Friday Morning - Back from holidays

(fragment – “Good Friends”)

Last night our lights were hung real high and twinkling
Twinkling
Left the party, here we walked and shit we talked was babbling
Babbling
Good friends can get so curious eventually
eventually
my home is where we laid it down like urgency
emergencey
and we should not be doing this
but here we are, we’re doing this
Recluse rebels spidering in symmetry
proximity
Combining mismatched handmedowns so pleasuring
pleasuring

Friday morning

Redo the thing

Honey do that thing
The pigtails and teddy bear laugh.
There’s beautiful women everywhere I look
I need to remember why it’s your purse I’m holding.
Wanna relearn falling asleep with the phone to my ear.
Wanna redo clumsy first handjobs and holding in our farts.
Wanna reprize our time together.

Baby do that thing
shotgun a beercan and encore it to celebrate.
Wanna uncall you a rotten dirtslit.
Wanna unsleep with that Pizza Hut girl.
Wanna unhate your dirty hair.

Honey do that thing –
the
       voice –
  the
            walk –
  the –

whatever it was
I forget

But do it
I’ll remember

Monday Night

2:03 am

We could have played lip legos till June.

I built a cushion fort in the imperative,
          begging  you      to put down your Gameboy
      and  crawl         inside.

one night
                               I took your nightmaring body,
                                                                                               kissed your screaming head
     and you sighed out
                                              “It’s beautifullll…”

        it was a sad season we got born into.
     we forget our tuques in October
      and suddenly it was February  
I can’t scarf down on memories like you can.

the tiny men of tiny town   were     terrified
to learn their idol         grew wings    and flew away
     while they left her behind to fish   for minnows.

it’s late, and I’m tired.
        we      might have kept the light on to see what        might come by,
           but we’ve burned it out already    and  I’m tired     and it’s too late.

clackclack,    the muddy bike wheels across train tracks
clackclack,    the muddy bike wheels aren’t coming back

                   Even the brightest watercolors
     are just water
                           and color, Chuck.

Sunday morning

(fragment – Sunday morning after)

you said something about getting up for mass,
but I thought you were joking.

you left note in pink highlighter
like early Sunday evidence
“Thanxoxo”
on a 30 cent soy milk coupon in my fruit bowl.

salt stain where your boots were
with a yellow thread of neon bootlace
hugging two mudpuddles by the door.

your damp towel left on your pillow
on the other side of my bed.
I saw you getting naked but
I missed you getting dressed.
and I’ve missed you ever since.

I can’t believe you took a shower and my pomegranate before leaving.
And your Christian name is Charity?

Sunday morning

(fragment)

I imagine what I’d be like if you had no way to get home
no way to get better
no way out at all

I’d let my flakes get soggy just listening for the words
to write about how I can’t help you

Monday morning

13°C

Moana,

It’s November 14th.
I can hear church bells on Sheppard Street.
My neighbor is inflating two happy snowmen
and putting Christmas lights across our balcony.
I can hear a girl brushing her steps through the leaves across the street.
One maple is still kind of green.
If you come home to me, I’ll make waffles and blanket you till December.

Sunday morning

(fragment)

We played lip legos.

I should’ve known you’d never miss me if I didn’t go away.

Saturday morning rewrite

Hypothetical Continuity

If I can get my paycheck early,
and you can get your paper in,
then we can make a run to Tremblant and rent a chalet this weekend,
     your legs snuggling in between mine like roots in the night,
       my arms wrapping around you like branches in our bedgrove.

If I can get these taxes done
and you can get that baby quiet
then we can have eleven minutes together with the fire before Nightline,
     your lips on my neck erasing any cliché of the moment,
       my snifter of port notwithstanding.

If I can get the driveway shoveled
and you can get the lunches made,
then we can hug for a deep second in the open doorway,
     your toes curling against the cold to pinch the rug,
       my mittens nestling into your robe to pinch your bum,
          our hearth fire melting the chill from the door into perpetuity.

