At it again

I woke up early to collect data for poets

that know how to write but not how to read.

I woke up from dreaming about you,

to pointed fingers and mirrored poetry.

There is this effect of how the sun

reminds me of cool sand gliding through

my fingers on a black beach.


I lie down

and stare at the blue sky in awe. Nineteen

years old, dark tight skin, golden reflections

in my hair, I was a brunette then, pure olive

love. One foot is on a rock, flat belly

yellow striped bikini, puffy eyes behind

liquored nights. You’re an ellinitha

the Greek men would say and admire.


I write poetry for fun apparently, but you

do not know how it hurts. I submit to be

recognized and sell my soul some more,

but you do not know how the perfect amount

of ice, vodka and cranberry can knock out

the slips. I forgot how to type to remember

how to think. I hope you understand

all the secrets can only be spilled

over eyes on eyes

feet under the table

hands holding a glass of envy

it is the ways of the social media underworld,

the selected few

who have the perfect tattoo,

smile, angst, whiskey breath,

it is the epitome of everything

we are against.

Trust me, you are better off

not knowing and judging

from afar.


Thank you for taking the picture.

Anytime, he says and winks

in that flirting, I’m on vacation way

where nothing matters

but the temperature.


I am at it again,

the addiction rising.

The morning coffee stirring,

the need to find all the information

at my fingertips, except how

to get to that sky again. IMG_9615


Il est beau

If I thought I knew what I was getting into, then I would have
stayed home
and watched the Habs.
I waited in some kind of line
as eyes followed me
around the room
but I wasted my time
searching for names
that no longer existed.
She told me she lost her job,
do I see anyone from
He just stared.
She said nothing.
She kissed me.
My footprints were
still in the hallway.
He wanted me
Now, then, and tomorrow
Blinding high school glare
I haven’t changed much, her eyes
He just stares
and I listen for the bell
but it doesn’t ring.
I hate how time
stands still
in the same high
school. How faces change
but feelings rarely do.
I hate how looking good
is a fatal flaw.
I skipped some teachers
went to class
under the influence
and typed Jim’s poetry
120 words a minute
back when typewriters
were our computers.
So many secrets
in the lockers
so many hand written notes
in my crystal box
so many kisses
in the fields
and now the circle
En plus, il est beau,
she said.
Besides the marks and the sweetness
and the good heart, he is handsome, she said.
You should be proud.