Every day is a different state of mind

do you see the difference in the sky?

It is a speckle of molecules that transpire

into dust, gone before you even see them.





A mere wait in line at the coffee shop

download the app from Starbucks and get

the free latte, get the royalty card and free

underwear, join the list and free eBooks,

upgrade your car, and free hubcaps.

No vacation this year?

I escape, I have my ways

concern yourself with your own child

your wife, your husband, I have nothing

to do with that boiling pot.

Sex is still hot because I make it that way

he can turn my body into a poem

his hands into sonnets

and I recite the masters

with ease and such fucking grace

you’d wish you were a fly on the wall.

I am no one that special

have been drilled to believe

just that

so all this means absolutely nothing.

I believe the poets more than the politicians.

One day I will write a poetry book

with a title that you will

truly understand

with some emotions

that will cascade on you

like a waterfall.

I will wait for you

as you drive by

I have been doing it for so long

as the sky watches me

in all its shades.


Gung Hay Fat Choy

I know he wants me to send him love

but all I got are fortune cookie sayings

on this snowy Montreal morning.

Last night I drove from grocery to grocery store

when others were watching prime time

cursing about this or that

until that tiny box of fortune

was pointed out to me

like a winning lottery.

Then  I landed in bed

edited in the nude

locked the windows and doors

played Bobcaygeon

for light inspiration

and I thought how no matter

how many times

I would see his face

it could never be enough,

but others await my class,

alarm had flutes,

tangerine dreams of green tea

oranges, firecrackers, incense

zen music, tai chi exercises,

tea party in my world

but at seven tonight and seven tomorrow

my Osheaga friends meet again

to go back in time

while this afternoon

at half past three

ultrasounds  mark

lies or truths

like the check-marks

I give every day.

I had being stuck in checkmate

I hate to skate

but he knows all the right moves

and all the right tunes

to start over




poem poetry

Phases of my Love

Phase one is the need
the desire
the undeniable fire.
Phase two is the meeting
the clash
the unlined life in a flash
truly unknown
the attraction to see
how we fit
knowing full well
there’s no doubt in it.
Typing like lovers
voices under covers
bellowing out needs
aches in our loins
for the dirty deeds,
my nipples awaiting your bite
my inner folds swollen in your might.
I give it all
(not sure why you chose me after all)
just a flirt, you are
but I know
see more even from afar.

Ready to fight then burst
finding me first,
broken seashells of the past,
you hold my soul
be kind
a treasure you may find.

Phase three
is, of course, full of sorrow,
for the life of tomorrow
always apart/ from the start/
cheesy love poems in our hearts,
being the same shape it’s true,
I can’t turn away from your shade of blue.
The dark calls me
your light brings me so close
I could feel you next to me
and your words
they are the foreplay
of savage hearts.

There are more phases to explore
more silence to ignore
but I need you to read this
because it’s for you.


Poems poetry


kiss me with your words
wake me with your hot coffee
I’ll drink it how you like
you know that about me
without ever seeing mine
drinking all that amount of wine
doing stupid things with you
winking at those who have no clue
what it means to wake up
wanting all you cannot have
so grabbing it in spurts
let the pain continue its hurt
I need to work on this and that
all I want is none of it
but you
doing what you said you would
knowing it’s all there is

in this winding, staircase mood
I’m in

she says, you’re like oil,
everything slides off of you,
but I know I’m not,
I let it stick
but I told her
the only way I can survive
is waking up to a brand new day
and starting over.
She said they should make
an SNL character on you
he agreed, laughing,
it would be a hit.
I didn’t know if I meant to say
that about the gerry curls
that got them both
in a whirl
but I think I like my version
They’d only botch me up
into some free-spirited
bohemian, barefoot,
impulsive, redhead,
reading Neruda
as bedtime stories,
forgetting the trash,
and sleepy eyed
poems under my pillow,
wine-drinking, trash-reading,
…(I will stop this now)
And that is just no
Story at all.

I was going somewhere else with this poem, but as it goes, who knows where it’s headed now.

I might start
another book.

Poems poetry

my gift

If I had a way of controlling the morning sun, I would rip it from the sky and place it just above your bed.

Upon opening your eyes, your first sight would be the colour of my love.