Being Greek

Being Greek means learning how to be clever

before you.

Learning about language and ancestry as a bedtime story.

Living in modern times

with an ancient soul,

in the Corinthian earth,





about me.

I make up my own rules

eat words while you sleep

awake before the birds

hunting poems out of my skull


under my olive skin,

kissing my trinity girls.


for My soulsistas @jwprebich @lexmeehan

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tag you’re It

from my Instagram


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


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.


More than ten

There are ten poems everyone needs to read,

there is always the one missing that makes my heart bleed.

Read Daddy

since feeling is first,

if you forget me,

or still I rise,

and forget J. Alfred Prufrock?

Who comes up with this silliness?

articles of futility

poems one cannot hold on to

read them over to change direction.

Bring that handsome face over

fill me with your surprise

it appears that every day

is a special one

for those who never carry a gun.

Use those hash-tags

for today to promote the crap we buy into.

They need to find reasons to love

and weep details

not even skin deep

it’s not a shovel they need

but a tractor

to dig up all the days that mattered

to create new ones

to crush depression.

My guns are so far

and only your hands will do,

oh yes,

they will feel the night

through my soft skin,

my handwritten notes

yes, their gentleness will definitely do,

do Us,

do Them,

do Both,

just tell them to leave us alone

you’re better at delegation, direction, distraction, damnation.

my triple d’s will knock you over

can they not see?

how our thoughts submerge

under the salted bath water

under their microscope of past lives

(in public, among the sheep

in private, among the wolves).

It is five a.m

and words wake me up from my slumber.

I have secret morning passages

to my soul

and I wonder

how you have

always held the key

before I willingly gave it to you.

Did you skip to the best parts

of the poem? did you vote?

(did you run far down Broadway)

I am your pretty downtown girl

with suburban angst

who is feisty to the core

and you are my cute blue eyed boy

who is such an actor on many stages

and beautiful to admire from afar.

Tuck me in with a poem

kiss my forehead with a rhyme.

I hate that place with fake accounts

and writers I chase down Park avenue.

do You really care to see my pictures

from last night’s shenanigans at The Rialto?

Keep some love private,

some pictures to myself,

can’t show all my flaws

point them out and act like some kind of fucking star

I’ll meet you at the famous bar where all the poets go

the one at Hotel 10

drinking wine and acting like groupies.

It is what I do best. Pretend.

And tonight another night of Book Club

love affairs under five star restaurants

trying Indian, Mexican the latest trend.

High heels and poetry

tight jeans and coquetry.

So much more than ten measly poems

to read. So much more than ten. So much more

than this.

A friend

Why can’t we be friends?
Exchange art philosophies
discuss musical tastes
how I taped U2 and listened to Bono’s voice
for twelve hours straight
why the stigma
the drama
over such a word
that twists and turns
and creates moods.
Friends are there to pull back
your hair (in my case)
when my knees are on the floor
vomiting my soul.
Friends lift you up
call you out
wake you up
and say good night.
It’s a beauty of a word
and I throw it at you
for your peace of mind
no ands ifs or buts
my mind is made up
of Pollock art
Victor Hugo drama
Plath darkness
subconscious alert
ambulance is coming
or a dear friend.
Which one would you prefer?
I’m up for a midnight run
I hardly sleep
artists think too much.