Wednesday August 23, 2017
From a storefront on West Broadway
Words are my best lover
knowing when to go slow and move slick
Whisper whisper the sweet fuck
I cradle my notebook like your elbow
the salty spot where your hip is
my lip is I snuggle my pen and
don’t sweat the stain
Words know me and grow me and stretch
the truth of the t-r-u-t-h
of the b-o-d-y
b can oh-nly contain oh oh oh
d is the darkness
is the depth
is the deep
why y y why
Words, my tonic, my prince, my
Tuesday July 25, 2017
The Home Depot ad
If I bought you a popsicle, I’d buy you a rocket. I’d hold it for you, so that as you ate it in the thick heat, none would drip onto your shirt. It’s white. That’s the real gift. I wouldn’t mind if my hands got sticky. I might not even wash them. I might save the stick until the night, when I’d spend a bit of time with them before crawling into bed. I’d have to wash my sheets, but it would be worth it.
Friday May 5, 2017 at JJ Bean
my family speaks poetry through me as I walk from my house to a place that isn’t
I am stopped on the sidewalk with the urge to take notes
They are dictating faster than I can write
The stories from our childhood, inspiration enough after the drought
I am greedy with rain and the secrets of our youth
the clues to finding solace in a memory built from our old garage,
the time we picked strawberries at the farm and made milkshakes,
the time we sang to Mariah Carey on the back porch and I made everyone
turn around to listen when it was my turn,
the time we got hats with the olympic rings on them at Mcdonalds,
the time we rode around on horses while they defecated,
the time I asked my older cousin if we could have a “talk” because I was feeling left out, the time they got the shots for whipping baby field mice against the brick
Thursday May 4, 2017 at JJ Bean
Thursda May 4, 2017
My aunt Barb tells me that she wrote herself a note when she “wasn’t straight” about how the “negativity is too loud in her head” and “cutting through all her good thoughts”. We (the family, collectively) got her into medicinal marijuana after her husband passed away last June. We wanted him to try it but he refused to smoke the stuff even after we showed him all the videos of people his age trying it. Barb is in love with it. She calls me at least once a day with her “new thoughts”. Yesterday she told me that “the sky is trying to kill her” and that she “would go but there is laundry to be folded”. In a meeting with the cousins, we secretly discuss Barb’s usage and pat ourselves on the back for helping her out. Then her daughter, Dina, raises her hand timidly. “My mom says she wants to try crack next!”
Sunday January 15, 2017
When I broke into your home, your roommate was fucking her girlfriend. I wasn’t sure if I should stay, or go, or pretend that this was a normal way to spend a Wednesday evening. I knew that you were in China, and that a million different people were taking you out for every meal of the day. I knew that you hadn’t texted me back in exactly seventy six days. I get in your room, the moaning and screaming coming through the wall, and I’m not even sure what to do, I’m not even sure what I want. I take off all of my clothes. I climb into your bed. I drink in your smell.
Sunday, August 28, 2016
From a piece of feedback
They did not tell us that we would fight like dogs
and fuck like them too especially when the heat broke
They did not tell us that there would be days when
everything would feel broken
They did not say,
“Kindness is the most important thing, followed
closely by respect, by humour, by knowing when to
let it go and when to raise the torch.”
They did not say that there would be times when
we would be strangers sleeping side by side.
They did not tell us that we would fall deeper
in love with each fight, each fuck, each break,
each repair, each song, each pizza, each jump
Saturday July 30, 2016 at Lit on Ronces
Overheard at Lit on Roncesvalles
James wants to move out to the burbs once he’s done his internship. He keeps talking about the “size of the lots”… “There’s nothing for us here, Carly,” he keeps saying and I don’t know what he means and I absolutely do not agree. There’s lots for us. Lots for all of us, not just me and him. I’m not getting cold feet or anything, but I don’t really feel excited when he talks like that – like he has a plan that I’m not privy to, like he thinks he’s the boss of our future. I actually asked him last night, “Do you want a pool, James?! Do you want a damn hot tub?” And he laughed because he thought that maybe I was joking or something.
Wednesday July 6, 2016
When I touch you; Peter Ilyanov
Me and you create a secret language of only vowels and speak it when we’re in public. Only we know what we’re saying. There’s power in that. It’s no surprise that I fall in love with you over “o” and “a”, the soft shape of pursed lips, a kiss somewhere behind there.
