Thursday, January 12

Looks like I’m starting a hippy haiku trend. Hope I’m not being too conservative.

sad hippy punk haiku

tattoo hippy punk
got a hole in his Converse
needs new shoes, looks sad

bonus poem, for Car

a haiku

Organic hippie
Searching for “fair trade” coffee
reeking of compost.

Tuesday, January 10

a haiku

Southeast Asian man,
burps while shoveling, pauses,
kicks snow from his boot.

Monday, January 9

when I think of kissing you
(loops and daisies tumbling)
puckered lips are latches
(ribbon, sparks and candy)
that open mouths like doors.

holding our breath’s writing a contract
(sissy whimpers all pussed out)
and we can see through curtained windows
(blastoff moonbeams in between)
how our tongues are shaking hands..

Sunday, January 8

(some rhyming couplets about monkeys)

The pygmy marmoset is the smallest living monkey,
so it uses its suprapubic scent glands to mark its territory.

Saddle-backed tamarins birth twins each an eighth of the mother’s size
and practice polyandry – that’s many husbands, not many wives.

Cotton-top tamarins use their genitals to resolve all conflicts:
instead of fighting with their muscles, they show off their dicks.

Friday, January 6

a haiku

tires spin on my street.
my world has gotten too small.
medivac me out.

Thursday, January 5

Winter Sky – a haiku

cold city night sky:
a dark bright shade of orange
that’s unpaintable

Wednesday, January 4

Bio-Dome

There are two calimico monkeys that live at the Bio-Dome.
I named one Jabari and one Al (short for Alice).
They have furry little black faces and bodies and
cute little pink tongues you can see when they eat.
The plaque outside their little enclosure says
they eat fruits, insects and small vertebrates
and shows where in the world they are from:
just one little red area in Ecuador.
Both of them can jump three to four metres standing
but Al can jump farther than Jabari, I’ve decided.
When I saw them Jabari was in the high branches,
rubbing his scent on a tree trunk, as usual,
and Al was on a tree stump with apple slices,
pretending not to notice me and the busloads of Koreans.
Calimicos are excellent communicators
and I think Al and Jabari are friends.
Not the kind of friends that you’d really do things
like play paintball or paint pottery with;
more like the kind whom you call your best friend
even though you only ever see them
when you’re each with your boyfriend or girlfriend
at the occasional get together of your circle of friends,
and you’d never call to say what’s up—
unless you want to call up some old memories
of participating in an extreme sport
or doing some creative but practically useful activity together—
because you’ve known each other for so long
that you can’t really be original with them anymore.
Jabari and Al are those kinds of friends.
Only they also live together, groom each other,
eat only fruits, insects, and small vertebrates,
can leap three to four metres from standing,
are dispossessed from their little red homeland,
were never secretly in love with each other
but were too young and afraid to admit it, and
have furry little black faces with cute little pink tongues.

Tuesday, January 3

On the corner of Fullum and Marie-Anne
today at three o’clock
there will be an earthquake.

Because she didn’t opt for the winter tire package,
Louise Therrien’s new Kia will skid on the ice
that has accumulated at the crosswalk on Fullum at Marie-Anne,

right beside Baldwin park
where Eric Maisoneuve was pulling his infant son David
on his new, his first, CCM toboggan this afternoon.

Today at three o’clock
on the corner of Fullum and Marie-Anne
Louise and Eric’s worlds will collide and shake.

Monday, January 2

a haiku

someday you’ll find me
a saffron monk in a square
put plums in my bowl

New Year's bonus poem

First of January

I have not put one foot outside of my apartment today.
Not even opened the door.

There’s a first of January for you.
Give me 31 days and I’ll give you a first of February too.

Sunday, January 1

Bonne Année, hein?

comin home aloneshokay
when yer wishin happy new year
bonne annee
to everyone along the way

« bonne année mon ami!
eh, j’ai des chips ici -- veut-tu des chips?
ils sont barbecues.
tiens.
de rien, mon homme. ciao.bonne année! »

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.