Nothing

In death

people don’t disappear

they brighten up and write poems

on the other side of the sky

wait for you to decipher

their lines.

They bury the flowers

you planted and eat your leftover soup

even if living with the dead was hard

their life in your hands

is as comparable

as empty hands and brick walls.

Woodnotes

Last night I fell asleep

before you came home.

I dragged the dog out for a walk

but he hates the cold as much as I do.

He pissed all over the kitchen floor,

he despises being alone.

He ate snacks before bedtime

wallowing in loneliness.

You wanted to have sex

while I had creative writing on my mind.

My blue journal sprawled between

my thighs,

I want my head there, you said.

My pens took precedence

Patience was playing from my phone

I ignored you. I fought your lights.

You take it personal, but I’m a writer

and you know that I can’t interrupt

my flow. Sex came and went,

making love is for another lifetime.

I took the kids out for dinner

ate avocado rolls

veggie burgers

St.Louisbourg burger

with onion rings.

I said, it’s hard to be an artist

to be in a relationship,

I am preparing them

for the heartache, but it’s

Too late.

If the one you’re with

does not understand what a woodnote is

or what defines you.

It’s a natural musical tone

or the song of

some bird

no one cares about trees

nature is becoming extinct.

The young and old have their heads

filled with useless information

school shootings

young wolves writing poems

academia taking the back seat

poets knocking on your door

I am locked in;

dead children

another statistic.

Here we are sleeping together

never at the same time

chaos in our fear.

Writing prompt: word: Woodnotes

#februaryfalls18

Drowning in Carnations

You said write a poem

about New York moments

we almost had in our arms.

I ignore you

only focus on the times

we had;

the walk hand in hand on Ste-Catherine street

the xmas gifts I gave you

in April—

you forget everything I remember,

that is how memory prevails

I could never be true to you.

I apologize for the past,

present, and dead future.

I apologize for being cruel

for changing when you could not.

You were not who I thought you were,

I wasn’t who you wanted me to be.

Bitterness is not changing

aging is ice skating on my dreams.

I held back

this is why I am not in muddy love.

I gave you corner bits

you wanted me whole.

I apologize for not loving you,

when I said I did.

At the time I felt love.

I am not a global liar.

I was drowning in red

carnations,

the smell suffocating me.

I wanted to melt in your arms

instead I was alone again

amongst five day old flowers

and a fake necklace story.

#januaryfalls18

Poets sleep awake

Photo by @dan_cretu from Instagram

 

I need my naps

I am a modern poet

in semi-deep sleep

never fully awake

dreaming about pre-raphaelites and the Rosettis

still thinking

in all the colors

you left behind.

I hug you close

yet you disappear

into orange clouds

and sunset lawns.

I want to forget

the long trails

to your heart

and climb up

your mountain

to kiss your eyes

to sleep.

Alas, I slumber awake.

Awake, yet not.

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.

 

 

 

 

Reasons

Some people love you

for all the right reasons

but you still go searching

for the wrong ones. The ones

that keep you up or

make you want to smoke up

all day. I never hide behind

a persona or a brand,

I am what I am

sometimes ditzy

sometimes brilliant

but always me. I woke up

in a Woody Allen movie

you can guess the title

but you know it’s dysfunctional

and petty yet narcissistic. I

liked talking to you

because you never interrupt

and this is such a quality

that I adore. I don’t have

scorn, I just love you

so I put up these walls

to protect myself

from how much I care.

I will never tell you,

of course, or maybe

if I’m drunk and Purple

Rain’s solo is on and you

turn to me and with your

eyes you tell me

how you never meant

to cause me any sorrow.

I know. I am smarter

than you think. I carry

you like e.e cummings poem

nowadays it’s modern:

in my phone, in my pocket,

but in another era

it was in my heart

and you,

you are invisible to everyone

but me. You are like

a magician

popping into my life

like the pills

I swallow.

I loved you and lost

you like

a true poet

and you can’t get

any closer to

art than a few hours

alone in a locked room.

Favim.com-florian-nicolle-art-beautiful-soul-emotion-573684

Metropolis

I mostly watched the singer

shake away his age

as it caught up with him

and nothing seemed to impress us

anymore besides one hundred dollar bills

and vodka shots. The youth left us

with our past. Our ten percent shot

at another night of bringing back the

days. All the drunken sailors

tried to get their hands on us

but we have to try so much more

now and drink so much less.

We’re getting sick of the city

and the dirt and the envy.

We’re getting tired of the puddles

and the hurt and the  five dollar coffee cups.

We’re getting upset with the fake news

the killing sprees, the hiding

of ugly humanity. I swear I want

to leave this place and never

look back. Never think about

what language I should speak

first, second guess someone’s

authenticity. I like the vast sky

the view from my window

on my quiet street, for years

I wanted to run from it

and chase the night. Now

I want to sit, enjoy my moments

and never look back to who

I used to be before I met you.

 

 

Lordy

I was thinking about

you are too loud

in my silence,

You’re a cross

between a rock star

and a supermodel

as if spring is in the air

when winter has a few songs

left to play.

I will admit

I do not fall into cliques

or rules

because I make my own

and burn them after.

 

I pull back for my own sanity.

 

Understand you are so wild

that no one

can hold you down for long.

 

Lordy, you are raw talent

combined force

of a drink and a coffee

of a poem

you read a thousand times

a song you can never

stop listening to

and the car crash

you relive over and over.

 

Lordy, Lordy

I make up words

sounds

and some people call me a savant.

 

Shut off the world news

and caress my disturbance

it cannot bear concealment.

 

I recited this to my husband

and he nods his head

because he was watching me write it down

shook his head

and said

you are so fucking gifted.

 

I am envious.

 

Don’t be, I said. I’d rather sit and watch

the news and not listen to

my mind

7 songs

I was reading Truly Madly Guilty

in my t-shirt and underwear

under the blankets

away from the -25 Montreal cold.

When seven songs arrived

at my doorstop

that killed me in a slow

musical dance.

Each one had a story to tell

like a poem

each voice had locks and keys

to a mysterious track

in Old Montreal, the one I would

stare at every day for seven years

while I worked at that bar.

I want to smoke now

kill my lungs

but it has been two

and a half years

I have not killed myself

that way. I could drink instead

and throw up my pain.

Your hand is somehow

in my heart and on my skin

and your territory

is not even near mine

yet magically you

appear at my doorstop

with seven songs

of heartache.

You light me up

and I believe again.

 

Sunday Musings

I woke up to write

before the coffee, the sunrise

it was words that fancied my skin

to forget my dream the moment my eyes opened.

What is it that makes you want a woman like me?

Your list is long

and everything you say

makes me reevaluate my life as if it were a spreadsheet.

I know you only want to use your knees to spread my legs

my arms

across yours. It is what I want.  I really do admire

how you are so quick to the point.

You do not miss a song, I know I hate to text

and read way too much. I am quiet and methodic

concentrate on the typewriter as if it loved me back.

How could we be here?

People dying from cancer, heart attacks,

and I’m aching for you. It is not a myth,

or a legend, it is how my heart wants

to be pressed up close next to yours

with no fabric between.

I am not anyone special, trust me.

If you lived with me, you would see

so best to elevate my status by

being silent of all my defaults

eliminate my errors

by not telling you anything

more. I will keep it for my poems

my books, my next life.

This is what writers do,

we beat ourselves up with words.

The difference between us

is distance

yet all the words

you refuse to share with me

I know them already.