Friday March 24, 2017
She wouldn’t like that I am telling you this but when I was young I would have said my mom made the best Caesar salads out of anyone because she used those bacon bits or those “facon” bits or whatever they were called. She would tell you she knows better these days. She might even say that it wasn’t true.
I would have said that my mom liked to yell.
She’d say she didn’t like it but she had to do it because we misbehaved a lot. Misbehaving meant bickering with one another. Misbehaving meant not listening to her.
I would have said that she smelled like vanilla and could whoop your ass in Tetras.
Friday January 27, 2017 at Bump n Grind on Granville
You opened up your belly with a whale bone and you filled yourself with rocks.
You went into the river, and you didn’t sink, you floated down, like Ophelia, you floated all the way to the beginning.
When you arrived there, you planted the rocks like seeds and restitched your belly with a daisy chain.
You watered those seeds until words grew:
You picked the words and tied a blue ribbon around their stems.
You gave them to me.
You told me this story and then I kissed your scar. I cradled ‘goodbye’. ‘rhythm’, and ‘hope’.
I changed their water and fed you peanut butter banana sandwiches.
I watched ‘goodbye’ grow and ‘rhythm’ die.
Monday December 26, 2016
from an old tag
I was waiting for the perfect lull of eventual inhale that my mother would have to take before continuing on in her way about the planters and the balcony hangers. She always got so excited about the possibility of me becoming more self-sufficient in a way that no one would have thought twice about when she was my age. I didn’t exactly have the heart to tell her hat I didn’t have a green thumb or possibly any thumb and this would all be a moot point. She was too busy telling me I could do basil and parsley or tomatoes even, because then I could “at least make a proper sugo.” What I really wanted was for her to stop talking long enough for me to tell her about the poem that had just gotten accepted into a Canadian anthology. Maybe she would be excited that I managed to make some kind of art..or maybe she would think it didn’t matter if it couldn’t be added to an eggplant parmigiana.
Thursday January 30, 2014
I was born in a big city
A big big city
Lots of doctors
Lots of people saying they’re gonna do great things
Lots of immigrants trying to prove they made the right decision in coming here
I was born where I now am
I left for a while, barely knew it was my first home until two decades later
Lots of people
Lots of people like my family but even more unlike them
The ones I didn’t realize also lived here
When you’re young you don’t know
You just don’t know what the composition of your city is
You think it’s smaller than it is
You think it’s bigger than it is
You grow up and you leave where you had no choice in living in the first place
You come back to your big big city
And you try to fit in like you never left
You try wearing the clothes of your city
Try smoking the grass of your city
And when you’re away from where you knew, that’s all of a sudden when you need to write about it
The mean kids
The narrow minded views
The cheese factories
The empty highways
Cause you write about what you know