Timeless

Strange how connections are made

without touch and once that happens

they are sealed like a letter you wrote

and sent. Delivered.

You know how art makes

us unwind into artists and

breaks the glass. You understand

how easily I can fall into you now.

You have concrete proof

and not just poetry.

You were so inviting with

your attention to every detail

and even though I jump on beds

you managed to make me still.

Timeless.

I know how time stops now.

Must I say it? Yes, with you.

It’s romantic and idealistic

I know,

but you made me honest.

The only time I bit my lip

is when you asked me how I was drunk.

I let all my walls done

and I become dangerous.

Dark and witty. I may do

all the things you desire.

I forget who I am.

I may kiss you in public

and other dirty deeds.

 

Layers of my

clothes were removed.

I whispered something

in your neck

and my hair

got caught everywhere.

Romance is on your lips

and even if you

wanted to rip off all my

clothes

you didn’t.

I am  vulnerable

you know my secret now.

 

I am not that tiny

but you made me feel

so much I can’t come down

from the sky.

Not sure if I thanked you

for dropping by.

But

thank you.

 

 

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Chapbook

Hello my dear readers & writers,

I am severing ties with my publishers and hence have to sell my chapbook old school. You can dm me on social media

Facebook, Twitter or Instagram

and I will sign & mail you a copy of my limited edition chapbook.

I appreciate your support for poetry and my work. I never thought I would ever publish my work. I thought my notebooks would just pile up in my closet like old neglected clothes.

This chapbook would not have been possible without your belief in me. I doubt my ability every day and this is my writing process before you.

This chapbook is raw and unedited, a preview of my poetry book. These poems will not be in my poetry book.

Thank you again.

 Chrissy

Satellites

I arrived late to the party

waited two and a half hours

for a man to never show up.

The music was lame so I made

my way over to the DJ. His name

was Dany and we hit it off.

I remembered him from

a rave in Old Montreal when

I danced all night with strangers.

People remember me more

and stop me for being outrageous

but I am not a DJ, I tell them.

I am a teacher. A nod of the head

and I am labelled.

You don’t look like a teacher.

 

You don’t look like a human. 

 

No one seems to get my humor.

Sometimes not even myself.

This is what being lonely means.

One line sentences that turn

into a poem or a seed

for tomorrow’s poem.

I was supposed to write about

satellites, but it seems

I cannot stop writing about

how you are never

where I am. I imagine

the satellites are never

pointed in our direction

and when they are,

I miss my connection.

 

The DJ told me he wrote a book

about the genealogy of his African

tribe and turns out he is

Michael Jordan’s cousin.

I confessed I wrote a few books

and dabble in poetry. I confessed

my sins to a DJ and maybe he

will write a poem about me as I am

writing about him.

 

You look like a poet. 

 

Not sure what to make of any

of the poetry readings

I have all the intention

of attending. Not sure

I could ever be what

anyone expects.

I disappoint myself

the most.

 

You look upset.

 

 

 

 

Coming up for Air

You dragged me to the show at Corona Theatre

telling me, wait, just wait

and I waited, but nothing happened. I made

up a lot of poems in my head,

of how much I hated their sound in 1997

and it could have been so much of a better

year if you never bought me those tickets.

 

Please do  not remind me of Andre

who gifted me Ratt tickets and ditched

me so I ran to the mosh pit with my brother

and flannel shirts weren’t in style yet.

 

the boys like you, he laughed, buying me another

round of beer at sixteen.

 

The energy reminded me of how

I loved every ounce of your being.

When you approached me, when

you didn’t. When you sat next to me,

when you didn’t. When you fell for me,

when you didn’t. The music aroused me

as you knew it would, but Nina Simone

kept playing in the background of your

old apartment building on the corner of

Jeanne-Mance, right near the hotel

where I lost my virginity at.

You rolled your

eyes at me, like I was just another girl.

 

you’re the one, you said, you have to 

be the mother of my children. 

 

I suppose those are the reasons

you got down on one knee

imagining this is what I wanted.

 

I took the subway to my American Lit

class, it was starting in twenty minutes.

Fuck, I was late again.

 

The professor invited me over.

God, how complicated

everything seemed.

I should write a thesis.

I should give him a blowjob.

I should become a writer.

I should teach.

I should eat his enchilada

it was Mexican night

for the grad students.

 

No, I’m an undergrad. 

 

All the while, there were no cell phones,

no text messaging.

Just me and the grad students

and Mexican night.

So I sat on this bed

and had an interesting conversation

with the professor’s son.

He was eleven.

I slipped out the backdoor.

 

Ain’t got no smokes, I sang to myself.

 

I come up for air once in a while,

most of the time

I write in my head.

 

 

 

Hibernation

Your scars were open to my caress

as we travelled the world with choirs

trailing us. I swear I could hear every

song you ever played for me. We were

never inactive, our depression

enveloping us as our hearts beat

too fast when we approached

each other. Our body temperature

spiked, our breath quickened

and there was no hibernation

in our bodies when every word

you spoke captivated me.

I cannot believe you saved

my voice.

I cannot believe you kissed

me in the middle of the day.

These things happen at night,

under the canopy of the stars.

You make every time blend

into one.