Monday morning

Cheese Rich, Cracker Poor

Cheese rich, cracker poor:

Loving life is loving rules.
Loving fun is loving.
Happiness is something you can tell yourself and be understood.
Loving fun is loving Polish bakeries and plum filled donuts.

Saturday Morning

(fragment – “Hope Slide”)

needher-totter
seesawin’
by the couldabeen swings

Hope slide
hopeslidin’
into idiot pit

Friday Night rewrite

Wookie Suit

When we had just finished trick or treating,
as we were sitting down in your kitchen,
you on the counter, me on the bench,
grinning triumphantly, loot bags bulging,
a layer of sweat under my wookie suit,
at the apex of our youth,

I thought of kissing you—

your angel hair shining,
wings translucent.

You blew a Dubble Bubble
and snapped it in your teeth.


And suddenly,
I wonder where fifteen years have gone.

Thursday Morning

(some fragments/rewrites…)

(fragment:)

Happiness is something you can tell yourself
and be understood.


(work in progress:)

Mirrored

When I see my fire painted
in another’s creation

I cannot hope to contain it
through an act of repression.

My own soul has just been mirrored
with an artist’s precision.

I could call this girl my mother,
I could call this man my son.

I could blow through open windows,
I could pop like bubblegum.

I can see a tower rising
I can hear the church bells sound like
dum dum dum dumdadum dum
dum dum dum dumdadum dum

Wednesday Morning

(a rewrite of an older poem)

New new new

I’ve become one of those people.
The “I’ll-buy-something-to-cheer-myself-up’s.”

Now I’m out twelve bucks
and in a pair of yellow sunglasses that don’t even fit my face.

Only new sunglasses, new placemats, new sheets, new friends and a new you
can fill this old donut hole you ate through me.

Friday Morning

Hypothetical Continuity

If I can get these taxes done
and you can get that baby quiet
then we can have eleven minutes by the fire before Nightline.

If I can get the driveway shoveled
and you can get the lunches made
then we can hug for a deep second in the open doorway,
     your toes curling against the cold and pinch the rug
       like my fingers nestling into your robe to pinch your bum.

Thursday Night - Poetry Assignment Attempt #2

Aberdeen

As so many days begin:
wake up.


Boots make fresh dew tracks through the grass and earth.
Smell wet chickens.

Collect eggs. Milk the cow.
Make omelet. Eat cornflakes.

Start the Gravely.     
Double pin the hitch.

Fill the chainsaw.
Fill the trailer.
Fill the wood bin.
Fill the stove.

Cook grilled cheese.
Buddy Holly’s “Dearest” plays.
Two whitetail does walk through the pumpkins.

Work at the crop till a whippoorwill call lilts through the crickets while you pee.
Sigh and look at the tree line.
Leap over a ditch.


As so many days end:
go to sleep.

Wednesday Night

Good Day – A Shameless Brag

8:30: Wake.
11:30: Play drunk; Teach many college students how to save a friend from choking on vomit; Get paid.
3:30: Play director; Teach high school students how to act.
6:00: Play actor; Workshop new text
8:30: Play confidant; Give new perspective to friend in need.
9:45: Play writer; Do poetry assignment.
10:00: Get fat with sense of accomplishment. Sleep like a farmer.

Tuesday Morning

Walking through the planetarium,
and then all the way back to the hostel,

all I could think of

was the space that your leaving would leave
and how perfectly my hands fit over my ears.

Poetry Class Assignment, Attempt #1

This is the news story that I had to write a poem from:
South Dakota: Aberdeen- For the first time in 40 years of farming, Gary Meyers is harvesting a fourth cutting of alfalfa. He credits ideal moisture and growing conditions. A good year of alfalfa farming typically brings in two or three crops. Each subsequent cut typically yields less volume, but the quality usually increases, Meyers said.
This is the poem:

Bowser, Donkey of the Prophecies

I am Bowser!
Donkey of the prophecies!
White spots paint my shoulders:
     Venom from the snake gods.
My ears rise proud
             To overhear the sacred whispered secrets of the sprouts.
Earthfire swishes in my belly
And spits up my esophagus.