Some people make fun of us, we hear them cackling or whispering.
Tuesday June 14, 2016
The front page of the Westender
His breath is sharp parmesan cheese, shaved with a pocket knife.
His back is the topography of vineyards, muscles of grapes and sweat of dew.
His words are wise cirrus clouds almost touching heaven.
When we walk together our strides fall into one stride, two strides, three strides, a harmony of flavour and footsteps.
When we swim, he’s stronger so he’s faster. I watch the ripple of the water where his arms break the surface, break the break, broken in more than two.
When we sleep, I fall asleep first and I feel his eyes, Jupiter on the pillow here, scavenging for secrets that haven’t been grated yet, waiting for the moment to eclipse.
Wednesday May 4, 2016
From the back of a pamphlet
Dreaming something big
Holding on to secret secrets
Picking daisies making chains
We are forever of the earth
Got our back packs filled
With beach rocks
And honey sticks
Talking a lot
In the moments between
Silence and acceptance
About the dreams
That will become truths
That will become our future
In the sand
And we braid each other’s hair
And each other’s heart strings
And we tie knots around the wisdom
That keeps us dreaming big
Saturday February 27, 2016
From the tetra pack of arugula
“You can keep your shrubs and your sourdough starter and your kombucha mother!” He says, throwing his cup at me. Luckily it’s tin and so it just sort of bounced on the floor a few times. I laughed. He didn’t.
I love Chris, but like, he isn’t the one. I always knew that. He was a good bang and had a great beard and he knew how to give amazing foot rubs and make great spaghetti sauce.
I don’t think I’ll get on Internet dating or anything. I’m going to get really into infusing… Vodka, vanilla… You name it, I’ll infuse it.
Friday February 26, 2016
Overheard on Yew St.
How cool would it be if we knit identical toques and used the same wool and everything and how cool would it be if we never really took them off, only to shower and stuff?
We would absolutely have to go up to where the snow is to roll in it cuz what’s the point of toques if we aren’t in snow? The twinkle lights would be twinkling and we would bring a thermos of tea and a bar of dark chocolate and our heads would be warm and our fingers would be cold but we’d kiss under the stars and we’d feel more alive than ever.
Friday February 26, 2016
Overheard on Yew St.
You and me
Nothing on our backs…
but the idea…
that we couldn’t….
And the wouldn’t
Gone long and far because
We chose to set it free
But now is
because we chose to give ourselves
over to the truth
So no more lies
If we say so
We can could do-
We can anything:
Until we decide–
Thursday February 25, 2016
Treasures & Travels Blog
You yelled in the car ride over to Tessa’s gallery opening and I had to beg you to pull over so I could get out before you killed us both with your rage. When I got out of the car I wiped my eyes, reapplied the lipstick I had chewed off and walked so fast ahead of you it may have seemed like I was trying to lose you. For the record: I was. I forced a smile to peel onto my lips and I strut through the trendy studio space like I invented the idea of putting so many pillars everywhere. Tessa was happy to see me and she hugged me tight and said How are you though?! I lied through my teeth and said Your art makes me want to be a better person. She was thrilled and then she left me alone. You finally entered the gallery and by that moment I thought you had decided not to come at all. I was planning my way home in my head and how when I finally got back, if you were still awake, I’d just walk straight to the bedroom and close the door. You saw that I saw you and even when I turned my back to you, you came right over to me and kissed me so sorry I forgot for a second how scared I was just minutes ago. I didn’t mean it, you cooed in my ear. I didn’t mean any of it.
Monday February 22, 2016
I arrive at his apartment above the bike shop, with the deck that looks like a pier and the tiny plastic, dancing monkeys on the old reel-to-reel, with the roommate that is only a voice on the other side of the door, who I’ve never actually met. Ben meets me at the front door, shirtless in old grey sweat shorts and a brown hat. He whispers in my ear when I hug him,
“I’m really high right now”.
Ben has recently broken up with his girlfriend of five and a half years, Sonja. She’s in Paris doing an internship at a gallery. I imagine her to be really beautifully, thin, knowing an a whole lot about Marina Abromovic and fancy cheese. Ben speaks of her often. He clearly still loves her. I know what he’s doing, replacing the woman’s body beside him in his bed. I wonder if I’m the only one.
Tuesday February 16, 2016
from a picture of Joe’s t-shirt
I liked him because he thought my name was Vanessa.
