fox dream

oh tiny fox, i see that you are shivering.
let me drape your peppermint fur
in untold passionate words
to keep you hot and content and panting,
while a piano echoes softly in the background,
and a fat cat dreams at the foot of the bed,
and the spines of old books look down upon us
as i push my lips into the back of your neck,

while autumn nails scrape
along the skin of my house,
and your tiny fox paws
press against my brave body,
and your tiny fox heart
beats out a private symphony,
and i wear your whispers like a robe,
and i hold my nervous breath.

that look

i've been waiting
to give you my name
for longer than the summer season.
you've said all the right things
in daydreams
so few and far between.
and now that you have it,
does my name feel
as hot in your throat,
as yours does to me?

just one smirk
and i'm pinned to the wall,
panting like a mutt,
my tongue a dead slab of pink meat,
unable to let out any dashing thing,
my weakness for you
so obvious and plain
in the shadow of the streetlight,
the cards turned upward,
all suits revealed.

babe,
you got that look,
the one that makes
a mourner out of me.
put a wreath around my tired neck,
i will never be
your fascinating mystery.

moss

the theatre was dying,
and every child ignored me.
i wasn't what they came to see:
a man breathing desperately,
trying to find the light
in just another empty night.

you could smell it in the air:
old men going nowhere
and living out their final dream
played out on a movie screen.

and i lost myself today
while i watched the children play.
they have everything they need
while i can only sit and plead

to young flesh sweating
in a room full of loss
as insecurity grows
upon my skin like moss.

future ghosts

floating by your school
of future ghosts
reminds me that I miss
the way you used to kiss
my telephone every night
in the fading autumn light
before you went
dream hunting,

while the teachers were asleep
and the streetlamps
opened up their golden eyes
to gaze upon
the curve of your smile,
you gave your voice to me,
you wanted me to listen.

but time is a liar,
I thought we could fool it.
and the weight of years
is dense and heavy,
hanging in the air between us,
muffling your final whispers:
"It is too late, old sun,
too late, too late.
Just forget, just forget,
just close your pretty eyes."

(old poem//november 9th 2009)

compromise

I'm squirting ink again,
because whenever
I close my eyes
faces of angels
appear before me,
and every one I recognize
as one I want to save my life.

this pen is my
dishonest compromise:
I write about
the way you taste
and fool myself
into believing
I can touch you at anytime.

(old poem//november 9th 2009)

steam & sunshine

sometimes I hear
music so beautiful
I want to grab you by the hair
and push your ear
against the speakers
so you can hear
the fruit of my gospel:
hymns I hum eternally
within my heart
that fill me full
of steam and sunshine.

it's a dialogue between
my fear and love
for all things made
from atoms and shapes
that scuttle through
this world we're all trying
to make a home out of.

your hair is nowhere near,
it lies quiet upon another pillow.
but I have a bedroom run red
with the blood of artists,
and I guess that's enough weaponry
to battle winter's yawning:
I just have to keep
these records spinning.

(old poem//november 6th 2009)

syncopated sermons

seizures in a sea of smiles,
baptismal electrocution,
many hands strain
upward to caress
a mirrorball that reflects
the face of god.

this is my ressurection:
to syncopated sermons
hot bodies collide,
and I am just a child,
hearing blood ringing
in my ears like
it was the very first time.

(old poem//november 6th 2009)

tired mouth

the noise that whispers
from my tired mouth
is a strangled sound
you once loved
when hope was free
and delivered to me daily.

and my penance for some
forgotten sin
is to write laments
about your skin
and the knowledge that
my chance was so easily stolen.

(old poem//november 3rd 2009)

wearing men

my bedroom chokes
with smokey dreams,
but I've forgotten how to breathe.
wax and plaster words spill out
your young and darling mouth.
they fall apart at the foot of the bed.

I leap through the window,
paint the indifferent road red,
and girls in high heels
wearing men
and wearing masks
will step over
my body,
as leaves fall
off tired trees
and blanket my eyes
back to sleep.

