the mEp June 2015
june 30 2015
on a slightly bent ear, poots awoke,
promptly, at seven. one manhattan nights are for
a whirlwind of positive thoughts, quite
rare, as dreams of famous men, famous songs,
and famous french fries swirl about this
pre-caffeinated head. the coffee pot ticks. the
fish tank whirrs.
while i wait for this java to take hold, itchy
shoulder and all, i resist clicking on the
waking slowly, is one luxury i won't give up.
chew, poots, chew.
the house slowly gets transformed; this is the
week, which came early this year, from a 3 person
to a 5 person one, beds are slid up and down the
hallway, linens are pulled from remission, and
emotions run higher for her
and lower for him. which is a good thing.
june 29 2015
all is right in the mEp
it's a world where i can chew my cheeks
and my thoughts
until i want to.
there is left;
there is right;
but no wrong
perfection is achieved by hitting 'publish'
june 28 2015
one day, you've questioned all there
is to question;
loved all there is to love;
all there is to dream.
and in that moment, that very certain of moments,
you've got an answer for at least one enigma
and the answer is a cliche of cliches; a phrase
never before worthy of the scrutiny of an ENTJ,
nevermind the sanctity of it.
loving mother, knows best. yes, still, in 2015.
june 27 2015
time flies in late june; sun-washed
dates, one atop the next, slip, even in glowing
sunsets, through our grasp like sand.
one learns this, but even in adulthood, one finds
it hard to accept, that the longest days of the
year, pass like the finest of sand
june 25 2015
topsy turvy dreams and loudly ringing ears
on this half day on, half day off, thursday, like
tuesday, without a wednesday, and racing to sunday
trying to avoid saturday and friday at 1pm cuts
into the only friday of the week.
june 23 2015
there's one thing i've been doing for nearly forty
years, and that's writing.
june 22 2015
i remember a certain june; with vivid colorarity,
and a swelling in my chest
these are the beautiful dates, these twenties of
june, in montreal
we want to hang onto them as the earth spins
longer about the sun
allowing them to drag us further, in the heat, or
in preparation for,
sweating in the shade;
sunscreen in the sun;
and water balloons.
but this year. this year 2015.
there will be something else.
cross fingers. cross my heart.
grumbly sleep with enough coffee i'll make it to
werk and refuse the stress thank you very much but
argh it's impossible
sheila says i need to stay true to my hair
but a wedding is not true in a shiny gown
so the hair needs to match.
the house is clean; as clean as it's been;
bookshelves are wiped and the books are in order;
every towel is folded and tucked in a drawer;
power undies put away; they are pink if you forgot
wires are collated; bathtubs scrubb-a-dub-dubbed
hand-washed floors; and cement tables;
here they all are.
our first guest arrives tomorrow.
she has a bed and a room and towels.
the simplest of joys.
june 21 2015
you think there's not much to see here then move
along, move along. it is not you, i require.
june 19 2015
end of life
the wooden window creaks slightly open, slightly
closed, with each passing tuft of wind through the
it was musical for a time until it wasn't.
this body slept, still mildly and nicely comatose,
as it squirms under red sheets and balances tepid
in the dark now, bodily functions waking one by
one, flashing red digits of a small clock radio,
fixtures of scheduled people,
of whom there are none in this house, and dust
bunnies swim through the air across a streak of
sunlight reflected somehow passed the treadmill
and onto the wall behind me.
my longish hair in the morning is wayward, trampy,
as it flops over the part on the left, not knowing
which side it belongs on.
i have no recollection of tousled hair in my life.
i think it's friday, i haven't checked, through a
long night in early summer, shitty spanish wine
someone sneezes, doors clatter, a peacefully
sublime moment will be broken soon.
and all i really wanted to tell you during the
night was that i've unearthed one more source of
and that would be that in spite of the sheer
beauty in knowing this is the man i will spend the
rest of my life with,
that certitude indicates that the rest of my life,
including the end of it, will indeed come.