Morning I was born the farmer clipped the wings from my hooves
and put them in a pickle jar.
He still has them.
     I have seen them!

Watch me kick!
I could kick that henhouse over the plains, catch it,
and have it rethatched before I swam the river with it like Thorpedo.

My powers have their proof:
Ideal moisture and growing conditions are no fluke of Nature.
Behold! ‘Twas I that wrought the crop!
Hear my chants!

HEE!                HAW!
HEE!                 HAW!

Unhitch me from this post
so I may claim what is mine in the name of Set,
lest I smite thee like a weevil!
 
I am Chosen!
I am Bowser!
Donkey of the prophecies!

Monday Morning

Good Date

Hooray for hopeful accidents!
Hooray for sharing beers!
Hooray for live music!
Hooray for outgrowing old habits!
Hooray for karma!
Hooray for tremendous brunettes!
Hooray for pearls!
Hooray for involuntary smiles!
Hooray for casual touching!
Hooray for half-drunk boogie-woogies!
Hooray for sweet walks home!
Hooray for voluntary sleep deprivation!
Hooray for the road not taken!
Hooray for getting colds!
Hooray for happy obsessions!
Hooray for possibilities!

Sunday Morning

Ti’ Coq the Timid Rooster

One day Ti’ Coq the Timid Rooster went to the barnyard shindig.
All of his friends and co-workers were there.
(Friends and co-workers are the one and the same when you live on a farm as chipper as Cheery Cherry Valleys!)
Everyone showed up: Ding-Dong the Dairy Cow, Scraprat the Rhyming Bunny, Coleslawp the Emphatic Pig, Ellen the Bi-curious Hen…
Even Good Ol’ Farmer Sonny showed up with a jug of his Sunshine Moonshine.
Ti’ Coq the Timid Rooster was trying to look like he enjoyed the beans and greens casserole that Scraprat the Rhyming Bunny had brought when he noticed that Chiquita, the Chipperest Chicken in Cheery Cherry Valley was coming right towards him.

Ti’ Coq was afraid that Chiquita had seen him watching her all afternoon.
He swallowed his food and tried to look proud and boastful.
Chiquita, the Chipperest, Charmingest Chicken in Cheery Cherry Valley thought Ti’ Coq was trying to be funny and chuckled.
She told him he was a Funny Li’l Rooster asked if he’d like to try the suet and chickpea masala she made.
Ti’ Coq was a little scared to try it, but she insisted.
He took one beakful, and boy, was it spicy!
He ran around like a chicken with his palette cut off until he found the trough and dunked his whole head right in!
Well, I’ll be darned if everyone didn’t think that was just the funniest thing they’d seen since Mallory the Faithful Retriever give birth to a litter of Dalmatians.
Coleslawp the Emphatic Pig laughed so much that he snorted.
Milk shot out of Ding-Dong the Dairy Cow’s nose.
Good Ol’ Farmer Sonny threw his head back so far that his lumbar readjusted itself and for the first time since he had fudged it up while rolling Big Ol’ Bertha into the recovery position he could bend down to scrape the plop off of his boot.
Ti’ Coq the Timid Rooster was a big hit!

Ti’ Coq and Chiquita, the Chipperest, Charmingest Chicken in Cheery Cherry Valley gabbed all afternoon.
They clucked about the new feeding trough by the coop, the sudden disappearance of Terri the Tasty Lamb, the rainforest, transcendentalist poets, and ska.
They didn’t know they had so much in common!
Before they could finish their discussion about Pete Tosh, the sun went down and Good Ol’ Farmer Sonny rang the bell for bed time.
Chiquita, the Chipperest, Charmingest, Chicken in Cheery Cherry Valley asked if Ti’ Coq would like to walk her to her coop.
Ti’ Coq the Timid Rooster was nervous, but he really wanted to, so he nodded okay.
When they got there, Chiquita, the CCCC in CCV asked if he would like to come inside and see her new roost.
Ti’ Coq felt that they were fowls of a feather and he would have given his left wing to have gotten closer to her right then.
In his birdbrain sprouted at least five cuttings of disastrous possibilities all sowed by some innate, inescapable quarter of his identity:
Under his bright if slightly unkempt plumage and that weird red rubber glove looking thing on the top of his head, Ti’ Coq the Timid Rooster was a big chicken.