(old poem//november 3rd 2009)

duty and desire

you wore that dress i always loved,
it fit you like a fever.
trying to avoid the waiting rocks
that line your grand volcanic curves,
above you wailed a siren song
as i pushed myself against the wall,
and no resistance dulls
the need to drink
your nautical disaster.

and everyone you spoke to grew red
from the paint you use to caress
that shape your mouth takes
as it drips out words
i'll never comprehend.
and i felt like the villain
in my own stageplay,
keeping my true thoughts hidden
in a secret spot
between my shoulder blades,

wondering if i'll ever get
the right moment
to speak the words i want to,
or if the past will
keep my jaw locked forever,
my noble and aching
intentions paralyzed
till the breath runs out,
torn between notions
of duty and desire.

each page

i held your book
upon my lap
as you sat still before me,
each page a tiny lock of hair,
on fire, alive and flowing,
touching something
beyond the skin,
some deeper beauty
culled within.

i wanted to press
the pages to my lips,
to commit them all to memory,
in case our time
ran out too quickly,
and you forgot my bravery.

***

(old poem december//2009)

drawing shades

i smoke nails in red light
dreaming of another life
where i'm allowed to follow
that path of freckles
trailing along
your golden arm,
while your eyes are closed
in the quiet cave of sleep,
and you dream about me differently.

while we are the sum
of what we've been given,
we're also the sum
of what's been taken,
and of what we'll never receive,
like the chance to
whisper into your throat
ever so softly.

now i'm getting better
at drawing shades
across the window
resting upon my chest,
but every once in awhile
i have to let some light in,
and the sound of your name
has always burned so brightly.

dirty lashes

oh honey honey,
your dirty lashes
and clean lips,
they give me
seizures in the night,
and i am foaming
at the thought
of your body in sunlight,
the trees listening
to our static charges
crackle and pop
in the air between
two parallel frames,
while you ask me questions
that i answer quickly,
so i can ask you more
and listen slowly.

hiding

i am hiding from you
because i cannot hide from myself.
every little winter's night
follows me around town,
chained to my chest by mistake.

your name reminds me
of all the time i gave you,
believing it would never run out.
there's an empty space in my head,
where the good words used to live,
that i cannot escape.

i wish the spirits talked to me
like they used to,
but they've given their chorus
to prettier kids,
they sing into their clean ears,
while i wait in the dusty closet,
hoping for original portents.

abandon

"You have write down what you're going to abandon."

--Leonard Cohen

(from the film "I'm Your Man")

all the kids have cameras

i've got to catch up.
all the kids have cameras,
or they have ideas
they pour easily on paper.
they're all so good
at making something out of nothing,
and it makes me feel small
when i can't think at all.

they wear time on their hands,
i wear time on my face.
it's not a fashion statement,
it's a war for attention,
and many soldiers of art
are shot dead everyday.
they just close their eyes,
with dreams unrealized.

and i don't want to be
a forgotten corpse.
please try to remember
that i made something for you,
when i felt urgency knocking
at my back door,
and the words were there
like they'd never been before.

my new rules for writing/living

assume nothing.
Murphy is right.
never go against your gut.
everyone is potentially under opposition control.
don't look back, you are never completely alone.
go with the flow.
use the terrain.
establish a distinctive and dynamic profile and pattern.
stay consistent over time.
let them believe they lost you.
act innocent.
lull them into a sense of complacency.
there is no limit to a human beings ability to rationalize the truth.
once is an accident.
twice is a coincidence.
three times is an enemy action.
use misdirection, illusion and deception.