I liked him because he’d make excuses to talk to me.
Because he’d serenade me in the funniest ways and always show up in my doorway without a reason.
Because his smile hasn’t changed one bit since he was little.
Because he knows how to communicate me to me.
Because he can educate without agendas or judgments.
I liked him because he was charming.
Because he was funny.
Because he was the best looking thing I’d ever seen.
I liked him because he wore truth-manifesting, subliminal foreshadowing on his funny old t-shirts.
I liked that his favorite shirt used to be the one that read “WORLD’S GREATEST DAD”.
I liked him because I believed he believed he would be.
Wednesday February 10, 2016
I imagine our future as orchids
as shooting stars
as bits of sand when
under a microscope
the whole universe
I imagine our future
can’t help myself
I’m a dream junkie
arm bruised with pockmarks of
maybe and when
I imagine our future ceilings
catching wishes in open laughter mouths
I imagine our future claw foot tub
warm water swirling down the memory drain
I imagine our future babies
All cheeks and nerve
Saturday, January 2, 2016
Damn good job so far. I am proud of you. I have enjoyed being the voice inside your head, but also the fly on the wall that listens when you’re focused and thriving. I think your determination to find yourself inside yourself is incredibly inspiring. You should be proud of you too. You have not given up on your quest for truth and I like that about you. It makes things fun. I especially like it when you challenge your previous notions, opinions, behaviours, and desires. It’s very thrilling! Sometimes I hold on tight and secretly wish that you drove more gracefully but I have to admit that I would resent you for never risking anything. Nice balance! It’s a little new, isn’t it? But I’m impressed with how little the newness prevents you from investigating and fighting for yourself. I love you a lot. I’m excited for what’s next.
Saturday, January 2, 2016
When I find myself I’m sitting with my back up against an old Arbutus tree, the bark peeling away to reveal bright gold skin. I am surprised by how old I look, not in the sense of stained teeth from too much tea or grey hairs salting the pepper, but in the way that my mother might notice all that I’ve gone through in the months she hasn’t seen me. “Look at those lines around your eyes,” she says. “Your life. Right there.”
I find myself exceptionally interesting. We all think we just might be the most complex, nuanced, spicy creature in the herd. I sit down beside myself and don’t say anything. I take my hand and look at the palm – so known, so unknown.
Saturday, December 26, 2015
overheard at YVR
I am not the martyr you’re looking for
m for the mother that shamed you into thinking you could never be enough
a for the assumption that all women have a daddy issue
r for the restful quiet after the storm has passed
t for the time you take to love me like a snail inching his way towards water
y for the years we’ve done this over and over always finding the patience a mirage in the desert stretch
r for the reason why we show up again and again even when we don’t want to the quiet voice that lives in the root of the heart knows
Wednesday November 25, 2015 at Platform Seven Coffee
Lying on the hood of Jeff’s car, the metal is hot against Sara’s back. She’s wearing the sundress she borrowed from Mel, with the cut-out mid back and the tiny birds. It’s their Sunday ritual, one that Jeff proposed before Sara stopped smoking week and before they both read Joan Didion. A plane takes off and they both close their eyes. Jeff counts to seven out, shouting. When they open their eyes, the plane is right above them. Sara grabs Jeff’s hands and suddenly the fact that he hasn’t eaten her out in seven months and that there are three days worth of dishes in the sink when they get home and that her Mom found another lump in her breast… None of it matters.
Tuesday November 24, 2015
from a poem by bell hooks
it was that time of gold
the innocence of maple butter
slathered on cheeks kissed by the wind
a typhoid of hormones
your fingertips a garter snake in
the zucchini flowers
it was that time of innocence
too much lavender incense from
the dollar store
chipped nail polish tea leaves
empty fortune cookies celebrated
leaving more room for our dreams
Thursday November 12, 2015
from the weather network
What you can do:
Actually listen (ie. refrain from thinking about whether or not your lover just texted a sexy picture of their shoulders or what you’re going to have for dinner).
Breathe deep and feel your feet on the floor.
Bring Sleepytime tea and a hot water bottle with a dog on it. Even if there’s a rainfall warning or a blizzard or you really just want to stay in your pyjamas and watch reruns of Nashville.
Stay for a sleepover and rub her back until she’s sleeping even if you are also tired. Wait until she falls asleep and then you can follow.
