pill POP
ing sally drinks it
d
o
w
n
to drown
her dreams
in a bed
too small
for her l o n g
legs, pinches like
a pair of made
in haste
mail-order
shoes
(a sleep
inhibitor
on its own)
yet still
she wanders
through fields
of forget-me’s
and love-me-nots,
ears bleeding,
heart waxing,
a drug induced
anti-bliss.

church bells
ringing
ring
ring
resounding
through
the air
on Sun
day mourn
ing after
mass when
we ride by
those stained
glass windows,
me on your
handlebars,
my polka
dotted skirt
catches the
wind, lifts
my spirits
as you
continue
peddling
and fuel
my peals
of leftover
laughter

his cologne lingers in the cold air of our tent,
bittersweet, now that he’s zipped up and left

I
am a walking axiom,
a mass of mushy phrases,
a muddle of day dreams,
all because of
you

You
are why I write so fucking
much.

spring rolls and summer days,
fire ants, torn pants,
and slow clothesline sways,

french toast and ducks in pools,
cheap bars, swift cars,
and harebrained rules,

hot tubs and shoelaces,
nicknames, child’s games,
and foolish rum faces

I want to take a
picture of you and I,
place it gingerly
between the pages
of a book of cliché
poetry for someone
else to find.
Some lucky person
would stumble upon it,
make up
fictional fantasies
‘bout us,
stories to ease
their curiosity.
Imagine- they’d say,
Imagine if he loved her?

“Never go anywhere
Without a porpoise”
Words of advice from
Her smiling mouth
Or was that purpose?
It matters not, she
Artfully ignores
Her own rules
Either way.

Dawdling is her
favorite pastime,
trailing behind, one
foot in front of other,
down the crowded
streets and alleys
she refused to call home
(Put the girl in the city,
not the city in the girl)

Pulls me into startling
new ideas, ideals even,
pools of thought,
stores and boutiques
just to say, “Look,
see? you cannot
trust the known”
And thrusts me out
into the light again

Commas are obsolete:
no waiting for her,
not waiting for me
as she skips ahead
(Flips the page)
Her pink scarf
lingers as she
disappears into
Toronto-coloured slush

I cannot determine
whether I pity or despise
those who live as hermits
betwixt the pages of the thesaurus,
coating themselves in a
hard outer layer of frivolous words
and paltry sayings, blanketing their
brains with meaningless terms,
acquainting their vocabulary with
the upper echelon of verbal society;
their ideas cheapened by tawdry words
in the cheap motels of poetry and prose.

Upon the discovery of
the death of my sanity,
may my assets be divided
as follows:

To my hands, I leave
my note and sketchbooks,
my pens and my markers,
and my whimsical ideas.

To my legs, I leave
my backyard and pool,
the park near my house,
and the will to run.

To my hips, I leave
the bass line and dance floor,
my satin sheets and his company,
and some (limited) self-restraint.

To everything else, I leave
nothing, for I have no more
to give; I am my things, a collection
of wonderful no-use objects and
ideas that a catchpole
(like the real world)
will no doubt take
as a luxury tax.

all I ever was:
metallic sheen of my
helmet, driving through
with
a jug of Sunday lemonade
perched predictably
on my faux leather
seat, beads of liquid
making quiet circles
that evaporate into
the sluggish summer
air.

your neighbourhood is
old, like the vespa that
rattles and groans
beneath my feet,
the trees grow tall,
spread their fingers
and
block the sun,
creating patterns on the
darkened pavement
like rust on the underside
of my conscience.

the wheels spin with
projected urgency,
whipping through
mundane traffic-coated
streets, my
pink scarf flailing
with the spirit
of a drowning Frenchman,
aubergine scooter
catapulting me to
help rescue you from
your good sense.

The hot oil of the fried wontons
mimics the sweaty palms
of my wanton hands
which grasp tightly the cup
of green tea gratis.
Anxiety how I loathe
your name; causing
spills of liquid and invading
an otherwise perfect day.
But laughter melts the unease,
as we argue about
nicknames and how to spell
explosion
and I fall face over feet
for a boy who’s taken by the idea of me.