May 25, 2007

Instructions to reader: before reading the following poem, collect these words:

A noun: _____________________________________

An exclamation: _____________________________________

A verb, past tense: _____________________________________

An adverb: _____________________________________

Bouquet

I brought you a bouquet of butterflies,

smuggled fresh out of the Botanical Gardens.

I swallowed them all on the way over,

and tossed up a flying rainbow at your window.

I brought you a bouquet of paper placemats

folded into paper spitfires.

Paper hornets buzzed around the syrup on the wings.

I’ve never been a tidy eater.

I brought you a bouquet of snowballs

and delivered them romantically

through your window

on the third floor.

I brought you a bouquet of Mad-Libs,

that was tied up with ______{(a noun)}______

“______{(an exclamation)}______,” you shouted,

and I _____{(a verb, past tense)}___ ______{(an adverb)}_____ into the bushes.

I brought you a bouquet of Vaseline.

I figured you’ve jerked me around enough,

pitching woo outside your window,

that maybe you’d want some of that for yourself.

I brought you a bouquet of kielbasas,

and invited over some friends.

The steak knives and hibachi are mine though.

We’ll have to work together to make Sausage Fest a success.

I brought you a bouquet of photos

of you, artistically framed

through your third-storey window.

But you still won’t come down to say hi.

March 30, 2007 - 12 degrees

12°

Moana,it got warmer in Montreal today
and the sun came out and the snow melted
and the street salt turned to cinnamon
and the crooks all took helpful jobs
and the poets all settled their bar tabs
and the homeless all found condos on the Main
and the Habs won a game
and everyone got to see Arcade Fire live!
What happened on your street?

They turned on the fountain in Baldwin Park
and it gushed out extra bubbly Perrier indubitably
and rottweilers scooped up after themselves
and they rescinded all loitering and littering fines
and they sodded Greene Avenue for croquet
and Canada411 had you listed
and they filled all the potholes with gold
and my golden pothos turned to real gold!
Where are you?

All instant photo booths operated for free
and trains and flights were all half-off
and my Mountain Ash tree fell over
and the Rocky Mountains cracked to ashes
and the ashes sprouted banana trees
and the banana trees sprouted hammocks
and we peeled off from our sides of the country
and met up in the hammock grove
and curled up like quotations and talked.
And you missed it. Your bad.

January 23, 2k7

I am so awesome,
and you are so awesome
that I can get fired from a great gig
(try, dream job for a wanderlustful young performer;
try, bedrock and tether for the next eight months;
try, “I guess you’re good. But not good good”;
try, “Yeah— about that new kidney, Timmy…”)
and come straight home to write about you.

You’re as economically colourful as a French paperback cover,
as resonant and mysterious as the inside of an accordion.
Every time I look at you, I want to put my hands where my eyes are—
and if I said that to you, you’d know
that that means on you, not on my eyes.

Yeah, life is less than lucky,
and I’m feeling less than comfy
(try, squat broke at the lap of happy;
try, slow and going lower;
try, cramped and treading Jell-o).
I’ve whittled out a failure for my trophy case,
lacquered it up like no-turns-back,
hit the sauce—so liquored I’m pickled—
and you’re so awesome I’m page-dialling you.

Hot dog! you are lovely, over and over.
You speak Capslock to the lower cases of my soul,
Hot Jiffy-loo to my crankier quarters.
If I had three pancakes, I’d give you two—
then you’d cut one in two
and give me the bigger half.

Now, here’s the extra shiny awesome part:
I don’t even know who you are.
You’re a stranger from somewhere,
some Moana checking me up and down,
tossing me a look like live ammo.
I’ve never met you but, tag,
you’re gonna be it.