now who needs that shit in their life?
june 18 2015
Don't tell my stories, i won't tell
ONCE in a rare, rare, while, i awake
feeling good. today was one of such days.
my back doesn't ache; my mind doesn't race; my
ears barely ring; i slept.
have i been actually sick without knowing it, for
it's nice to have clear thoughts at 6:50 am,
darting eyes before coffee,
a sense of where i belong, and no worries hounding
me. ahh, sleep.
notwithstanding, the evening of june 17th 2015
didn't turn out precisely as planned, as does just
there are stories i could tell, and as usual, i
shan't. alas. they are not mine to tell. but
dreams are indeed, mine...
and i dreamt of
him, of i, in fact as the caffeine molecules cross
the blood brainbarrier i recollect nicholas p
having an accident
with guillermo's car, we raced off from the south
shore and ended up at a dead end in lery, on the
water, and in crossing i ended up
in the water somehow, an iphone in one hand and
camera in the other, they managed to stay dry for
quite some time, yes
i was on a raft at first but ended up swimming,
while we texted the Swiss man to come get us, he
was on his way down the canal,
on a boat? on foot? i remember only waiting to see
his beautiful face while i treaded water. there
were people playing and swimming nearby
and there was a pier, i tried to swim back once
but a large boat swell kept me from it. finally a
man did help me, dead iphone and all, and
very little effort we made it back to the pier.
once again dream transitions disappear (isn't that
odd, only the most important pieces are left out
and next thing i knew i was face backwards at the
front of a small motor dingy, filled with children
and their excitement, each with very different and
life vests which i spent most of the ride eying,
as i didn't have one, and i even recall a mild
feeling of setting a bad example without one
(after i felt a mild fear
of having to spend another twenty minutes treading
water in that brown muddy river) and when i turned
to the Swiss man behind me, intently driving that
he was all of a sudden wearing a boy scout
uniform, long handkerchief blowing in the wind,
while he intently focused on both the controls,
and something he was reading,
simultaneously. i think that was when i woke up.
so when i sleep, when i really sleep, my brain
does in fact know how much he is in fact my hero.
and all he did was walk a poodle back to julie's.
that's definitely my story to tell.
june 17 2015
crispy sunny june bugs; straight back; arched gut;
keys clicking in this old lower creaky flat, a
sweaty Swiss man appears and tosses a rolled
which will remain rolled. this is a slept body but a
mildly sick one; someone let a virus in overnight.
i'll bid it adieu by nine.
the Swiss man cleans the kitchen. thoughts whirling
around my head, the radio blocked out by earplugs,
this place is sometimes but a recording device for
the noise passing thru my ENTJ head;
and i often need to remind myself how much of it is
noise; how much is real; how much should be art.
fancy pants meetings at 9;
a sickly organization is making people sick;
everyone has survival tactics, from the Brazilan, to
the El Salvadorian, but not so much the Peruvian and
for the Peruvian is gone and the Italians are
teflon; oh, to be teflon; oh, to be teflon...
june 16 2015
selfishly, i write.
selfishly, i retreat into myself, a white and black
anagrammed mug, tepid with sticky sweet java,
balanced on new red sheets.
warm sounds swirl outside the creaky wooden window,
rhythms from open car windows of people who are far
too awake at
this time of day, summer tires swushing through
overnight puddles, and baby-honks, interspersed by
bus generators, all overtones
to the slowly building morning drone of highway 15,
built deep enough to make it musical. if we can hear
all of this, it's summer.
we are all selfish, only it exhibits itself
differently from one person to another.
june 15 2015
one java down but poots is still down
a sneezing Swiss man, slow neural synapses,
a sneezing me. massage this brain.
half of me is happy to have a full day's work ahead
the other half moderates anxious feelings
and the rain compresses the pollen
up our nostrils.
