Hunky Dory

visitors

2010-04-01T14:57:00.000-04:00

When we visit the AGO we are Judith and Martin Rosen.
We’re still dressed from the luncheon
so I guess we could pass for my aunt and uncle,
or at least somebody’s.

People are lined up to see the King Tut exhibit.
I remember hearing in school that he died from
a small wound that got infected, that he didn’t even know
what was eating its way through him.

Several Group of Seven works disarm us (“You
remember Lawren, I’ll remember Harris.”)
I’m delighted by the sheer size of a Rothko;
Martin-for-a-day looks at portraiture with a tilted head.

In a room with paintings all up to the ceiling
I’m overwhelmed. I want to cry for mothers swaddling infants,
for Martin and Judith Rosen,
and for small wounds that eat their way through us.

In the gift shop I flip through prints of famous works,
stopping at a Salvador Dali. It’s my favourite painting.
I can say that with certainty, not because I know a lot about Dali
but because I know a lot about disintegration.

let's consider who it was that dreamed it all

2010-04-01T14:55:00.004-04:00

I keep a set of coloured markers in a white-painted
Tin can on my dresser. Mostly I use them
For telephone messages. But
I think of them fresh like sunlight,
an open window in the morning.

*

This is the one where Farmer Pickles’ cat
Has kittens and he keeps them all.
This is the one where Sleepybird
Hatches someone else’s egg.

*

Now I’ve gone and drawn an emerald ring
On my finger. But
Yellow never looks like gold.
And I feel small, not young but
Small like Alice, like a consequence,
Where everything is out of reach.

(Appearing in Misunderstandings Magazine, Fall 2010)

if i perish i perish

2010-04-01T14:54:00.001-04:00

The moon is a grey hat.
The mountain is inescapable.
The distance to my house is
a light-moment.
I say the moon I dictate
“moon.”

trick

2010-04-01T14:49:00.002-04:00

In the room with my father in it I whisper-explain
to a young girl (in a printed dress)
how to get his attention.
There’s a trick to it, and I know what it is.
But this is a dream.
I’m at the foot of his bed. Things are easy.
The girl giggles and we have fun at his expense.
He’s a very expensive person.
In the dream he turns to me, looks me right in the eye!
He asks me about my snowboarding.
In real life, it’s the winter olympics.

(untitled for now)

2008-12-10T16:27:00.003-05:00

My chapped lips. The cold, windless hours.
The stars are no consolation because they're feeble and far in the city light
and I get angry at their not even trying to reach me.
The cycle of years and the one pain that comes back, predictable,
like a scratch on a record, though I've never owned one.
My father was a bad man. I dream of his hands which are my hands,
big and clumsy, though I used to play cello.
At least I could play cello with his hands.
My chapped lips. My slippery feet and the one knee that breaks the fall.
It'll ache some day and from then on, and I'll call it my bad knee.
In the winter I am dark and seeking darkness and I remember
being very young and small and burrowing inside the folded-up
fold-out sofa bed. I feel better when I can't breathe.
The snow that falls, that melts, that freezes again and no traction.
The bad man in my dreams and the loss and the trauma I will write about
always because I can never get it right.
I lost the glove for my left hand but I still wear the other one.
I stretch my coat sleeve to protect my bare hand and I become less dangerous
in the vulnerability of a lost glove and a lost father
who was a bad man.
Each winter reminds me of myself. I look for something in plain sight
and I can see it. There must be somewhere deeper and darker
where I can test your love, where you'll really have to look and maybe
feel around with a naked hand and a gloved one.
My past is sitting beside me. It wants to give me flowers.

this bag is my bag

2008-10-16T18:12:00.002-04:00

Really, they're Ringolos
and i am not eating wedding bands because
really, it's too soon and anyway
I don't even remember the name of that tea you like
that John brings back from Spain.
Still, I place each barbecue-flavoured ring
on my tongue (which I imagine to be a small cushion
of sky-blue satin with white
lace fringes)
and pose like some dark-haired little cousin
of yours who would be more interested in
where the dog has wiggled off to than ringbearing.
And my mind wanders, like the cousin's mind
that wiggles after the dog,
to you and your unshaven face and the white roses and
each Ringolo crunch is your salty kiss,
your Listerine kiss, your cigarette kiss,
your poutine and Red Bull kiss.
It's Sunday afternoon and I'm hungry.

goo goo eyes

2008-10-02T18:23:00.008-04:00

I swim in primordial gunk

with you, and I make gunk-balls

to throw at you.