He stammered out some excuse about having to wake up early
and scampered away from the coop like Huffy the Hamster in his spinny wheel,
his little birdballs retracting.

The next morning when Ti’ Coq woke up the farm, he felt like the biggest liar;
He knew that he was the Cock that Doodle Didn’t.

TOMORROW: Will Chiquita, the Chipperest, Charmingest, Chestiest, Choosiest Chicken in Cheery Cherry Valley decorating advice from Ellen the Bi-curious Hen?
PLUS: Taste testing the new McLambwich!

I make a lot of chili

You know, eating chili is awesome. And it’s not that often that you’re like at a friend’s house and he’ll say, “Hey, want some of this chili?” but when it does happen, man, it’s a party. Spontaneous chili is really awesome.
Making chili is another affair. When everything just comes together and you have enough time and all the right ingredients in the house, it’s game time, and it gives you a proud sense of achievement when you’re done.
Now, does habitually making chili everyday sharpen your chili palette and make you a better chili chef? Or does it your lazier about what you put into the chili and dull your taste for it?
I guess you won’t know till you’ve tried.

Saturday Morning

Love letter to my future ex-wife

We’ll be together forever.

We’ll have our first kiss during a play –
Macbeth – that’s so bad the critics like it.
You’ll make a joke about Banquo’s ghost,
I’ll laugh in a way that’s so genuine it’s rare
and then I won’t be able to stop myself.

Friday Morning

Wild, Wild Life

Last night
God sang poems to me
in my sleep.

He’s a good lyricist
but not big on melody.

I’ve got the tune of Wild, Wild Life
divinely stuck in my head.

He should stick to free verse
or get over this eighties thing He’s on.

Tuesday Morning

(fragment)

Some live like hermits,
others like hoboes.
I’ll switch from this to that
till I find out which I am.

I’m looking after her little empty house
while she’s away planting trees.
I don’t know why it can’t look after itself,
but there’s a space here.
There’s no way I’m staying for the week.

Monday Morning

All’s Fall

two birds
perched on my balcony
jerked their heads around
squawked
shat on the railing
flew off

ash tree
changing colors
green’s gone yellow
all falls

baseboards
smelling like burnt dust
and stale heat

Saturday Morning

(song fragment)

I see ghosts in gasoline cans
money changing hands
evildoers everywhere
watch out shifting sands

I hear holy war crusaders,
getting gods to undone prayers,
scraping through the ashbin
trying to find my blackened shares.

Wednesday Morning

Meanwhile in Venice

I’m getting into bed on my lonely little street in Montreal.
Wrapped tight in my covers.
My eyes start blinking, book begins drooping, breath is dropping in

Meanwhile in Venice
the swampy canals are placid,
broken by a last call gondolier.
Pigeons sleeping on the rooftop of an abandoned loft.
Money exchange office closed.
Gelato shop closed.
No one even hears a dog manging from one alley to another.
Just silent nighttime hum
in the piazza of some religious statue
where I took the picture hanging the wall above my head.

Tuesday, October 4

Wanderlust

Woke up waltzing with Strauss again,
the smell of baguette careening through my nose like a slalomist
and a Eurail car speeding from my dreams,

skin itching to get up out of my bed.

poetry class assignment - poem containing 20 words derived from a "loteria" card

La Palma

When the sun consumed the ocean pink as passion fruit
we carved our initials into the bark of a  palm tree,
rubbed our names into the sand
then watched the trunk grow tall and curve with our love
and how high we built our castles!