####

the commandments of espionage!

as told by
antonio mendez,
ex cia operative,
chief of disguises,
in the "little grey man" episode of
"errol morris: first person"

trap

i think that there should be no names,
'cause names make this far too real.
just let me remove my face
and float above the city streets.

i keep falling for the same old trap,
the lock rings like your buoyant laugh,
i jail myself willingly.

they say i've got a tiger's strength,
but it spills out of my worn sleeves
whenever i hear you breathe.

they say your actions speak louder,
but i always get the wrong idea,
though we're looking for the same old thing.

and i don't know where to lay my head,
there's too many stones in my bed,
and a story behind every one.

sometimes at night they whisper to me,
about the things that might have been,
i could try to tell you what it means...

but i'm always told that it's way too much,
or never ever good enough,
so i'll keep my lips pressed tight
so i won't have to say goodbye.

i want to fall into a routine
where being with you has meaning,
and i want you to want the same for me,
i want you to want the same for me,
i want you to want the same for me.

charmed respite

lets eliminate
the air between us
and cling to our skins
in the quiet hours.

let me press my face
into your neck
and match breathing patterns,
let me have this content time.

i've been waiting for so long
to write that kind of song,
and i want this to
last long enough to forget
that it's only just a moment.

lets close our eyes
and savour it.
i think we've earned
this charmed respite.

december 28th, 2009

just listen to my story:
it proves i want to give you
everything i can
whenever you may need it.

just look into my eyes:
they've been open for a hundred years
and i want to close them
by your side.

just take my hands:
they've been ready all along,
they sing with ink
all through the evening.

just kiss me now:
for snow is falling on my hair
and my lips are
numb and pleading.

this flag not fondly waving #6

now it's computers and more computers
and soon everybody will have one,
3-year olds will have computers
and everybody will know everything
about everybody else
long before they meet them
and so they won't want to meet them.
nobody will want to meet anybody
else ever again
and everybody will be
a recluse
like i am now.

--Charles Bukowski

sit still

when you played with my hair,
that was the best part.
i could stop talking,
close my eyes,
and lay my head upon your lap.
everything created halted.
the feel of your fingers
became my universe.

it's all i ever wanted:
your bedroom just small enough
to sit still and be quiet in,

and the sparks that jump
off your fingernails
as we sigh away the night.

night watches me

you have your eyes closed
and i am awake,
as night watches me
wander the streets,
whispering your european name
to no one but stray cats
who hold vigil over
my footsteps fading.

and i long to hear your voice
more than my own tonight,
describing everything you dream
after you fall asleep.

daymonth

i remember
how we danced that night,
your hair a waterfall of light
spilling out your
precious skull,

the days and months and years
melting into one moment
when we stood side by side
and forgot our names and fears

after the music stopped
it all came back to me,
how beautiful your name is
when whispered softly,
how the wall you painted
your portrait upon
is strong but crumbling,
how i tremble when you're near.

before and after doesn't matter,
in a house full of abstract ideas
we made perfect sense,
and that's more than enough
to build a dream together.

galaxy

you're probably still caressing
the porcelain throne as i write this,
but i just wanted you to know
that i was so happy to see
your warm and tender cottage,
and all the art you created
out of thin air and blood
hanging on your walls,
and all the important tiny things
that hold your beautiful body still
in the middle of the night.

i felt a great rise of delight
crackle within me
as the bottle grew empty,
and the poems were read,
and you looked at me with
your alive eyes,
so electric in their vision.

and while i wanted to stay
in that room forever
to listen to the silence
that blankets your dreams,
i felt it a more gentlemanly act
to leave you with your whiskey sickness,
so you wouldn't be
so embarrassed upon waking
at finding me
dozing in your bed,
Bukowski sleeping
right beside.

when you wake in the morning
and find this waiting
know that
the 3am Toronto streets
were brighter than they'd ever been,
for the smile you gave me
shines like
the heart of a galaxy.

bleach

i didn't want to leave.

i wanted to smell
the bleach in your hair
all through the night,
while the city sighed
and the silence
covered our nervous bones
like a blanket.

moon palace

"Libraries aren't in the real world, after all. They're places apart, sanctuaries of pure thought. In that way I can go on living on the moon for the rest of my life."

--Paul Auster, "Moon Palace"