Saint-Laurent

I walked with my turquoise stone

in the tiny pocket of my purse

for good luck, the witch said.

I sat at that cafe and you never showed up

I thought perhaps it was the needy poem

of fluff I left in your backpack

when you were looking at that other girl

with long blonde hair and bright blue eyes.

He will wait for you, the palm reader said.

It was a cafe where they played old movies

you said, Scarface is playing,

and recited the lines like poetry.

I am impressed with the oddest sentences

the ones most hate, the ones they can never

grasp with a one time read.

I wrote this for you, he said, but don’t read 

it in front of me. I sat on my bed and unfolded it

gently, slowly, prolonging the anticipation

like a perfect orgasm.

I read it about ten times until the words

remained memorized in my mind

for days, weeks, years

even now I could recite them.

Would you like another refill? 

I stared at the cute waitress and said,

Non, la facture s.v.p

At that time, there were no phones

to stare into to pretend you were

not stood up by the love of your life.

At that time, I stared at the empty

chair and cried inside for the

injustice of not being loved

enough, for being just another

girl

in his long days of bliss.

I missed his funeral

and every time I walk by that cafe

on Saint-Laurent that turned into a second

hand book store, that turned into a lounge,

that turned into a boutique,

that turned into Second Cup

I recite his poem

in my head like a mantra

and nothing ever changes

ever.

 

 

 

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.

Sixteen

There was a time in the 80’s when I was sixteen

and Michael was my everything

while I was his nothing. And even years

later every time I’d see him he pretended

i was nothing. from nothing to something.

from something to nothing. i call him an asshole

now. even my daughter knows his name. it’s not

a fucking secret how i loved him. you probably never

get over a love. and when i left or you left or whatever

happened because it’s all a blur, for the second or third

or fourth time and i ran into you on the street and you told

me to stop my car. you always wanted me back

every time I ran you ran faster. you married me

we had kids

i had red roses and an Alfred Sung gown.

Once I met a man, it was brief, maybe twenty minutes

or so, once he told me how my beauty

marked him. another time a man wrote

a book for me, he wanted my blood

as his pen. sucked me dry out of my silence.

created some Greek fucking muse of abuse

and left me with ashes on my cheeks.

It’s true that you never forget a love.

It’s true that you love your wife.

It’s morality to want it all and smoke in the hall.

i’ve lived it. you have no idea how I live.

I’m an artist and he supports my locked up frustrations.

my midnight madness

even if he isn’t one, he loves my crazy.

But you, you get all of me

in a brown package

delivered straight to your heart

and soul.

and you open me up gently.

just be sure

to not mix me up

with your other soul mates

and i will do the same.

my eyes and hair haven’t changed much

everyone says i look the same. IMG_7644

every love

is you.

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.

Sunday morning portrait, 2015

You may wonder

who I am

or who you are

or who we are together.

or apart?

leading highway lives

from the end to the start.

I saw you first

you were talking with friends

embarked on your high horse,

the room was hazy,

smoky, jazzy, of course.

Did you forget your desire?

At first glance,

was there a burning fire?

Were you in a poetic trance?

or a real life dance?

I am no one you want to love

been there and done that,

let my need float up above

blend with the sky

I fall out from

like a gift from the Greek gods’ nectar pie

here to ease your numb

feelings from life,

the blended coffee strife…

which to choose?

I forgot, you take no cream,

you never lose,

you are high above all the sports’ teams

the judgement call

you like to watch me fail, fall –

admit it –

nothing would please you more

than to hear me

moaning

like a paid whore

You do not have to put

your hands in your pockets,

I am free, I need no wallets,

no words of lies

please wear your secret lockets

and cover my eyes

in seductive disguise.

I should be asleep

but the words are heavy, knee deep

in your sweet-smelling mud.

I like it

when I am drowning

in my own flood.

Not any closer to who I am

just take my fucking hand

eventually we will land.

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.

Hideaway

It does not matter what
I say to you
when you bring
down the pain
and hug it
like a newborn
needing to relive
every spiteful word
she said
by
taking down
picture frames
to create new ones.
It does not matter
how I see it
because my green eyes
ignite you.
I feel your
sadness now
when you ache
empathy
encompasses me
that’s how I’m made
with loyalty and heartache
with knowledge
and truth.
I can see through
screens
cracked mirrors
I can write in your mind
trace your body’s shape
on top of mine.
I let you in now
it’s too late
to change fate
anyhow.
I can feel the walls
caving in
and I
can let you be
but, mon amour,
know that
no matter the state
you’re in
I can handle
you.

IMG_8067.PNG

Cryin’

Been crying internal bleeding

from wanting the streets

to be cleared from heartache

but the plow came too late

and my love it’s bound up in twisted fate-

feeling it all

then nothing.

What is wrong with me?

The snow is heavy

breaking my fall

wanting to lean up against your wall

so you could kiss me hard

feel my tears as I crawl

as close to you as I dream

in sweet sexy words

that invigorate my senses

as all these questions people ask me

fly right by me

crash into my sea.

I want to float above

but the tide keeps pulling me under

squeezing notes

living on false hopes

wishing that all this thunder

inside me would collide

with yours.

Wrote my last word

and finished the novel

haven’t you heard?

My lover is calling me again

wanting to know when

I will give it away

but he doesn’t know

that I already gave it

to you

a long time ago.

059

Glass doors

Got a ticket
for a train ride
I missed, as I sped
past the cemetery
and the battery-operated candles.
Did not pay the one-hundred and sixty two dollars
after thirty days
did not call in sick
found the gym shorts
at the bottom of the hamper
made a u-turn
because only he has the gift
of bringing me out
of the depths of my own hell.
He played me a song, rubbed
my neck, reminded me
of who I was, told me
he was sorry
and let the sunshine back in,
this sweet child of mine.

Then lo and behold
the black ice
met my black mood
collided and crashed
when out of nowhere
a salt truck
saved my life
where it guided me
back to the ticket booth
where I waited for you.
You did not show up
of course, you never do,
such is my life without you.
And all
That I sacrifice, give parts
of my soul every day,
to receive letters
from the lost n found
I try to guide
but their walls are blocked
and the more I give
the more they take.
And something has changed today
it’s in the air around me
in the name of my perfume
in the colour of my eyes
as I walk out glass doors
for the last time.

fate

you said to leave it to fate
don’t make a date
the time “who cares”
the meeting
well, who dares.
Ain’t it funny how
time knocks us down now
how New York
was a daunting force
to carry me like a running horse
to your steps
in the cab in Brooklyn
we giggled and cried and this losing win
you get in my head
for a second
you get in my bed
and I would reckon
God would be hated
we would be jaded.
Even Aphrodite agrees
and Apollo he decrees
that lovers like us
make great statues
cupid & psyche
writing the blues.
I did dance at The W
with a good-looking crew
smoking on the street
I thought I saw you
but my heart didn’t skip a beat
in Times Square
and fuck I thought
“Life is not fair.”
And another week rolls by
and more tears I will surely cry
for you know you’ll always be the one
I don’t play dumb.
Third time is never a charm
it’s bullshit, causing more harm
better to go see Andy Warhol alone
sit on the steps you call home
and feel your presence
in your absence.