i have hidden love

i have hidden love
in the deepest of pockets
in piles of laundry
in the crotches of trees
in plates of spaghetti

i have hidden love
in sidewalk crevices
in the queen’s tea cupboard
in my medicine chest, behind the mouthwash

i have hidden love
beneath stones on a beach
and under some other things
and in the intimate seams of some underthings

i have hidden love
in the whiskey jar
in the scent of rose petals
and inside that rock i hurled
— accidentally —
through your bedroom window

i have hidden love
between pages of your favourite books
in cezanne’s paintbox
in ceramic flower pots
and i have taped love to the backs of old mirrors

i have rolled up love in day-old newspapers
stashed it in coinboxes
tucked it up my sleeve
filed it under the kitchen sink, by the dish soap

i have hidden love in thimbles
in salt and pepper shakers
in catcher’s mitts and electrical outlets
in mitochondrial strands
i have hidden love inside chocolate eggs
run it up invisible flagpoles
shoved it down the top of my boot
obediently burned it at both ends

i have hidden love
in steamer trunks
wrapped it in coloured tissue
infused it with the scent of maple
and stitched it inside your unsuspecting bird-like chest

i have hidden love
in the piano bench
in the chimney flue
in emily’s saxophone
and left it to rattle around the back of mitchell’s old truck

i have hidden love
in the 100-acre wood
in the dialect of feral cats
in the maclaine dress tartan
and between the third and fourth toes of your non-dominant foot
(you thought that was merely lint.)

i have hidden love
in the lining of the architect’s navy blue blazer
in glasses that are half empty
in glasses that are half scotch
in apples meant for the teacher
eaten by the bad boy who cornered me in the cloakroom

i have hidden love
at the bottom of the secret staircase
in the salamander’s tail
in the frozen centres of creamsicles.
i have hidden love in places so small
you would need floss in order to retrieve it

i have hidden love
on the heads of pins,
the ones on which drunken angels dance
and sometimes flirt shamelessly

i have tucked love
into the sweat-soaked bands of stetson hats
folded it into origami swans
left it lying in plain sight on bookshelves and cd racks
and pinned it to my lapel disguised as a carnation

but i have never, ever hidden love
in the top dresser drawer
typically reserved for socks & boxer shorts

that is always the first place
even the dumbest of lonely thieves
will look

 

the sadness. the ennui. the blue meanies.

why

am i here?

what

is my purpose in life?

who

is that mafia don?

9 1/2

reasons to keep on keepin’ on:

http://www.ravingpoets.com/

WORD!

 

I wish I knew how to quit you

Apologies for the gaps between posts here at ol’ Spatherdab. I can’t tell you what I’ve been up to, because it feels like hardly anything, really, except a whole lot of procrastination since the month of May somehow time-warped — zing! pow! — into September. But I CAN tell you that I’ll be reading some poetry tonight (Sunday, Sept. 13) at Leva Cafe, at a HERMEN event called OUTlaw Night.

It’s a fundraiser for a new group on the U of A campus called OUTLaw, run by queer students in the faculty of law. OUTlaw’s mandate is “to think, talk and act on legal issues that affect queers everywhere, and to make law school a more LGBTTQA-friendly place.”

My heroes have always been outlaws. I’m honoured to be reading alongside
some of them: Lucas Crawford, Derek Warwick, Ted Kerr and Adaya.

Hors d’oeuvres will be provided by the fine folks at Leva, 11053 – 86 Avenue, Edmonton. Start time, 8 p.m. Suggested donation, $5.

 

on a day of declarations

she says i never loved you
i say you never pretended to
she says i’m getting old
i say we’re going to be late
she says i left your red shoes on the ferry
i say it’s your turn to drive
she says you don’t get me now
i say not sure i ever did
she says there’s nothing on tv
i say there surely never was
she says you’ve gained some weight
i say you must learn to relax
she says i can’t do this anymore
i say i’ll never understand eggplant
she says i’ve taken a place in town
i say i’ve sketched your face in the twilight
she says i’ve always loved you
i say baby you always will

 

what part of speech are you?

i am the thing we don’t talk about i am the cracked tooth the swollen tongue i am the larynx smoked and sliced into raspy silence i am hot panting breath i am the calm when you put your mouth on the air i am the unspoken i am the code words i am braille on your tongue i am tongue on your desire i am the soft whistle i am the hum i am the buzz i am the mmnnn-mmnnn i am the oogie-oogie i am the oh yeah right there baby i am the shhhhhhh i am the yep, yep i am the it’s okay, you can sleep now i am the whisper i am the whimper i am the screams in the dark i am the lullabies i am you asking if you can come i am me asking your forgiveness i am the thing we never never talk about

 

you at my door

you at my door
2 a.m. / wakeful
how long since i’ve touched you
i mean really touched you
stillness fractured by loud fast car
timid knock / you still up?
whatcha doing, why
haven’t you called
i’m cold / shivering in two sweaters
you lean towards, i push away
i have left you, i whisper
amazed at how easily i am betrayed
by my own treasonous tears and tongue
i have left you
you left me and now i have left you
you cannot ever come back.
we both know this is a lie.