I pummel you with

genesis stew,

I pummel you

with genesis stew.

And this one is enzymes,

this one is glue.

Smack you, baby,

and this one too.

Now you are spattered

with bubbling glop, and I

am breaststroking through.

I love you in a snarling way;

We need to grow a lung

or two.

flipping rocks

2008-09-24T22:55:00.000-04:00

This ugly thing, this wrecked animal,
I found it underground.
Fur, like dark veins or eyelashes,
abandons the body at my preening hands
and in my hands, it breathes.

This has become a story I don't want to finish.
This is my father, a hammer, a lung.
I worry about my hands.

august

2008-08-13T00:16:00.001-04:00

I would smother you in white face cream,
and anti-age you into a baby again.
Your mouth hangs open when you sleep
and when you sleep i can really look at you.
I would make you a baby
with clenched fists and a wail like mine,
then i'd smother you in white cream
and watch you sleep and curl
like the strand of hair that clings
to the white ceramic bowl of the sink.

bootsteps: night

2008-07-28T22:45:00.008-04:00

black strap leather
hung
guttoral muffles
whose how oomph
grip and sliver
necks in belt holes
black
net
oomph
sirens two sirens
three sirens,
cacophony:
Crunch

(Under the influence of Varir Skáldsins, a sound poem by Eiríkur Örn Norðdahl )

i think about egypt not often

2008-07-22T22:24:00.003-04:00

I love you like grapes,

like the picture i have

of grapes in a white

ceramic bowl,

grapes so full and moist,

so light green and rosy,

grapes eaten while dear

Gwendolyn was plundered

in a humid church,

the grapes i prefer crunchy

and exploding like you.

what cn tower?

2008-05-08T18:38:00.008-04:00

Edit: This poem appearing in This Magazine, July 2008

(poem by Frank O'Hara)

2008-05-06T18:38:00.004-04:00

Song

Is it dirty
does it look dirty
that's what you think of in the city

does it just seem dirty
that's what you think of in the city
you don't refuse to breathe do you

someone comes along with a very bad character
he seems attractive. is he really. yes. very
he's attractive as his character is bad. is it. yes

that's what you think of in the city
run your finger along your no-moss mind
that's not a thought that's soot

and you take a lot of dirt off someone
is the character less bad. no. it improves constantly
you don't refuse to breathe do you

untitled

2008-05-01T16:50:00.012-04:00

In the house, in the fright,

in the absence of crying, a rustle,

the turn of a head from within.

The darkness is crawling, the skin

is defying but peeling and punctured

and letting it in.

When nothing is shining,
no light is defining, a movement,
a gasp and the breath is a lie.

Something is dying, the blindness
of mirrors, the spying, a stumble,

the wolf in the eye.

they were on sale

2008-04-30T17:51:00.002-04:00

I have muffins, too many muffins
I've been eating them
so they don't get stale
this morning i wanted eggs
I wanted honeydew and
some milk but i ate
muffins and now
i'm queasy and in bed
worrying about my muffins
and what to do with them
do you want some muffins?

preparations

2008-04-24T19:10:00.006-04:00

Edit: This poem appearing in This Magazine, July 2008

cosmos, etc.

2008-04-18T21:40:00.007-04:00

in the casino on saturn i feel retired.

my arms are gashes,

absences. climbing up a tower of

pleather-plush stools, I fold and unfold

vertically. gravity?

saturn? my vocal cords project into space

infinitely. the casino

is brightness and flashes and noiseless

and lacking air.

here hold this frayed wire

2008-04-05T20:39:00.009-04:00

Edit: This poem appearing in This Magazine, July 2008

c squared

2008-04-03T18:12:00.008-04:00

Edit: This poem appearing in This Magazine, July 2008

(three concrete poems by bpNichol)

2008-04-02T16:30:00.012-04:00

"Love", later titled "Blues"

"Probable Systems 15"

"A Study of Context 2: S into H"

There's a reading tonight in Toronto paying tribute to bpNichol. I can't attend for various reasons, so this is my own small tribute.

my taffy experience

2008-03-31T17:23:00.012-04:00

Talking to you is like pulling taffy, I think. My taffy experience is minimal.