What you can say:
“I believe you.”
“I believe you.”
“I believe you.”
“I believe you.”
“I love you.”
“I support whatever choice you make.”
“I believe you.”
Sunday November 1, 2015
An ad for a Life Coach
Your arms around my hips
I’m the Appalachians
I’m striking a match and setting the sky aflame
with the colours of our love
Your head in my lap
I’m the Saskatchewan prairie stretching all the way from
somewhere to nowhere
I’m the North Star
Guiding migrations and permutations
Your forehead pressed to mine
I’m more powerful than Plato
I’m brighter than the sun on the Sahara
I’m stronger than a thousand elephants charging East
I’m ready for all the rocket launches and the boomerangs
Wednesday October 28, 2015 at JJ Bean
A Thin Green Mist
He stands at the window. She ducks beside him.
Do you think they can see us?
No. Don’t even say that.
Well they could!
No they could not. Stop.
You know they could, come on, that’s part of the fun…
He slips his hand down the front of her blouse.
What, I’m just participating. It’s what they want…
He nibbles on her ear.
I don’t know if I can…
Shit! They just looked over here!
Good. Let them watch. That’s what we’re doing.
I don’t want them to know I’m watching!
I kind of like it…
She runs to turn the light off.
They’re really going at it, huh.
He unbuttons her blouse slowly.
Monday, October 12, 2015
from a quote by Toni Morrison
Spread the butter on thick how I like it
We’re counting orgasms not calories
This love is bigger than pluto
Bigger than clouds
Bigger than the breath between the fall and winter
You’re grabbing at my knees
Tickling the space between present and future
Ear pressed against my belly
Listening for the rising moon
Friday October 9, 2015 at Benny’s
from an e-mail
I don’t know what to say. I’m afraid that when I open my mouth I’m going to say the wrong thing. I’m afraid I’m going to ask how Judd’s doing, if he’s been playing his guitar in the hospital. I don’t know what to say so I would like to invite you over for pizza. I’m going to make it. I’ll knead the dough and let it rise and it will be thin, how you like it. I won’t put tomato sauce on it, because tomatoes make your tongue feel strange. If you bring Judd up, I’ll listen. I won’t change the subject because I don’t know what to say. I’ll give you a massive ball of dough to take home so that you can make pizzas all week. I’ll loan you my pizza pan. I’ll kiss your eyes. I’ll let you sleep over.
Thursday October 8, 2015 at JJ Bean
Thursday, October 8, 2015
I am revisiting the spot in my brain where I first made the decision to love you. I’m trying to be objective here, so don’t go trying to insert your memories. I know when I told you. I said it first, cause I always do, and I knew you felt it but you were scared of me and didn’t want to be the one to risk it. That’s a pattern for you. I am always the one to risk it. That’s a pattern for me.
In this tiny shoe box in my mind, I can see very little around the moment. There’s no colour. There’s no music. It’s a rainy day and we’re sitting at a bar. I don’t know what we’re drinking. But I know I like you and I know you like me. I’m glad there wasn’t some showy fireworks display going off in my body. It was a simple and true moment and it felt like it had made a home for itself in all the soft parts of me. You said something easy like, Have you ever mixed BBQ chips with chocolate chips? And I said something easy back like, I don’t know how I haven’t done that already. It was somewhere between that and the way you kissed me on the street before you walked away.
Saturday September 26, 2015
Simone brings Jude a butter tart at work. He woke up with a cold and she feels bad for him. Butter tarts are Jude’s love language. Simone learned this two years too late. She bikes from the bakery all the way downtown, sticking to side streets. Biking in the fall reminds Simone of grade five, the first year she got to cycle to school on her own. The independence was dizzying. She texts Jude from the lobby. “I’m here!” He doesn’t respond and she only waits a moment or two. She tries to find the stairs but fails and finally takes the elevator up to the twelfth floor. This is one of those strange buildings that doesn’t have a thirteenth. She wonders about paranoia and superstition. She wonders who started the thirteen witch hunt. She like the number – the mix of tall and wide. She suddenly feels nervous about being at Jude’s work – like she doesn’t belong. She wishes she had taken the bus, maybe then she wouldn’t be so windswept and sweaty.
