The ticket

I said,

stop the car, I need to vomit.

What’s wrong?

Must be something I ate.

I ate words.

His words

for breakfast

lumch and a québécois supper.

I told the police officer.

I never drive down this fucking street.

I wanted to be thrown in jail

but she let me go. Who knew

that being a bitch really worked?
I can’t sleep well.

I feel like I can’t write anymore

and I fear my secrets have a way

of becoming my only company.
What do you think Simone would do?

Is everyone knocking on his door?

Why should I care?

The line must be long

intense with chatter.

I struggle with letting go

holding on too tight.

I kept chains and locks

for him

but he cut through them

with penstrokes, cockstrokes

brushstrokes, I made up words

with flair and desire.

The full moon is in my heart

beating inside my chest

where he once rested.
There is someone else for him

so many lovelies

all colors, nationalities,

pageant show beauties

all for him.

She has brand new shoes

and purses to match

his ego.

I stumble around bookshelves

wander through poetry sections

take a look

at legends and death

peeking under glass bottles

from the wrong side.
Miss, be careful out there, it’sslippery. 


I thought it would be different this time.

I thought he could love me

for the right reasons

but a million poems

cannot make up

for all the lies.

I will stomp the grapes

write my name on the bottle

and dedicate

a book to him

so he could throw it out

and never know me again.

Drive carefully.




Saint-Laurent

I walked with my turquoise stone

in the tiny pocket of my purse

for good luck, the witch said.

I sat at that cafe and you never showed up

I thought perhaps it was the needy poem

of fluff I left in your backpack

when you were looking at that other girl

with long blonde hair and bright blue eyes.

He will wait for you, the palm reader said.

It was a cafe where they played old movies

you said, Scarface is playing,

and recited the lines like poetry.

I am impressed with the oddest sentences

the ones most hate, the ones they can never

grasp with a one time read.

I wrote this for you, he said, but don’t read 

it in front of me. I sat on my bed and unfolded it

gently, slowly, prolonging the anticipation

like a perfect orgasm.

I read it about ten times until the words

remained memorized in my mind

for days, weeks, years

even now I could recite them.

Would you like another refill? 

I stared at the cute waitress and said,

Non, la facture s.v.p

At that time, there were no phones

to stare into to pretend you were

not stood up by the love of your life.

At that time, I stared at the empty

chair and cried inside for the

injustice of not being loved

enough, for being just another

girl

in his long days of bliss.

I missed his funeral

and every time I walk by that cafe

on Saint-Laurent that turned into a second

hand book store, that turned into a lounge,

that turned into a boutique,

that turned into Second Cup

I recite his poem

in my head like a mantra

and nothing ever changes

ever.

 

 

 

messed up

you mess up my head with poems

fuck up my life with songs

read my thoughts before

i grasp them. squeeze them

into verses. wet my skin

with some type of glory

from within. i think i have

lost the way to the rotary,

that fork in the road i

evade, that street that

blocks me from driving.

he kisses me in the dark,

turns on the lights

to see the shimmer

of my skin. he is in love

again, with every

part of my soul that glistens.

he exits and enters

like a king. i danced

just for him, twirled

curtsied and sang

just for him. and he

said he loved

my voice, when that

wasn’t what i wanted

him to notice at all.

he’s distracted with

soul mates. i’m exploding

on paper.

locked the door

and set my

soul on fire

with words.

no one here gets out alive, i joked.

screaming from my bed,

you’re fucking crazy.

pour me some vodka-

my son laughed

and hasn’t let go of Jim’s book

ever since I brought it home.

I’m trying to write a poetry book

that will make you cry

at least once.

I shout.

but everyone is locked in

their own room

and my coffee cup

is out of vodka.

To follow

In the centre of my universe I found you awake
up past midnight as usual
driving down highway 15 reaching
centre ville
and vinyl record stores on Bishop

so I followed you

all out of Bukowski again
twitter has made him popular
he says stroking his beard like I don’t know much
I shrug my shoulder and smile
don’t know much about that
I read him before indie
before coffee
and now I let him rest
he’s super tired
with your young generation and your attention span
you look familiar
he says
No I don’t
and I ignore him
before he talks about car crashes
National news
superheroes and writers.

I lost you on de la Montagne
where hotels will become condos with shops
and memories rubble.
I wanted to follow you
to a new uprising
but the ” manifestations”
students banging pots
took over the laureate prizes;
when I was a student I banged other things,
spoke about philosophy
across from Concordia
and made love with words
like I always do.
My hair touched my ass
my poems well hidden
and no one followed me.
How things change
yet still
stay the same on this
emotional ride lost on one way streets
so far from your world order
and parallel highways
but I’ll still follow you
anywhere
except in my dreams.