Kevin and I drove to Florida in February of 2004. He was homeless at the time, sleeping in his buddy's storage locker. He did odd jobs, and had saved enough money to "follow the sun," as he liked to say.

On the road, we slept at rest stops and ate at a different Cracker Barrel every night. The further south we got, the more hushed our voices became when discussing the war and our views on George W. Bush. It was an election year.

Kevin and I stayed in my uncle's condo in Miami. He wasn't going down that year because work was being done on the balconies and 'jackhammers just don't sound like a vacation.'

(Did I mention I had just been hired at a real estate office? I had just been hired at a real estate office. I was to start work on the Monday after arriving back in Toronto.)

Kevin and I spent our days at the least expensive places. Mostly we hung out at the beach, buying 'cold tea' at Bean Dream on the Broadwalk when we were thirsty. A guy named Brian who worked there gave us free muffins because his mother used to live in Hamilton, Ontario. Kevin and I also liked to go to the Port of Miami to watch the cruise ships arrive and depart.

(Did I mention we were in love? In the northern hemisphere the constellation Orion is only visible in winter. It's warm enough in Florida in February to stargaze for hours. When I see Orion, in Toronto, in the cold, I always think of Kevin.)

Here's where the taffy comes in: On our last day in Miami, at the Port, I bought a box of saltwater taffy to share with my new coworkers back in Toronto. There was a cartoon map of Florida on the box, and the pieces of taffy were small and round and pastel-coloured. I worried about them melting until West Virginia.

This is what happened next: The condo balconies were fixed and painted white. Kevin and I considered getting married, but he ended up moving to Sacramento, California. When my assistant manager ate a piece of yellow taffy, it dislodged a filling and she never really liked me after that. George W. Bush won the election.

I met you, and talking to you is like pulling taffy. I think.

ant camp

2008-03-25T20:56:00.003-04:00

When we were five years old
Tina and I ran an ant camp.

It was a bucket of water
with some grass in it.

I would pinch up black ants
and drop them in.
Free swimming lessons.

Tina would revive the drowning ones,
muttering comfort. I thought
they should have tried harder.

I guess she had more
compassion than I did.

Nineteen years later I fell down
in the wet grass. Tina whispered:
How does your thorax feel?

I laughed and laughed
but I had to stop. It was
beginning to hurt my thorax.

a little love

2008-03-24T21:04:00.004-04:00

You are a canary
flying out of my mouth.

You are a two-tone
bumper sticker
of David Suzuki's face.

You are the itch
on my elbow.

You are my grade seven
math teacher from Latvia.

You are pointing
to a constellation
I can't see.

You are the mortgage
on a small house
in Pickering.

You are carrots, red pepper,
cucumber and Hidden Valley dip
at a reception.

You are no fun
on Mondays.

Edit: This poem appearing in Twaddle 3, 2008

clarke institute: triage

2008-03-23T17:25:00.012-04:00

Our grieving bursts a pipe.
We eye each other and the door
as we begin to float.

'We're locked in, see?
We are each one of us
drowning already.'

A man with Rasputin eyes
crawls into his own cupped hands.
I can't tell whose shoes I'm wearing.

'He who is without shame,
bang on the door!'

I am handed a four-inch snorkel.
Looking down I see rows
of white plastic chair-fish.

Our heads bob against the ceiling
like a Whack-A-Mole game.
We sputter.

'I was never told
the side effects
of breathing.'

A man with a Rasputin beard dives
and isn't seen again.

The air goes and I wince as gills
appear on my neck. We are now
each one of us aquatic.

Edit: This poem appearing in Twaddle 3, 2008

really he goes awry

2008-03-18T20:48:00.007-04:00

Sometimes as a writing exercise I sit down at the keyboard and type whatever words come into my head. I like to try to keep a sentence structure because long lists of disparate words can be quite boring. Here's a sample of today's efforts:

The green way out is the sum of the rafts and fortitude of fevers. Can't gorging help the rivers flow? What toes hurt the palms? Yellow proper fog and the rays of ghosts on the nightstand. Here is a boy and really he goes awry. Tomorrow petals will get wet. Growing dangerous seeds and packing right hand rites. Get up lowly and get dressed. Fortune says without finding secret habitats. Reservoir today has candles licked. Party dances kill the forgetful mountains with four hammers and western forgeries. Plato replies bandages. Hello happenstance tying down the law. Gopher dolls verbs and toys and killer queens. Decisive nagging ring finger tunes.

it could be the atlantic

2008-03-14T04:35:00.006-04:00

On the raft, yellow--

aren't they always yellow?

