June 2016

July oops!


can a story tell itself; as we lay together you and i; you, reading Walrus poems, and i, sleepy from the Pilsner
you said you hate poetry as your words slip careless, garbled, from your German lips, they fall onto my ears,
carved from your schoolboy's mind, reading as if the teacher was still watching you, and enunciating loudly,
on the wrong syllables.

you said you hate poetry while you read poetry to me; and i could hear the amazement in your voice;
the anticipatory tone with which you hurried to the next line; and you paused, to reflect, three times.

you said you hate poetry with the Walrus in your hand, and you grunted when i moved mine,
and you continued to read poetry even after you finished the poem you liked
you read it aloud with the hope of understanding, there was no judgement, no hesitation,
only your desire to know, to learn, to experience,
you are my poem, my story, my very own Nobel Prize.



good morning blank pages

summer solstice

a cacophony of hungry pigs greets me as i saunter down the hall
the sweaty heat gathers on my brow
in summer

chips ahoy are my new best friend in this home office
an oscillating ventilator forms the rhythm of montreal heat;
the canopy of chlorophyll factories sway out my window

birthdays come and birthdays go and summer swings itself full
a Swiss man has left for work while i type
and raw onions burn at my lip

while summer begins.


June 18 - reminiscing...

DECEMBER 23 1999

turn your head poots and dream of the undreamed
while you sing the unsung. the warm air is colder now
and the leftover hangovers leave you feeling leftover.
wake slowly and chew, chew, chew. if no one understands
then just keep on being yourself. time is the only commodity
so yes december is here in all it's unsnowiness. it seems that
Christmas begins with december. it seems that it takes until
the twenty-third of this month to have four minutes enough
to sit down and ponder which month it is. Fitting, then, that
this is the last december of the millenium. i had many minutes
this one to sit down and think of the minutes of the day, and
perhaps one day i will do so again. but i imagine that all the
fast minutes until then will go by quickly.

as we wind our minds around venezuelan floods
and women selling flowers with no shoes
there is nothing more understandable than
why do i have so much? must it then be
that they have riches truly unknown to me

it is getting late as i wait for the words
cramped up in the nettles of my brainspace
half my self wants the comfort of my pootchy
pants and a good stiff scotch while the other
stands tall on the treadmill carrying a laptop
and a pager and of course both can be seen
from the eyes of both extremes, that is to say
the woman with no shoes still sees my incredible
lap of luxury hunched over this plastic box and
the drop of drying scotch in my glass, while
i really have no interest in the bragging rights
of a 34-year old woman who doesn't use her
free palm pilot nor the plethora of fancy laptops
available to her. truth is, she's more interested in
finding shoes for that woman and spewing out a
few good words over here.

i will be back before the end of the millenium.

June 10

  Cynthia turns 51 today; i could phone her;
review my brain list;
waiting for the weak coffee to jolt me awake or help my headache
while the sparkliest sun hurts my retinas as it is diffracted through the trees and window screen;
in the nights i plan out my days and in the days i distract myself away
this chewing is at epic proportions and the largest of sneezes happened.


little gracie sings, reminding me of me, in a time she didn't live in.

June 8 arrived while i was still thinking about june 6.

sticky fingers assist in the chewing.

pollen assists with the sneezing.

it's  a  large  band  of  time  interspersed with waiting for a phone call.
does anyone know how much i wait for a phone call?
to get a box of kleenex i must make the pigs squeak
and as the leftover taninns coarse my blood
i ponder how i'm still sharpening my humanity;
for a few more years now.

it gets harder and harder to pull myself away fro the INFPs to write here:
they are kind: responsive: and human:

June 6th

monday timesheet
monday rain and wind
monday sleeping

June 5th

Some of june has gone by while it slips through my fingers
as i bravely attempt to both survive and enjoy it;
on a rainy sunday i'm content to chatter about facebook groups;
they each have a face; borders; and their own limits;