pulling off socks she curses Adam
calling him a ‘Fritz Kärfve’
and is disgusted by tan lines
after a day at the beach trying to conform to loneliness.
adam says nothing putting the snorkel in the closet
listens to her as any good husband should
wondering how to make a compromise and end the
shouting – one sided
“would an hour in the backyard garden do?
sunbathe and I will stand guard by the gate.”
the sock hurtles venom
sopping hits the side of the door
rattles the snorkel
and before Adam can sigh
pinch his sinuses or look up from exhaustion
Eve once again swears ‘FRITZ!’
-storming out of the room.
Fritz Kärfve was a Swedish painter(1880 – 1967)
wife n’ i
drove 11 down
‘hill? what hill?”
other end of town
chasing the lost radioed
when you live nowhere
north only here
you reference south
perhaps you were talking
perspective of the nothingness.
you n i
we’ve bounced around
seen hills like
6 into Waterdown
hills down into
the rock cut
an Irish border
so a big hill is a big hill
it’s not the big
we take turns doing
pass shopping malls
malls like Maple
see a rock star
a green tuked
and then head back to North Bay
these are not big ventures
but then again
it’s enough to say
out of the
will follow you
until it’s time – you’re invincible
swallow fear and drive the granite route
iron flow ice frozen along 11 in gold
turning ocean blue/green as you pass hidden limestone.
dancing ghosts through the blue spruce
farm fields sucking the life of winter.
leave Toronto and the grease over salted
come back to the wilderness of white
and tho you may miss the excitement of a larger town;
know you made it between both
until it’s your time – you’re invincible
run in the smooth caress of night
hips give way to the wading snow
sneakers of glistening sweat streaking
past the camera of the gutless daredevil filming bravery
while Santa rides the stars bopping from roof top to rooftop
leaving imagination behind for discovery
is this Summer or is this Winter?
You are Summer – you’re name beautiful
in socks and sneakers leaving my imagination
passing the broken porch – the sidewalk carrying you
while the local News clambers to keep up
and Santa looks down wishing…..
he were real.
Winters’ Summer is here
the constellations of the forest within
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
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
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
to wish a Merry Christmas from Trenton.
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.
what the hell can you mean by
this is North Bay
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
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….