Money or your mind

Bust open the door to get to a pen and paper

coat thrown on the floor

heart long gone as we were

shut it all out; sounds, shouts, baby come here

I have a story to tell you

as he rubs me hard and grabs hold of my fear

lay it under the tires

drive directly through the reds

in that danger zone, stop at nothing

but my clothes off

as wives and husbands have a fling

a hash-tag love affair

eating supper and hiding in bathrooms

over and over kissing all the colors in the rainbow

to get to your pot of gold.

I’m buying karma beads

gifts to my bitchy self

turquoise stones and empty pink champagne bottles

you stand back and watch me fall

pull my hair back for my drunken New Year’s Eve nightly crawl

drinking shots with no hands, knees on the floor

I could put on quite a show

dancing Greek like a pro.

Belly dancing whore, shaking hips

to your wet lips,

can you forget me?

Looks like you already have, I see.

You’re so quick,

another pretty face to eat you alive

with your southern charm

while your thousand dollar suits keep you away

from my kind of harm.
Idiotic days with titles

to remind me of how to love

or write

but I need no such prompts

pick up a pen and fight

strip to Marvin Gaye

past midnight.

You know I mean what I say

I’m stubborn that way

but the way you caress my hair

stretch out your touch out of nowhere

rub my leg with a drink in one hand.

Did you forget your money or your mind?

leave it all behind

to be free for a while

entranced by your poker smile.

I’m not like that

face it, I’m a grown up brat

writing stories

to breathe down the street

my arm in yours

watching old black and white movies

repeating lines

you’ve told me

without even realizing

how the signs were everywhere that day,

and I saw how you looked at me

when I crossed my legs.

I’ve been writing in my notebook, you see

where there are no eyes

upon bitchy me.

Take

I want to give you what you ask for. I truly do

but all my shopping bags are full. Nothing for me

to buy here. No romance, no hope, no futile essence

sold in jars. I want to write you the most beautiful

love poem ever written, but that’s already been done

before.

Instead take my heart, I kept it wrapped up for you,

untouched, warm, full of soft beats, effects, sky dives

just for you. Yes, you wanted it and I say, take it.

I might write otherwise, but believe no poet’s words

until you kiss them off their lips. Believe nothing

until you read it in my eyes. Romance lives inside us

before the coffee, the sunrise, the putting on of the bra,

the makeup, the razor

it’s lying there

waiting for the lover’s alarm

to wake up

and pour some love

some hard sex

into its depths.

It’s so vast, you see, so structured

so enigmatically built that no one can

know the truth. I want you to love me

for all I am, but all you see is what I let you,

and all you give me are fragments.

Take it all or nothing at all. I live differently

think inside my head too much, love

without a thought, dream into a river

and float above the clouds.

This is the only way I can survive

before you wake up and tell me

how beautiful you are and special

before you pound your love at me

I am thinking that this rapture this title

of a poetry book

is just that.

Poems for hopeless fools like us.

Full moon in Virgo

It could have started and ended the same way

but I keep on telling him

(as he holds me close and 

I smell his skin)

you don’t have to read my poems

or my book

to get into my head

so he reads the first ten pages

and brings the air

between us closer.

I see you in there

yet I don’t.

Forget the bloody moon

but what are the chances of it being my full moon

Isn’t that the title of your poetry book

I never published it

oh, I thought that’s what you do

just kiss me and don’t think too much

that’s my domain

forget the questions

remember only the answers.

The air is so thin now.

I can’t read you anymore.

The light followed me for days

to guide me to an empty place

to all parts of this town

as books fell out of my purse

to land on your thighs

it’s sexy to write a poem

when everyone thinks you’re not.

It’s sexy to kiss you

in front of strangers

when everyone thinks otherwise.

Weak night in February

I misunderstand the way words slide by

and land in your gut

I forget how sensitive you are

under all that armor.

You might see me

as a lost artist

(why the fuck you taking so many naps today?)

or not one at all

(you are so fucked up)

or a woman with too many books

(another one, you’re really out of control)

instead of shoes of every color.

I may appear hard

cold

then the warmest softest glow

emanates like the moon

(you are amazing)

But what notion is this?

Why are you sleeping again?

Take some of my weakness

between your hands

and feel it

at five am

on a full moon

running from window to window

to stare at the strength

drive me to finish my other book.

So I read you, you talk to me,

you tell me you are a true artist

and I know how poets see past

the brick walls.

I repeat nothing

only to myself

over and over

like a prayer for the dead.

Pile up the outfits

give them away

delete the words

soothe the soul

with Depeche Mode playlists.

He always thinks I need to be saved

but perhaps

I am doing the saving.

So melodramatic

soap operas have nothing on us

and I have never met a therapist

I liked

so avoid the phone calls

file up my cabinets

with antique manuscripts

and a handful of pens

read me

read me not

save me

save me not

hate me

hate me not

love me

love me not.

You say too much or too little

I shut off my engine

migrating and hibernating

always doing something to stay in

the present.

Write me

write me not

I have nothing to do

with that fucked up myth

of the muse.

And I don’t believe everything I read

just the parts

that are for me.