we passed through a birthday weekend in sunshine;
gobbled pizza pizza and
i recalled my childhood days of sunny afternoons;
i hung on to my Swiss man for dear life;
when will this coffee clear my brain when
how often do sentences begin with beams
june 13 2015
beamtime in tennessee while the sun
beams in montreal
it's hot in the deep south
guinea pigs chew loudly in a half
cleaned lower duplex
no one cares where i belong but me;
odd-looking baby parties pleased
the future parents
and we showed a torontian how montrealers do a 5 a 7
what reversal of fortune leaves me without a headache;
without a key;
without a family;
and even ringing ears cannot fill my aching and
unhungover empty heart
nor this physical longing, manifested in a melange of
work and sexy dreaming
absence does indeed make the heart grow fonder;
assuming, one is fond.
i review conversations
in my head
and sometimes they go like this
"absence makes the heart grow fonder,
and other things too, and when i lay in his
i smile spontaneiously and when i tell you
i also smile this silly smile"
i wouldn't have predicted that
extroverted, opinionated people would like the mEp.
i wouldn't have predicted not really caring about
i wouldn't have predicted any of
i am not a predictor, i live my own world and my own
life, and this to the chagrin of others
who is my best friend
is she fifty today or not
what i know is she is not reading
or is she.
what did it take before i knew my opinion was better
and hers too
there was always an assumption made
the assumption is all of a sudden wrong
june 8 2015
not quite awake, poots pulls
herself around some ringing ears
it was a long night of burning skin
and cherry juice
for a monday
i could call this 'diary of an ENTJ' but these moments
are altered ego to my controlling side
or at least i hope they are
and as the caffeine molecules cross this well-shopped
blood brain barrier, like the rain drops seeping
passed my window and into the urban soil,
fraught with oil dust, and being cleaned only
temporarily, they, and i, creak with age, as we tell
stories summarizing our lives on an ENTJ board.
and in one moment i am the ballerina i never became;
the millionaire i wanted to be, and the writer i
always was. for ballerinas have pretty feet,
millionaires hearts are full, and all these words
bring me squarely where i want to be.
june 7 2015
sunday 7:14 AM
it was a long time without laying in your arms
i can't remember when
for so long i lamented status quo and yet i had it
ENTJs work in a headspace of discomfort
it's impossible to write it down
i fight the weeds in my brain to remember
if my body ever knew such comfort
and yet this mystery i carry
will always be the answer
i've been writing here for nearly twenty years and
finally i have a mystery
june 4 2015
don't forget the birthdays
fifty, four and fifty-few;
they're all around and coming soon
and just ahead of you
we're heading toward the goal-post
with our troubles all askew
instead of raveling up again
there's always something new
my dreams are filled with diamonds
while my pelvis aches in pain
there's not a rhyme nor reason
to this badly ordered game
june 3 2015
work is hell for a change.
tears on the subway.
what do you miss?
things i cannot write.
things you cannot say.
things you never say
and things you should not say.
june 2 2015
in between ENTJ musings, girls walking to school, and
sleeping all night, poots hides away in her silent place.
could an extrovert really need such a space? she could
indeed. with so many thoughts.
after a third all nighter i'm here to pine. pouring the
deep dark espresso which brings me to life, a profound
thought caught my mind as it passed by. he's been mourned,
silently, whether i like it or not, he's been mourned.
and in spite of a third night of sleep, exhaustion still
remains inside of me, ears still ring violently, and
this little mouse who had been running for nearly fifty
years, runs no more. but there are websites for the ENTJ
elderly, so i'll be in good hands.
what i hate is people waiting for me. expecting things of
me. yet i want the ENTJs to expect things of me, how
can there be such a duality. i want what i want them to
want. how maddening to have lived in these cement
thoughts for so long. i tire of my cement thoughts. i tire
of the longing to be out of them. i pine for the freedom
from them. and i ache to be understood. physically. i ache
to be understood.
that is all i have ever really needed.