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.

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Live my life

I want to be me but you keep on repeating

how my world is not yours. I want to be  you

but you keep on explaining how hard

that could be, what with my wings

and my brains in the sky.

I want to be someone else

just for a day

these blues in me

keep singing.

I bust out once in awhile

and go to the hotel

and stare at the window

and wonder what happened to us.

It’s three o’clock in the morning

and you’re actually sleeping

through my existential crisis.

Again? yes, again and again

I knew you could never handle me.

Why do people who say

“I love you” want you to change

in ways that are not in your nature?

I say “I love you” and can define why.

I love the flaws and imperfections.

I see the world in an absurd way

in a theatre with the playwrights

who made it so. Ionesco weeps

with me too. We all discuss the marvels

of how hating someone

is still loving someone.

I don’t know how you came

to use sex and art as your bullets.

I caught them in my mouth and with my pen

and looked at you to see the love in your eyes

but it wasn’t there.

I still love you though.

I know I don’t deserve it.

I’m wicked now.

A human weeping willow tree,

churning poems for no money.

If only we could be rich

off of words.

If only you cared for me

more than what you claim.

Loving me is difficult I know.

I thought you would smash all the pictures

along my wall

but you only added your photo there

and now I stare at emptiness.

I embrace cupid

and this horrible frightening love.

 

A poem about your back

I wrote the five letters of your name

in cursive writing with my fingertips.

I wrote the rest of the poem

in my head. It never comes to me

in the moment. It comes after

in riptides and synonymous with

coffee drinks. It arrives at my front

gate and whispers how you made

me feel cherished and adored.

I wrote in my head, on your back,

I love you, for showing me

your eyes, your thoughts, your touch

for having me

in your life. It is not even the

hours that matter, but what you

do with the ones that do, with the

silence and the words. Nothing

is something. When you ask me

what am I thinking? I am thinking

about how I do not want time

to cheat me, but it seems to

never stop banging with truth.

I felt your closeness

inside me.

And even laying together under

the sheets with no sun

brought the heat of Venus

into our hearts.

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Blue

Distance grows

months become seconds gone by

I see you so rarely now

I forget your likes

and dislikes

or at least I pretend I do

till sanity slaps me

reminds me of your play on words

and

allure.

 

 

 

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.

Hoodie

keep your hoodie on
stare into my extreme distance
yet with a touch of a button
I could be right in your trance
I like the rhythm of your hands
as they soothe my ruffled words
my constant negative off shore lands
at your doorstep along with my birds
cannot go far without them
you in my head
lay me sweetly on your turned hem
adore the French, Italian, Spanish food
as you feed me their pots of stories
each lover unique Yet obscure
ready to lure
you in
intrigue you with secret recipes
aren’t we too old for that game so untrue
to our claimed values
of pop culture phenomena, the blues.
Enter my booth made of church wood pew
tell me everything and all that I knew
without a glance
three times I heard your voice in my fated chance
to see how your breath tastes in mine
to let the suds dissolve in their own time.
Nothing is certain
draw the red velvet curtain
just kiss me
under the sycamore tree
.
You have all the beauty inside you

if only you could open your heart

and see how
.
Sunday is meant to be with your lover

and if you can make any other day

a Sunday you have the magic

in you.