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,

ghosts

talk

talk

talk

about me.

I make up my own rules

eat words while you sleep

awake before the birds

hunting poems out of my skull

bones

under my olive skin,

kissing my trinity girls.

#5minutewrite

for My soulsistas @jwprebich @lexmeehan

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Spilt Wine

Start the night with wine

in my hair, on my dress,

in my stockings

brand new shoes

bare shoulder

and a few broken

apologies. I saw it

coming too,

and just watched it.

Kind of like life

that was yesterday.

Tonight,

now another bar

another jazz singer

singing the blues

under copper tiled ceilings

and feathers in her hair

you’d think it was suddenly

1920 art deco Paris.

But no,

it’s the house of Jazz

in Laval, Quebec.

Hanging with the girls

who sold my life away.

Do you pay the bill?

Cosmos and red chandeliers

blue bottine in the vitrine

and it’s a wonderful world

in here.

The only thing missing is you

with me.

It makes me cry

you’ll never see

what I see.

Not even pictures

do it justice.

Rita called me

she’ll be 20

minutes late,

god damn Montreal traffic.

It’s fine.

I’ll order another Cosmo

write a poem.

Listen to the jazz singer

and lament

you.

GNO

Vodka, champagne

ice bucket,

free drinks on the house

because

we know the club owner. This

is his wife, we are her

privileged friends. We drink

and eat for free and pretend

we mean something

to no one.

Girls, girls, girls,

on fire, out to impress

each other with

shoes and a purse

and nothing to say.

It was q & a for me

“What do I think of a thousand dollar

pair of shoes?”

I had so much to say

and no one who cared to listen

and a few “she’s a writer”

so hence the nods

at my philosophy of designer

shoes and purse

and where is the value

in that? to look good

and panic that someone

stepped on you or spilled their

drink and the world has to stop

because they are alive.

I am ready for the exit

but first I need a few more drinks

to discuss how I prefer to spend

a thousand bucks on books

and you won’t catch me dead

in those

the only way is to buy them for

me

so I told them my stories of how

I feel when I walk

when I talk

and who knew that jealousy

is so ingrained in some souls

that they hate me first

and then such love and compliments

that fakery fuckery has arrived to visit again.

Oh, yes, who cares my phone cracked

life is beautiful, the lights are purple

the women are complimenting each other

and then whispering the truth.

On the drive home, my friend turns

to me and says,

“you’re just an oddity

no one understands

or gets you

so don’t get angry

because they just don’t.

I’ve known you for years

and I get it

but that girl who said

she knew you but never met you

she knew where you lived

she knew all about you

and you, shaking her hands

nice to meet you.

She said, nice to finally meet you.”

I swear the night just got weirder

and stranger

couldn’t wait to get the fuck

out and stop defending

my philosophy

my Nine West shoes

my vegan food

my new hair

my books

my poems

my art

I need to seriously be drunk

to face society girls.

 

 

 

 

Your language

Language is wine upon the lips. – Virginia Woolf

You made me reckless

and I loved that about you

for

you are like the star in the sky

I can never reach. There is always

that one

that catches your eye

my grasp can only reach

the forest. The sky is

another space I will one day

fall from as I do in my dreams.

Drink wine from my glass

head out into the party with me

St-Laurent is still trendy

you just have to know

where to go

my friends are waiting with

their high heels and Facebook quotes

ready to take my picture and tag me

as I so abhor

as they ask “Do you mind?”

Yes, I fucking do. 

Jack White once told me

“the heart never ages”

and we spoke for a while

but he hates to be famous

and he hates to conform

as most artists do.

I storm through my messages

ignoring most

reading yours over

until I delete

forget over this wine

giggle like school girls

wait for our husbands at night

to wake us up

from our drunken stupor

late night cab rides.

When the fuck are you going to grow up?

Never

That’s what I fucking love about you.

Your lips still taste like wine. 

Il est beau

If I thought I knew what I was getting into, then I would have
stayed home
and watched the Habs.
I waited in some kind of line
as eyes followed me
around the room
but I wasted my time
searching for names
that no longer existed.
She told me she lost her job,
do I see anyone from
elementary.
He just stared.
She said nothing.
She kissed me.
My footprints were
still in the hallway.
He wanted me
Now, then, and tomorrow
still.
Blinding high school glare
I haven’t changed much, her eyes
reflect.
He just stares
and I listen for the bell
but it doesn’t ring.
I hate how time
stands still
in the same high
school. How faces change
but feelings rarely do.
I hate how looking good
is a fatal flaw.
I skipped some teachers
classes
went to class
under the influence
and typed Jim’s poetry
120 words a minute
back when typewriters
were our computers.
So many secrets
in the lockers
so many hand written notes
in my crystal box
so many kisses
in the fields
and now the circle
continues.
En plus, il est beau,
she said.
Besides the marks and the sweetness
and the good heart, he is handsome, she said.
You should be proud.