Tuesday September 15, 2015
From a vintage ad for American Cyanamid Company
purple flannel twisted around ankles
my bum against your bum
you said grace
at first i was annoyed
i’m kind of sick!
i really listened
“thank you for this food on our plates
thank you for the love in our home
thank you for thanksgiving”
how you pray in your sleep
how you love in your dreams
how you bless me with your sweetness
Saturday, August 29, 2015
from a quote by Jean Shinoda Bolen
When we love
we burn the sweetgrass of our lover’s breath
like the caterpillar crawling across the grass
When we love
we leave behind what we don’t need
The snakes skin
A brittle forgotten pile on the side of the dirt road
When we love
we worship at the feet of a many sided God
we adorn her with rose oil
we kiss each toe
When we love
we wash in holy water
we sacrifice everything we thought we knew
for something mysteriously more
for something more holy than we ever knew possible
Thursday, August 27, 20151
Presence of Minds: The Importance of Active Exploration and Response in Dramaturgy
Christopher Michael Petty
I find I’m less lonely when the radio’s on. I’m sorry to be speaking about my loneliness again. I find that when the radio’s on I think less about Gwen and more about the whole wide world. Like the wars and the orphans and the earthquakes and global warming. Strangely, it doesn’t depress me like it used to… It used to really throw me for a loop. I actually remember saying to Gwen, “I can’t watch the news anymore, dear. Makes me feel so helpless and sad.” She’d draw spirals on my palm with her pinky.
Saturday, August 22, 2015
Art & Fear
David Bayles & Ted Orland
When you come inside from dancing with the moon and making promises to her that you see the light she’s shedding and the path she’s illuminating just for you, your skin tingles with joy and recognition for the you she knows.
Your skin: The protector of your bones.
She is held together tight with a thousand promises just like the ones you made with your Moon Mother. And you can feel each one alive inside you, making their way down your veins to keep you warm.
You can’t live another way. You even feel tempted to shed the skin you’re in but she hugs your limbs in close and whispers, I’m Not Going Anywhere….I Still Know Your Insides.
If you don’t keep the dancing hot and perfect in your hair, and the pure boundless generosity you feel with every concentrated breath, then you might just live on in a different moment and you don’t blame yourself for that either.
Friday, August 21, 2015
Overheard at a bus stop
Biddy and me make a pact to bleed each other’s blood and wear each other’s smile. I want to marry Biddy so I can be around her all the time and let her light wash over me and catch me in all the right moments. Biddy plays the violin and when she does the whole world stops. I do all the humming and Biddy plays so I can feel. She tells me that I’m most me when I open my mouth and let my heart sing out. She tells me she can see me growing into the person who’s taking better care of me. She tells me I’m the kind of woman who becomes more beautiful with age and experience and confidence and time. It’s my idea to combine our life force and Biddy smiles with her whole face because she loves all of my grand ideas. She snips a lock of her strawberry blonde curls and wraps it around my finger to remind me that we’ve got each other’s soul close by.
Monday, August 17, 2015 at Propeller
Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want
I’ve been on my knees
begging someone please
take me from this tease
give this half life ease
I am not a victim but I have gone a long time without getting what I want and I think it’s fair to share that. I am not a victim but I don’t get things given to me for free or by accident or without me giving something first. I am not a victim but I watch other people win while I wait. I am not a victim but I don’t have any socks that match. I am not a victim but I do all the calling out and reaching out and loving out. I am not a victim but nothing ever works out for me. I am not a victim but I can’t lose weight. I am not a victim but I wasn’t put in piano lessons as a kid. I am not a victim but I’m always the last to know. I am not a victim but I play the part because it was designed for me.
Monday, August 17, 2015
Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want
All of my life I longed for a friend like you
Someone who would wear purple when I would wear blue
I wished on every birthday candle and every shooting star
That someone would appear who is just as you are
The day that I met you I felt everything shift
Like an earthquake or a season or an iceberg set adrift
I am writing to say I love you and that I always will
I am writing to say you’re the best and I’ll never get my fill
I think you’re the most creative person I have ever met
And your incredible curiosity means your mind is never set
You’re adventurous and funny and your smile lights the night
When you are by my side everything feels right
Thursday, July 30, 2015
From a shop in NYC
You’ve got that look on your face that says, “Come here, Eye Candy. Come here and let me butterfly kiss you.”
I know it because I’ve done it, because I used to have that magnetic ability that you have – making eye contact with someone across a dance floor, a re-claimed wood bar, a coffee shop. Beaconing without hands or words, a lighthouse of eyelashes and expanding pupils.
