From a Shot Gun Lens (Trenton to Goose)

Winters’ Summer is here
the constellations of the forest within
haunt
and we wonder about the storms flying into a northern triangle
– Bermuda’s movement from the ocean to the escarpment.

This is not Alaska tho
North Bay comes down O’Brien Street
shutting off the plumbing through Highway Eleven
whispers ‘I’m on my way further dropping gifts on Goose Bay’

In the stores – Florida Strawberries finish out the South
the rest are packed for Spring in transport trailers
waiting
to be called ‘fresh’ by companies nine months down the line

In the stars I see ourselves moving beyond considered cold
hear the whispers of the trees changing shapes into arrows
dipping
a spoon into the cold Nipissing splashing my face with wind
– lock the door to the back deck of splendor

– a fire pit looks lonely
a tipped over plastic chair says ‘unbury me’
the sky does battle with the forest and a highway
plots a course for the planes
determined
to wish a Merry Christmas from Trenton.

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Calmness After

there is no such disaster in death
no more certainty than the endless down pour of snow –
and it snows here in a parade which left the Huron
searching for the separated escarpment not knowing the difference
South or North? Niagara or North Bay?

at work it continues outside battling the safety of indoor propaganda –
stocking shelves and listing prices
leave your job early please and fill up your carts before home
should you load up on fresh frozen meat or choose vegetables for your cellar?

somewhere in this – my mind wanders wishing to be the unusual man
believing death can be defeated –
there could be a time for the uselessness of poppies
the opium is not needed to forget the memories and the chest has no need of remembering the broken heart

but for now – babe
let’s just watch it snow
it can suck up the car left out of the garage and we can think of shopping another day –
think of winter storag’d strawberries or a fresh tracked kill along the 11 highway to home
no? and that’s fine too
because i am the unusual man who is lost on a storm from the Huron…
South escarpment home? Northern Bay Hills of now?

no? and No.


North Bay I love ya (but)…..

down south?
what the hell can you mean by
down south?

this is North Bay
not florida

Toronto is only 4 hours away for gawd’s sake.

this is how you create early dementia
how you create isolation of the ‘North’

stay indoors from the rest of Ontario
be too afraid to explore your own surroundings

keep prejudices and old grandfather’d ideas in place
my gawd

Ottawa is 4 hours away
do you say you’re going out East?

you mean – like Nova Scotia?

do Kingston people say
‘i’m going out West’ when heading to Hamilton?

you must mean Edmonton because nobody goes to Hamilton
unless they realize Hamilton is the secret pearl beyond T-Dot…..

going down south….
W
T
F…..


Honolulu

two nights ago i dreamt
and we named her ‘Claire’
despite real word names we’ve already chosen

‘if a boy we’ll name him
or a if a girl we’ll name her

and she felt good in my arms.

all the worry of whether i was ready
would sleepless nights fuck my nerves
or would 9 months then or after change your demeanor….

they left – inside those eyes of a smile.

this morning i daydreamed
and she was there in car seat laughing
holding a boston pup of her own
while laughing and kissing an older version in the same mirror.

i smiled and went on with my day
while thinking of this house
our first home – my first night alone –
and night dreaming of messing up the hair of a young lad
coming down the stairs in early evening.

now

none of this means anything
but Hawaii in February sounds promising

i’ll buy a fedora
a ukulele

maybe some local poetry

and you’ll soak up the sun
ask for all the tours
and we’ll never tire of the beach

but perhaps…..

no

i dunno

but perhaps….

and tonight i wait to sleep
while the radio plays online from Honolulu
and while the snow falls lightly on the roof

while you look warm
under the sheets – in the blue tinge of night….
and before we sleep.


Island girl in your orange peel bikini
– the waiting period while cooking chicken in the rain.
wine poured resting on the table top cooking island
window collecting steam – palm trees drawn

90 days are the nights in anticipation
weeks drawn and pulled by workhorse hours
– at night we sleep under sleeping bags
dream of the ‘nothing but sand’ and ‘whispering hula skirt’ weather

the waiting period while cooking chicken in the rain
cold shingles and insulated windows with reverse trees blowing in storm.
– tonight we will close our eyes after our full meal under sleeping bags and quilts
i will hold you in your orange peel anticipation and dream of ‘nothing but hula skirt’ weather

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North Bay: 51

it’s coming – this dangerous weather
where we lose our virginity and witness winter
go to work and listen to the Hawaiians in shock
watch trucks from Texas spin out into the ditch
hear the hometown folk say ‘yep it gets bad sometimes’

it’s coming – and it’s been a long time since i was a virgin…..


piss poor painter

if it came that i painted you
would you think less of me?
calling myself Shelley
– and not to degrade you
but to say I was desperate?

desperate in a way that says
I could not live without you
a person in my life which i felt i created in such a way
that you could not leave me?

that lack of confidence
or that state of loneliness which lays
only in dreams and perhaps outside reality
where the abandonment creeps in
and the necessity of love must find itself once the eyes open

but i did not paint you
you came naturally into my life
and became part of me in such a way
that i had to become part of you

each a new creation of the other from the best part of ourselves
dark and mysterious with a ray of hope
understanding that separation only makes us each less of a new
complete whole.

and i am thankful for you
and am thankful that you are more real than any dream
or wishful companion which could never stay for long
i am glad that i could never be a painter……


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