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.

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.

Footsteps yet taken

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.

Impromptu

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.

deep penetrating love

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.

hip and cool

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.

Fresh face

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.

Mystery night

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.

Old Montreal

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.

A well

(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.