We felt the day climb to its apex
as we fanned each other with palm frawns,
tangling ourselves in ourselves,
and through my eyelids I could almost trace the pattern of a leaf falling
as we propped our heads on a log in the shade and got green with sleep

In the evening when the air was ripe
we stripped off our peels to blend into the drink,
swishing each other around in our mouths,
and tasted nothing but the salt of the water.

In dark the beach became tectonic
sand shifted, collapsing our castles and tearing our oasis in two.
We spit the salt from our mouths
and I took a log raft off your island.

Now I’ve drifted so far I don’t remember;
are these memories of a vacation I never took?    

Monday Morning

A Little About Me!
this chris has no bones
this chris copes copes copes copes
this chris  lop sided twice over
this chris opening the blinds to see a sniper
this chris Quentin Tarrantino
this chris barbarian hangover
this chris vandalizing clocks
this chris gasps, gaits, falls away
this chris mouthing the national anthem
this chris uneasy hero of latter day saints
this chris falls asleep in the back of limos, one hand on his half-drunk screwdriver
this chris manages soundly

Bonus poem

16°C

Moana,

It’s September 22nd

I can hear bells on Sheppard street

Can’t we just sit down somewhere and kiss on the mouth for awhile?

Sunday Morning

Street/Caution

I’m sprinting through alleys,
hoppin’ manholes,
taking shortcuts,
dodging taxis,
cause you might have said “come here”.

Every time I lose and find myself on a new street
I have a feeling that something big’ll hit me,
if it hasn’t already.
I should be careful.
But I’ve torn down the caution sign
that shadowed over my head like an oil spill.

Now I’m burning yellows,
running stop signs,
just looking for that big thing to hit me.    

In My Defence

I didn’t wake up in my own bed on Thursday or Friday.
Besides, why don’t you try changing the world with your poetry, hot shot.

Thursday morning

I’ve got open doors that knock
like opportunity


and balls that puss out
like a prelude to regret.

Wedsnesday morning

cloud watching

the clouds we are watching look like two forms coming together,
closer and closer,
then melting into a puddle
and the satellites,
which we took for stars,
speed with the earth, right by us.

being careful means doing much less than I like.

Tuesday morning

Amber sun rising on Sheppard

who can know
the color of the sun rising,
the taste of rhubarb,
the contents of a yolk,

what’s creating us,
what holds us together and keeps us apart.

What earthly presumption to man the cosmic everything

Monday morning

August’s passed.
July’s passed.
September’s almost gone.

sometimes I think that
the paths on my map  are as constrained, trafficked, and painful
as bra straps that cut deep into the backfat of heavy girls.

Sunday morning

when you leaf through the wanteds for her,
or her,
or her,
breakfast is the headline of your day,

and breaking your yolks in the pan
is like losing a friend in a knife fight

Saturday morning

make that ‘who’

only homework, hamburgers, Doom 3, beer, bus rides, 2am, brunch, juggling, showers and a new girlfriend

can fill the donut hole
you ate through me    

my poetry class assignment - a poem using only words from a bathtub ad

positioned easy

we are Sixteen.
models offer you a comfortable Standard.

you dream, you are perfect
and we feel the hours slide

we couldn’t dream of a lifetime satisfied
or strategically draw a Design;
we are an endless Sixteen.

this just in!

a lack of pronouns is making my poetry assignment hard.

Friday morning

I have
corn bran
sweat pants
soy milk
a one beer hangover.

poem co-written at reading

My Family

The best thing about my family is that my mom likes her tomatoes overripe, but I like them orange, so I get to pick them first.

The worst thing about my family is that my dad gets drunk and brings home waitresses.    

First

I went to a CASE reading tonight.
That's an open mic night sponsored by an english students' association.
I read a few poems and the crowd was digging me I think, but I was a lot more nervouse then I expected and I chickened out of reading my last two which were the ones I really wanted to read.
So, I'm doing this to attone for that regret.
It is my endeavor to write a poem - or at least a fragment of one - everyday, preferably first thing in the morning.
That's all.