated
his ideas far fetched
his apartment filthy
and I never saw him again.

You’re not like anyone;
I may be like everyone;
but the cold sun
is not warming up my love.

The words are useless
to a mere touch.
The drive is vacant
without you
Joking around
and making me laugh.
You sleep
I dream.
I dream
you sleep.

It seems in the middle of the night
we wake up
and drive into each other
without a collision.
I can feel the drive in
to work
miles away,
I can feel strange
things
I’ve admitted to no one.
(Not even to myself).

Charades

I’m pretty good at charades

beat them all with my gestures

I’m Greek so I move my hands

when I talk

break open beer bottles

with my hand

I may seem all sweet and nice

but I could hurt you

mostly with objects

you can never see

hardly noticeable

from this distance

but naked in my bed

you could twist me around

in seconds

and see that my tears

are on the pillowcase.

I can pick the charade words

select the perfect movies

actors

sayings

and let the games begin

make a Cosmo that makes you

want more

select a playlist

for somber moods

haunting moods

slide an adjective over my body parts

and I’ll come up with something.

I hate parts of you

I detest the fatal flaws

that will come between us

like a scaffold.

I think in ancient times

and read scripts

in my mind that you dreamt about

so long ago.

I see through you

past you

and still

I want to see all the parts

you hide.

Your version

I think your version is my favorite love poem I’ve read. I think you captured the moment far better than I ever could. I let my tears show me the way, but then the song Take Me To Church plays and I get trapped in my mind. I want to give you all of me on a silver tray and ask you to be gentle and tear away at me. I think you are a true gent from a time long gone and a lost generation. It’s not in the way you held my jacket, or the way your eyes slid up and down my body, but the way you held it in that drew me in. I can’t do justice to any of it through a poem, or a story, but I will try. I think that attraction exists to pour out the demons to one another; the dark, the light, the in-between blurry parts. I could be playful, silly, spontaneous, strong, and

you may think you have me pegged me, and that’s when

you haven’t

but it’s weird how every day I wake up and I could feel differently, except not really for you.

I sleep and wake to you.

I turn the sheets inside out for you.

I think you can meet me half/way or all/the/way or no/way; I think you have me confused with someone else, someone who you’ve met, but mostly I think you’re just as shocked as I am that we are actually kind of normal in a place where that rarely exists.