me at your door
4 a.m. / you singing & half-undressed
how long since i’ve kissed you, really kissed you, sweet boy
… drink? smoke?
knew i’d find you up
are you painting?
i could never stop loving you, y’know

you at my door
this can’t go on
we’ve never been good for each other
i don’t work, you can’t relax
i never see my friends
we both miss deadlines, forget to eat

but when you are at my door
i go blind / night blind/ stupid blind
i hate you
hate that we keep doing this
hate that we cannot let go
of this reckless crazy cold dark thing

i bury everything that makes no sense
deep in my flesh muscle bone
everything that hurts goes into the legs
everything that is you
i keep close to the surface
my hips ache
with a sad, vague memory
was there ever tenderness between us?

get in here, i hear myself say
don’t even knock the next time
just come to my door
break it down if you have to
you know i want/don’t want you here
part of me needs you to break the lock
i am so weak
we both know i will never
use the deadbolt
against you

me at your door
please let me in
i’m sorry
i’m sorry
you just made me so angry
when you kissed that other girl
when she promised you no limits
please let me in
remember, baby, you said you’d give me a key?
but you never did

 

the truth is

the truth is
i would rather be someplace else
the truth is
i am not who you think you are
the truth is
this could happen to anyone
the truth is
there’s no one i can trust
the truth is
mornings are always difficult
the truth is
newspapers lie
the truth is
i am not really an orphan
the truth is
my mother planted marigolds
the truth is
ten fingers, ten toes
the truth is
i smoked your last cigarette
the truth is
nobody’s good enough
the truth is
i cried your name in my sleep
the truth is
sandwiches taste better when someone else makes them

 

rooftop haiku

only other wolves
know all the things i’d like to
howl from this high place

 

visitation

your spirit showed up
in my kitchen today
reminding me of summer
that glorious
first week of freedom
reserved for the cottage,
the canoe
timid skin on burning sand,
georgian bay always too cold
for swimming
even in mid-june
sunburned feet limping down hot, gravel roads
to the concession for pop red & licorice black
cashews & cheese curds
& dipped cones that always melted
before we got back to our towels
i longed for you to rub oil on my back
but was too shy to ask

your laugh slipped under my ball cap today
flying our bikes past the shanty bay station
sandwiches wrapped & knapsacks stuffed
tearing up the asphalt on our wicked purple 10-speeds
& didn’t we just own that road, you and me

your face smiled back from my mirror today
reminding me of pyjama parties & midnight radio
up all night on jenny’s birthday
sneaking canadian club into our seven-up
telling deep, dark secrets, telling grade eleven lies
lighting séance candles and trying not to giggle
holding hands and asking the ouija board
if any of us would ever marry teddy coulson
when all i ever wanted
was to run away with you

your blue shirt slipped off a hanger in my closet today
chased me into the wilsons’ backyard, flashlight tag
bushes dark, shadows mysterious
scaring each other silly & screaming
when bats appeared in the friday night sky
& after, smoking under the maple trees
with garry and reg
truth, dare or consequences
hoping the dare might involve a kiss;
the consequence, a clandestine grope
and me desperately praying no one ever guessed at the truth:
that whenever i kissed one of those boys
i pretended i was kissing you

your dog-eared rubyfruit jungle fell from my bookshelf today
landed right where you passed me that sexy note in english class
almost intercepted by ol’ mister harris
double detention ’cause we wouldn’t give it up
couldn’t risk him cracking our private code
& what was the big deal, we’d both already finished our assignments
& why do you always have booze on your breath sir?
is what we shoulda said

your spirit danced into my heart today
leading me back to 501’s and ralph lauren cologne
sneaking beers in your aunt’s basement
and wearing out the rewind button on her tape deck
carole pope and the parachute club
the soundtrack for our burgeoning yearnings
you know, those ones we never talked about
the kind two girls aren’t supposed to feel
for each other

your warm breath filled my lungs today
reminding me of how, when no one was looking,
we created excuses to touch
play-fighting in mock anger
inventing games that required wrestling, invited contact
exploring each other’s skin with tentative hands
pretending it was accidental, the friction, the heat
your body on mine on yours on mine
gangly limbs entwined

pressed together soft on loud rec-room shag
holding, holding tight
gripping, bold & shy & soft electric
wanting not to ever have to let go
wanting not to ever have to give it a name

your scent spilled into my bed today
‘love’s fresh lemon’ luring me back
to all those things we never allowed ourselves to feel
or say out loud

sweet friend

 

raving mad

raving, the raving poets’ online magazine, is up and yours for the viewing at www.ravingpoets.com/magazine/

the 24 poems featured were performed during the ‘born to write’ fall 2008 series at edmonton’s funky kasbar lounge, and yours truly has a piece called ‘before the next conversation’ on page 1.

percussionist gordon mcrae
has done a bang-up job
with the presentation.

also, the call has gone out for submissions for the second edition of raving. so if you wove any of your spoken-word magic during the most recent series, sofa king, between april 21 and may 27, you are eligible. deadline for poems and visuals has been extended to nov. 21, 2009. 

raving. check it out. then kiss a poet.