It is easy for you to love

effortlessly, while I evaluate

the proximity of the moon

in accordance to my natal chart.

Every instinct I feel,

is aimed directly at you.

I care about your safety now.

 

And that is how I mend

my own scars. 

 

In The Waiting Room

The  French ladies were decades older

discussing chargers

and who to call after the hospital. The man

with the forearm tattoos was making love

to his phone. An older gentleman actually

had a book in his hand. We were the only two

holding books instead of phones. I looked up

to see the color of their eyes and the

aches in their walk. Nicole walked into

the wrong waiting room, her husband chuckling

as everyone giggled, excluding me. The fear

of Alzheimer’s slowly whipping its pain

at the back of my mind. I mixed up my mess,

but clearly being Greek-Canadian has no

privilege in a French society.

 

Vous-etes de quelle origine? 

 

Does it even matter? Why do politics

constantly devour our French Quebecois

existence. At Universite de Montreal,

I was the only anglophone,

wore my soul to the ground. I shaved

off my humanity, bled Allophone stories,

hung out at Andrea’s Jewish Hampstead home

and ate matzo balls. She was that perfect

bilingual student, can never detect if her

accent was French or English. I was done

with my heart, my love, my studies,

but I went back to school. I always go

back to school, too many degrees

that mean nothing, but hang in unison

in framed beauty. I take no chances on

the things I should have, but my wall

displays something that means something

to someone. Damned to question why

I never left. In damnation, in this city

that breeds devils with no horns. Hate

to stay with all these diseases ensuing my

health.

 

Yes, Dr. D, I checked my breasts again

and breathe easier.

 

Yes, Sherbrooke 666

 

I walked down University,

turned Robert-Bourassa, turned down the museum

for a job.

Turn up the volume on Nirvana. It was

1993. Taught at Mont-St-Louis, made the students

recite Shakespeare and modern romance clips.

I made them shut-up for sixty seconds

to honor Kurt Cobain.

One of them said, I should be a stripper.

Oh, the things you remember when

you are in purgatory.

 

Waiting for my name to be called

and the stares, oh the stares,

oh, the internal chatter,

I feel it all.

Took a five hour nap.

Forgot to cook,

forgot the kids

forgot the husband.

When I woke up

it was dark,

and I was still alive.

 

D’origine grecque, I replied.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chasing Wanderlust

The most important part of poetry

is how it makes you travel through time,

place. I have my spacesuit on ready

to touch stars. meet me at the ocean.

you’re so ridiculous, did you see i did the dishes for  you

love me now

fill up my glass

oh, how i love you now

the way you come through the door

and kiss space with two grand steps.

telling me how my beauty is so deep

even you have to dig

that’s why you love me

because every day i give you the shovel.

living and knowing you has been the best part

of my life

how could i have done anything without you?

this is my poetry

how quotes mean nothing

until i whisper them in your ear.

remember when we went to Puerto Plata

and i wore those fuck me boots

and short shorts? remember the party

in the basement with strangers

everyone grabbed our asses

we laughed and touched each other

in the back seat of the cab?

we keep on chasing wanderlust

in the front seat of sanity

with our seat belts off.

speaking foreign languages spreading love

through sand castles,

it’s the 70’s

and my foot went right into the Tupperware

when the car crashed and our necks snapped.

 

you know the grammar rules

now try to apply them

to your life.

 

 

Sixteen

There was a time in the 80’s when I was sixteen

and Michael was my everything

while I was his nothing. And even years

later every time I’d see him he pretended

i was nothing. from nothing to something.

from something to nothing. i call him an asshole

now. even my daughter knows his name. it’s not

a fucking secret how i loved him. you probably never

get over a love. and when i left or you left or whatever

happened because it’s all a blur, for the second or third

or fourth time and i ran into you on the street and you told

me to stop my car. you always wanted me back

every time I ran you ran faster. you married me

we had kids

i had red roses and an Alfred Sung gown.

Once I met a man, it was brief, maybe twenty minutes

or so, once he told me how my beauty

marked him. another time a man wrote

a book for me, he wanted my blood

as his pen. sucked me dry out of my silence.

created some Greek fucking muse of abuse

and left me with ashes on my cheeks.

It’s true that you never forget a love.

It’s true that you love your wife.

It’s morality to want it all and smoke in the hall.

i’ve lived it. you have no idea how I live.

I’m an artist and he supports my locked up frustrations.

my midnight madness

even if he isn’t one, he loves my crazy.

But you, you get all of me

in a brown package

delivered straight to your heart

and soul.

and you open me up gently.

just be sure

to not mix me up

with your other soul mates

and i will do the same.

my eyes and hair haven’t changed much

everyone says i look the same. IMG_7644

every love

is you.

Tear me

Tear me apart

rip me into pieces

throw me to the wind

and bury me with poems

no earth

no flowers

just words

in death

cover me with notes.

And this on the eve of your birthday

the time when you

left me for dead

at the steps of Aphrodite

swimming in a pool of ache.

C’mere and pull the covers off

stand tall next to my hips

and pour the earth

all over us.

I can take it all

deep

light

slow

fast.

in rhythms you’ve described

and found in dictionary meanings

it’s all been felt

before

from eras we once lived in

a thousand years ago.

remember my hues then?

they were just as devastating

for you.