the smell of you is all through the house
this 90 year old ghost living in the brick
with floors un/carpeted speaking back to my feet
the smell of you is everywhere
coming through the speakers of bluetooth and vinyl
already a ghost but living beyond the sounds of a North Bay war home
War Baby Paper
wish I was still at a war baby paper
maybe my ghost still wanders – too young to forget
and we’re 11 days out from the scents
bad weather and the trumpet sounds
in that moment you will live
beyond the ocean – across the grounds
Europe into Canada and all the families still around
and the smells will be our outdoor forts – our maple house
the smell of you is all through this breathing house
the speakers are loud and saying goodbye
i wish i could write the way you smell
wish i could write the way you sing
and we’re only 11 days since this thing
11 days since the scents – 11 since this death
how close are we to another death?
will the trumpet play so we don’t forget
let the trumpet play – we can’t forget…..
frames of his face
– off his face
from the kitchen island
resting there under Contact paper
evening hands passing in the poplar tree lights
living room open space
‘you like ’em? here you go’
shirt of the back
– off the back
shared paintings or neck tie
cuff links? which movie was that?
‘another glass lad’
of the sifter
-from the sifter
(it’s not called a s((N))if(((F)))ter)
but it catches the sediment
this wknd filled
the ghost of you still hangs around the room
pear shaped with a slice of blue cheese
silhouette in the morning mirror
as the drapes push the living space –
and the scent of your attraction fades
leaving me with the taste of a good port to compliment.
In the north along Nipissing
we call Toronto people – Southerners
and it leaves me wondering what Cochrane or Attawapiskat call us?
we are the ghosts to them
before the time travel towards Lake Ontario
where they can taste the corn but forget the hunt
wondering about fishing water supporting 5000 which used to hold 500.
And the scent of blue cheese on pear is overwhelming
erotic yet dangerous – a smell which once introduced can never be removed –
and the night is capped with the taste of a good port in sleight of hand.
Nothing can ever go back to original thought
you will never again be in my room tempting me under sheer lingerie –
and as I hide in the near North I can never think of my cousins as Southerners
Canada can never be south of anything but her identity – which unites poorly
perhaps more sincerely than rhetoric.
In the mirror you fade and i find myself looking at myself
i lay back down in the sheets and decide it is time to fall asleep
tomorrow i will wake and become the person i always was
while forgiving you and and allowing your morning dream to fade.
the ghost of you hangs around the room
pear shaped with a slice of blue cheese
silhouette in the morning mirror –
but the scent of your attraction fades
leaving me with the taste of a good port for the evening.
not man or woman
just a child –
traveling the forest in the wild.
natures naturist in the Fall
running free in the Spring –
sleep soundly until the Spring.
no features – but not featureless
no gender – not gender less –
no less under God.
with a guardian angel on Guard
while traveling the woods
life’s phase until the push –
waiting for you to make a mark.
don’t place your coin the ground
but place it with the sun –
imaginations with the stars.
be interested and less interesting –
features and not featureless.
gender moving and growing up –
until you’ve traveled
we’re gonna cross the lake –
you’re gonna cross one day.
standing from the dock
and cross when it is safe.
in the winter without ice
in the summer sun and you will know –
it’s alright to walk.
take your time take it all in
and where the mirror hits the glass –
cross through follow the path.
a liquid trail you will know –
motor-boatless you will move
inside your Canadian canoe.
with 2 feet skating like a child –
fish flying inviting you
while the birds swim the sky –
turning backwards within.
and you will be so at ease
hearing family and friends from the shore –
not the river banks – but the shore
and you won’t be afraid anymore.
no you won’t be afraid
did you know
(how could you know)
in the movements – the slo
I Followed You
watchful – in love
listful and nervous
never to approach
did you know
no – how could you know
i was careful in watching you
I Protected You
i am the bear you never saw
the wilderness tracker – while you slept in tent
a riff (a whiff) the scents
in this north bay
trout road – lakes
subbing grocery stores for survival
did you know?
How Could You Know……
Frankensteins wife is a beautiful woman.
see thru white dress
scars in all the right places
banshee whiff of rebel radiance – streaking up through electric curls tall.
she could be in Playboy
now that Playboy is living up to its original motto
of being real and strengthening the hearts of women
and infusing the minds of men with more than objectified awe.
Frankensteins wife is art.
curled into her own belly
hiding her breasts in her knees
a button waistline with hands spread in the white light
camera shutters taking their time to soak it all in.
but in writing this
nothing has changed
it is still the woman only i notice
and nothing beyond the brilliance of Halloween lingerie.
there is more.
but more to go beyond seeing the shortcomings.
and yet the eyes go back to the photo
taking in a beautiful woman made from other
leaving me to grin
she will reject her man
and show the world – sadness
has been in Hollywood
since the beginning…..