I’m not sure what’s changed.
I’ve done it once or twice since everything changed, since I did just that – butterfly kiss – and threw down an anchor in a man twice as honest as I am.
Friday, July 17, 2015
A tweet by Sheila Heti
Your last letter was hard to read and yet I find myself rereading it every day; sometimes twice. I didn’t know there were so many things you found unpleasing about me. After all this correspondence, I suppose two people can fight just as they would if they saw each other face to face as often. I am understanding of our closeness and though I’d like to believe our relationship is immune to the casualties of constant interaction, I see now that it is not special or unique at all. Part of me likes that it is not because it takes some of the pressures of perfection away. I know now that if you can hurt me, I can hurt you, and that doesn’t make us love each other any less. What I struggle with is the fear that you have felt this way for some time and my once beloved qualities have now added up to an amount that is undesirable to you. Please, Edith, if you would, respond in honesty: Have I been bothering you for long? Or have you just recently noticed my flaws? I wonder this for if it’s the latter then I have to ask: Is everything in the right place with you? Sometimes, my dear Edith, we see ourselves in others…
Sunday, July 12, 2015
from a text message
I send you an email because I’m not sure what else to do. You’re so sick in our bed and I can’t come in there because there’s a high probability that I’ll yell at you or say something dumb like, “wanna go get gelato?” or, “you look like shit!”
The email says:
Just wondering if you need anything? I’m going to CrossFit at 7… Please don’t die when I’m gone
You’re not going to check your email. You’re probably sleeping. You’re probably trying not to barf.
I send another one.
I’m terrible at this. I’m sorry. My Mom used to call my Gran to come when I was sick because she had no idea how to take care of anyone. Not even herself. Too bad my Gran’s dead or I’d see if she could come look after you…
Wednesday, July 8, 2015 at Moksha Yoga Vancouver
from Between Gods
I wake in the middle of the night and he’s got me by the throat. He’s playing around of course, don’t get the wrong idea.
“You’re a koala when you sleep. You look like a baby koala,” he says, whisper-breathed.
Groggy, I rub sleep from my eyes and roll on top of him. “What time is it?” I say, kissing his stubbled cheek.
“Who cares!” He grabs my ass.
We’ve only known each other twenty weeks. We moved in together after three.
“Oh Cassie,” my mother said. “You’ll get yourself in a real pickle!”
The first time we had sex I was hit with a bout of hysterical laughing part way through. Maybe it the sounds he made, maybe it was delirious fatigue, maybe it was that I loved him but I didn’t know what to call it, so it came out like laughter.
He started laughing, too. We had to stop, we were laughing so hard. He said my “vagina muscles were strangling his wang,” so I climbed off of him and just kept laughing.
Monday, June 15, 2015
A quote by bell hooks
Do me fix me haunt me lick me
i want that kind
that sticky kind
that getting matted in your hair kind
tangled in your feelings
watching a parade
dare me wear me tear me care me
i want that kind too
that exposed kind
that open and vulnerable scary and beautiful kind
accepting and overwhelming
sitting side by side at the river
ease me lift me tease me shift me
i want that kind
that vibrant kind
that moment intensifying everything is interesting kind
promises projected in each other’s eyes like a private motion picture show
Monday, June 8, 2015
Overheard at Culprit Coffee Co.
Then suddenly I was at his funeral and his mother had asked me to say a few words. I didn’t want to say any words at all, maybe for the first time in my entire life, even. I was angry at her for even suggesting it, as if she knew I couldn’t say no even though I feared that saying anything at all would break me into a million pieces, beyond repair and reassembly.
So I started to write out a dedication to my fiancé and realized it would take years to truly honour him properly. The way I was headed, I was lucky if I could get past writing his name without weeping uncontrollably, no matter where I was or how much I had just cried over him. I didn’t want to seem weak, but what if I couldn’t read anything when it was time? What if the only thing that came out was a pained shriek or a wimper?
Sunday, June 7, 2015
From a sign on Queen’s Quay
“I’m glad you’re here,” you said.
“I’m sorry for grabbing your arm that hard,” you said.
“Let’s go to the airport and buy tickets to wherever the next flight’s going,” you said.
Me, in my mother’s old lavender sundress, braless, six days of stubble laughing in my armpits. You, a denim shirt and black cut-offs, On The Road in your back pocket, the pages a promise of your wanderlust.
