dashes – – – – – – – dashes – – – – das-h-e-s

you – are my sketchbook
the one with cover of the models
not knowing they’d be famous
you – are my posing muse – but not a muse – and not amused
beyond the flesh
more than soul
joint in muscles and joined together

traveling and never ready

it’s an office – a cubicle
the dog cage shared
mementos pinned
always writing – business notes
and personal letters
but – mostly writing – always – about you

and the dash is a pause to strike the chord
lift our voice as if in church
reading from those green music books – II and III
latin removing what we know – the abstract – the rhythm broke
but still powerful……

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all the weird things i want

I want your nipples glistening white in the Hawaiian sun
ocean salt drying – a dollar to the ocean
then we can grab a red skirt fabric and run in the sand
laughing because no one else knows us

It’s your eyes though
the excitement of the dance
happiness of the relaxation and real honeymoon after 16
embarrassed only with ourselves
and giving up the sun for the night sky meals and traditions of the island

In between the road – the humidity
plane rides and buses dropping us off at doors
suitcases and pauses
sweat dropping and muscles tired
I want your mind to be at ease and your heart lifted past Canadian snow

One last time in the sand – the beach
your feet sticking in – your ankles
bringing some of it home – a floating flower on the kitchen table
washing ready in the basement but left – wafting memories and tired laziness;
in the coming weeks afterwards
I want you to see your smile and know you’re thinking of it all – again.


death has been a child

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…..


Reading Glasses

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
-the sentiment

this wknd filled
with
sentiment


and we haven’t even left Ontario

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
but
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.


features genderless

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
far enough.


93-53-never 23

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
anymore.


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