Monthly Archives: September 2015

My Archaeology

we are ghosts ourselves
digging into the past
seeing our future bodification
rib inside rib
sleep before our sleep


will search for us?
will they open our resting mound and find truth?

along the shoreline grey morning
you could carry my frame and feel it in your soul

‘as you are now so once was i’…

and i leave this museum
Washington a memorial to death and duty
Smithsonian knowledge – Egyptian smiles behind glass
a wash of a crowd wondering only in this moment.


maybe we’re both to blame

i don’t know you
say hello

i don’t know you
knock on my door

i don’t know you
call me

i don’t know you
sit at my table

i don’t know you
text me

i don’t know you
email me

i don’t know you
ask if i like coffee

i don’t know you…..

i don’t know you either

the truck still travels free

we found the Exit
it’s out to Quebec- sur-Richelieu

the map we’ve had is a maze
it’s a Tom-Tom lost on new streets
but the adventure has made us
saying to ourselves ‘ there is God’
not – ‘a god’

and ‘o my God we’re here’

where the entrance is
we’ll circle around twice
this new language – we can speak to hearts-ourselves
put your map down
slide in the bench seat next to me

fighters who fight
never see the ring

lovers who love
never box the ring

there’s more to travel
more to see

survived the survival

now we’ll exceed expectations

thrive on moments
create marks of ‘X’ where we think they need be

we found the Exit
it’s Cornwall and beyond
not sure where – but honey –
saying to ourselves ‘………..’

1,000 lakes – 10 billion stars more

if there’s a star to the north of here
then where the hell is here in location to there
here i am floating on the still lake of Stoco
my boat is the wave at the river mouth of Clare
under the bridge we start into Moira
around the sand lodge and the outlet of rock towels
we’ll call this Sugar Island dear

but tonight on the fire
while i camp in my cabin
i stand on the deck and i point you up there
with your hand on your eyes
you call that the dipper
close the screen door saying’ don’t let mosquitoes
find their way in’

if there’s a star to the north of this nothingness
tell it to take its time leaving us tonight
i don’t want to wake admit this is summers end
i just want to dream of my fishermen’s tales

the middle of this lake is calm and it’s clear
tonight in my boat i will stand and look in
together we will point and say ‘yes that’s the north star’
and paddle in unison back to the shores of Lake Stoco….


the professionals took over
they closed the door on the country birds
while thanking them for their hard work
the intellectuals are the stars as always
the university degree’d yawners




tell you – without stuttering

writing is not the same as museum art
people will not flock to your hallways to stare at the walls
the bookshelves are thinning – the crowds are dying
no one wants to hear the mathematics of your words




give them a good story pilgrim

the professionals took over
sponsored a pawn the way you would in politics
got in the door and raised the price
told you how wonderful they are….
-wait 10 years…….things will cycle over again

words are merely titles…

i want to drive the endless road
where you are the landscape
then wonder if you worry

– am i seeing only beauty and not the structured mind
or history

but i will not apologize for your landscape
and neither should you

your architecture is my education
the breath you breathe on me is peace

i will break your body down

your top half i will call ‘the reclining woman’
your lower half becoming ‘the seated woman’

if you understood my mind
would this put you less at ease?

but perhaps words are merely titles
placed over great paintings the general public has
never seen

but my eyes consider you as surreal as a Picasso structure
wishing to place importance on each part and limb

indeed i hear your music as you are ‘the girl with the mandolin’
and i sit at the foot of the bed – listening to you play

in my heart you are always whole

the landscape before us is endless
the road loses the map of Canada and my pride does not stop me
from asking for your direction
-we have traveled the past my love – let us now move forward
with beauty aging but never on the canvas

your structured body and mind settling
this beating heart of one…..

o’ Pablo Jass

your triangle mouth
nose askew
Miles of Spain

your sorrow
gun crack in bar

this sound through Davis
o’ Pablo

i would title the poem this –

and she lies on the bed
triangle in triangles
mouth moved to the floating boat
reins leading horse


imagine them and they will appear

imagine the ugly prostitutes
and they will shatter glass

return to the basic
picador first…

triangle mouth
triangle mouth

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