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.
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.
I suppose when you think about someone’s life
and its variables
you can make an equation
as to its sum of all matters.
I am not a pianist, or a mathematician,
I do not even claim to be a writer. I feel
inadequate at the most. When I think my
worst work is my best, I still
close my eyes. I listen to
instrumental music to block
out all lyrics, all of his poems
that keep me grounded. He says
I am everything and nothing
in the same sentence. I can
turn to dust on all the footsteps
yet taken. Turn around from the
walk on the beach
and enter the snowstorm of the
year. Play you a song you will
never forget. Write you a poem
you will read over again.
Not from a book, or a blog,
but from my heart.
The ones that make you
think more than you ever
wanted to. The poem that
blends into the next.
The one that refers to the
same person you never
forget.
All these paths
lead me to the same
entrance.
we were just walking
when in a tiny entrance
I saw this magic
before me
I knew i had to go
my friends didn’t need
that much begging
they knew from my expression
it was meant to be.
And they weren’t
disappointed.
Last song
crosses all my lines.
The Orpheus Theatre is beautiful too. Reminds me of the Olympia de Montreal.
Sometimes the most spontaneous moments
are the ones that you never forget.
That’s me and my bbf’s (b for bitches) since grade 7.
Yup they like when I make up
acronyms.
Or when I impress them
with my brilliance
or confuse them
with my ditziness.
But Brattle Book store
left me
with rare books and ghosts.
It’s a level of consciousness
artists feel
that feeling when dead poets
reach you
and you bolt
out of bookstores
for air.
Live in the moment
or
don’t live at all.
when you’re called fucking Canadians at a pub
you know how to shrug
with some Montreal flair.
I don’t care who can see
who is blind to the truth
who sees the truth behind the lies
who reads my poems
who skims through them
like a magazine article.
I don’t care who loves art
or museums
as long as you
and I
are in a deep penetrating love
on our knees together
equal
unequal
steady
unsteady
alive
dead
just some pounding love drunk poetry
tipsy on your mid-day words
late night fucks
early morning pick me ups
drag your ass
over here
and kill me to death
under your poetic umbrella
while I lay here
waiting
on the same channel
change my road
lead me to your address
we’re all fucking psychos here.
In the darkness of the day I can feel his arms around me
as far as he is
he can duck and press the gas medal
quickly, urgently, not even a riot
could stop him from ringing my bell;
he can come up close to me
and kiss me with his fluent tongue,
charming words,
hot love escaping his pores
as he races to see what the fuck
I am up to today
with my theory of the day mood swings
poetry readings in crumpled sheets
playlists of old tracks of my heart
that still make me pounce
on the front line of his soul.
Every city sinks at one time or another
every colour turns blue
shades of grey
are just a fantasy
memories float on the river
of my small city
(who the hell collects postcards besides me
who the hell cares for seashells
in the middle of winter).
One hundred pages left in my galley
but I have to check on my sanity
from time to time
escape the characters in my head
that live and breathe
without my knowledge
never wanting their story to end.
It is never enough to love for eternity
not even possible
to have one love
all a mere rock on the bottom of the ocean
no one can see.
Ready for him
when he is
determination
should be written on his sleeve.
The only lovers left are the poets
creating a secret world
among the appearances
of the living
who often
seem dead. I am so alive.
Come from your frustration
and enter my highway
park
drive
and stay a while.
Write another poem.
Wrap you up in my lovely lies
lay you down in horrible highs
deceive you with myself
bands that have that
sound
like The Pains of Being…
you could probably fill in the gaps
know how to walk backwards
in a forward world.
I meant to lie only to the
tiny parts that screamed out
but know you’re in
in on my conspiracy
my own warped way
when lights go off
as dark as the forest
the deep ocean
with only the moonlight
guiding me
the place where I recognize you
lower case magic
upper case rules.
So many layers
you can never imagine
how many lights I have shut
how many still flicker
how many highways divide
or
snowstorms collide
you can hear me in the silence
it’s a rare gift
passed on from generation
to generation
but only the few have both
the lock and key
sometimes there is only one
without the other
but when I was high
I saw them both.
Who needs sleep
when you have all this love
these dance moves to show
how I dip
how we fly
I am living in another world
while parked
waiting for
the doors of my dreams
to open.
Head pounding after drink
binging
creating beautiful worlds
to let in the innocent
and their dreams.
Midnight driving from
the west of the island
to the east
from north to south
listen to GNR to remind
myself of how
the Big O almost burnt
and I was chasing shots
that night
watching from above
always being your angel
saving you from dying.
I see how you adore me
when you look at me
if it wasn’t for me
you’d still be searching,
you stopped when you
found me
and want every piece
you can’t have.
It’s funny how
I see the highway lights
glaring the truth
the voices
creating the poems
under the tunnel.
Skipping conversations
because the poem is
in my blood now
don’t care about yellow
lights, speed limits
all I feel are the words
thirsty
for their paper
to land, to penetrate,
to feel alive
as bodies would
could
and needs take over
this mellow night
of headache
sexy legs you wrap
around yours
like an early Christmas
present.
Do we need a list?
A list of what not to do
to lose a lover.
I will be under my blanket
the rest I leave to
your imagination.
All of it
for it is
and will always be
a mystery.
The delight that is you
leaves me to dwell in your hands
for a while
reflect on your concerned smile
keep the distance real
for
in real time it means nothing
to others
who know naught-
how feelings
can eat you up alive
in a non-existent reality
how this reality
can determine another.
Daydreaming scenarios
written out in storybooks
drunk poems
with visuals
for poets like us
that need more
than mere words.
I could go on for
another more decade
begging zero needs
laughing at obscure art.
I am somewhere in that painting
my hair touched my waist
then
and my cheeks were fuller
pouring draft Boréal rousse beer
in the heart of Old Montreal
buying original art décor, café au lait peinture à la main
Jewellery, Indian soapstone
going to lofts
discussing art as the paintings
were lined up against the wall
windowsill
atop beds
and Mark & I came up with
great ideas
he illustrates my poems;
Kent showed us
how art and reality blend,
signed D-Tox.
Paid five hundred dollars
for a snapshot of my life
in another remote time.
Somehow loyalty
means everything again
in that rustic pub
where we met singers
artists, drunks
exchanging my portrait
for a night of drinking.
He drew a charcoal of me
he poured out his heart
and soul
in that empty glass.
I was always a good listener.
Too busy living to write
anything down.
Now it’s all hazy
like a lost dream
of
Youth.
At least I have the painting.
(I wish I had more time to tell you how I love full sentences. I wish you could hear me when I sleep, but you’re out cold. I wish you understood me better, but as complicated as I seem, this is how the opposite is true).
I wish I didn’t see all the
grammar errors
I wish I could over-
look my inner child
and ignore the brilliant
colors of the sky.
I wish I didn’t have
this sixth sense
that tells me to run
or this rebel child
that wants me by her side.
I wish you were
in my paradise
when I was alone.
I wish that your voice
didn’t affect me
or your hands didn’t
grasp my waist
so firmly.
I wish your eyes wouldn’t wander
but my wishes
are all at the bottom
of the well
with rusty coins
and lost hope.
I cannot stop
the sadness
from ringing my bell
and letting herself in;
she has a way
of clearing out the alcohol cabinet.
I wish I could sail
on your boat,
but, just as the moon
has phases
so does love,
so do I
as so do you.
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