He is dead, his bones dry

and dry, fingernails

yellow. This

is where I am today.

Soon, I am skeleton too

and my yellow teeth jostle

on the raft

in the waves.

There is a bird and seven

birds and I'm getting thirsty.

In the yellow raft that is

always yellow my left femur

lifts its twin and starts to,

I don't know, paddle?

Edit: This poem appearing in Twaddle 3, 2008

(poem by H.D.)

2008-03-05T16:48:00.002-05:00

The Pool

Are you alive?
I touch you.
You quiver like a sea-fish.
I cover you with my net.
What are you— banded one?

- H.D. (Hilda Doolittle)

bungalow song

2008-03-01T20:39:00.011-05:00

For Ryan Bird on his moving day

There was never more of a place for me

than that rock.

The rock, we called it,

though it really was a boulder or

a rounded mountain

on the corner of our corner lot.

I keep the memory in the tips

of the fingers on my right hand

and in the taste of

banana-flavoured popsicles.

I knew every speck, every

quartzy vein, moreso than

the specks and veins of my

grandmother's hands

as she watered the aloe

plants and the red tulip

and the yellow one.

There was never a more mine thing

than that rock, a look-out post

with the bungalow at my back.

I kept us all safe.

In the summer I could

watch raindrops evaporate

from the stored warmth and I

imagined the rock and the earth

could breathe with me.

It's gone now, the property sold

and scaped to some other taste.

I didn't think anyone

could move that rock.

The house, the tulips

and my grandmother's

blue plastic watering can:

It was the last time I can remember

wanting to take care of something.

denial

2008-02-27T18:36:00.001-05:00

they left me with lesions

2008-02-25T19:33:00.008-05:00

Wires, worming my
temple chin eyes forehead
neck nose cheek,
see more in my
black
heavy
than I can.
I can't, I want
I mustn't move.
Clench and clench, relax.
My submission:
balloon pop
balloon pop balloon
pop.

how to break your toes

2008-02-24T18:57:00.004-05:00

Wake up angry.

Write a lengthy journal entry wondering why you're so angry.

Discuss your childhood. Bonus points for the following keywords: misunderstood, ex-boyfriend, medication, money, "that guy I killed."

Feel very sorry for yourself. Sorry and angry.

Go outside for a smoke.

Kick the brick wall of your house.

If that doesn't work I suggest using a hammer.

that darn pythagoras

2008-02-22T17:42:00.009-05:00

I envy people with formulas.

I envy formulas.
I know two astrophysicists.

They both failed English.
One used to pick his nose.

The rest of us still do.

(poem by e. e. cummings)

2008-02-22T17:32:00.005-05:00

All in green went my love riding
on a great horse of gold
into the silver dawn.

four lean hounds crouched low and smiling
the merry deer ran before.

Fleeter be they than dappled dreams
the swift sweet deer
the red rare deer.

Horn at hip went my love riding
riding the echo down
into the silver dawn.

four lean hounds crouched low and smiling
the level meadows ran before.

Softer be they than slippered sleep
the lean lithe deer
the fleet flown deer.

Four fleet does at a gold valley
the famished arrows sang before.

Bow at belt went my love riding
riding the mountain down into the silver dawn.

four lean hounds crouched low and smiling
the sheer peaks ran before.

Paler be they than daunting death
the sleek slim deer
the tall tense deer.

Four tall stags at a green mountain
the lucky hunter sang before.

All in green went my love riding
on a great horse of gold
into the silver dawn.

four lean hounds crouched low and smiling
my heart fell dead before.

the spoils

2008-02-18T23:45:00.005-05:00

Tornado eyes, a sunken cone,
electric counter-clockwise swirl;
righty tighty stay put killer eyes.
I pull your hair from behind,
wet sweat brown, just brown,

and grasp the socket and
rocket your eyes like a slingshot,
to whirl a city seven miles off,
to drill, to strike, to drill.

:

It is a myth
that Paul Levy
fell from the roof
of the Main Drug Mart
on College street.
What happened was:
he flew.