“Let’s have cake for dinner,” you said.
“Can you make me salad with exactly 15 green peas in it?” you said.
“I would impregnate you right now if we had the money and the bananas in the fruit basket,” you said.
Thursday June 4, 2015
She wakes up early in the morning, before the sun does, before the man does. He sleeps like a bear anyway. He wouldn’t notice if the house was on fire. He wouldn’t notice if his testicles were dipped in hydrochloric acid. For the record she has considered both options. She decides on sneaking her babies out without causing any physical pain. She doesn’t want to add to her little ones’ suffering. God knows they’be been through enough. She dresses her sleeping children as best she can. Georgia’s eyes flap open and she knows if she’s to wake anyone, Georgia’s the best one. She loves secrets. She’ll be good at helping her get the other two ready. She doesn’t even worry about the snoring bear. Georgia is quiet but she is curious. She puts her fingers to her lips and smiles with her eyes.
Wednesday June 3, 2015 at R&D
Birthing the new you out from the old you is the hard part. Woman on the floor Legs spread breathing breathing life into this place. And you, the new you, a bundle of joy wrapped up in perfect pain masked as a blanket has suffered the trauma just as any new born has. And just like the old you with your primal scream caught deep in your throat, your nightmares of the fight you put up just to be here, just to enter this new world from your old one are playing over and over again. You have a hope, you have a dream but you don’t know it yet–cause you’re so new. But you look at this new place with wonder and awe and excitement for all the magic it holds. You don’t leave all the things you wish you weren’t behind, but you don’t know how to access them in this place yet—Which is a good thing—because the hard part—the hard part before birthing your new self—is the discipline of leaving the you that doesn’t belong here on the shelf.
Wednesday June 3, 2015 at Kafka’s
in your oldest jeans and a threadbare flannel shirt
green and blue plaid
hands in your pockets
quietly jingling your nickels and dimes
all cedar wisdom and morning sweetness
a musky leader never leaving the ring
scribbling prophecies in your notebook
collaging dreams with photographs from albums filled with unknown faces
push into a new space
lift up to be bigger and deeper and more fluid
jump but in stillness
dive but in
Sunday May 31, 2015
You can’t make fire with rain
STOP with the analogies
Just let me LIVE
I am trying so hard, believe me
Yeah, you’re not a martyr at all
You make me seem so horrible
So fucking horrible
I don’t know who this person you see is, but I swear it’s not me
It takes horrible to know horrible
Why would you say that?
I don’t know
Maybe you resist being horrible
because you are horrible
I didn’t mean that
Please don’t leave
Thursday May 28, 2015
Overheard at Lansdowne Station
We say our work is nothing more than what it is
Be here now
Bask in the sunlight
When the mud’s in season
Quartz on the soles of our shoes
Calypso on the radio
Deep in work
We still get up and dance
The mint is taking over the whole garden
We add it to breakfast, lunch and dinner
You make the bed this morning
Tucking a wish under my pillow
We finally start to plan our wedding
Peonies and bare feet
Offering howls of love and future
to the August moon
Tuesday May 26, 2015 at Culprit Coffee
Tr. By Nevit O. Ergin and Will Johnson
blurring past a cityscape
hoping for a swift mistake
making friends with the unknown
in that direction
now is that direction
not a direction but
fishing in the ocean deep
make a promise you can keep
evening primrose kisses
blood’s all washed off
the greyhound lurches and you spurt a prophecy
i love you most in the rain
i love you most when you’re hurtin’
i love you most when i’m
let’s take that as our last name
Tuesday May 26, 2015
Tr. By Nevit O. Ergin and Will Johnson
Like the wind, she speaks, she says
Oooh ooh, yes, yes
Calmly without rushing
No goal exists but to breathe in
every single moment
she whispers through my hair
Hums a day song worth remembering
Oooh ooh, yes, yes
And they say go where the wind blows you
And they say if you’re moved travel alongside her
I don’t know where she’s taking me
But I feel cradled in her billowy arms
And I feel welcomed by her carefree smile
Shhh shh, yes, yes
She reminds me to take time
She reminds me to inhale
and stop worrying
and stop worrying
Shhh shh, yes, yes
I’m here for you until you get to where you’re going
And the air is changed beneath me
And the air is changed right through me