all i can think about

the downbeat
negative space
trees beyond
the outfield fence
at shear park
your mouth
with crumbs of honey toast
in the corners
there are so many things
i haven’t shown you
my blue my red my
orange bluster
this song reminds me
of old lovers
rediscovering the creases
in each other’s skin
and here’s a newsflash:
that beggar’s moon never did take me
where i needed to go
and right now i would like to be
pondering brush strokes
harmonic convergence
and string theory
but all i can think about
is the heartbreakingly sweet
corners of your lovely
honeyed mouth

 

bad words

i never heard my father swear
except twice
that time we were camping
and he grabbed the tea billy
from the grill over the fire
and it burned his hand
so he kicked that hot metal can
and burned the hell out of his foot
and mom said watch your language clifford the children

and there was the time the storm windows wouldn’t fit
60 years of warps and paint blisters
and dammit they were bloody heavy
and useless

there must have been other times
when my father raised his voice
yelled curse words
there had to have been fights
they must have argued
possibly thrown things
money, sex, in-laws, too late at the office
something must have caused them
to scream at each other but
somehow i
never
heard it

 

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

 

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

 

rangitoto island

 

inside the drawer from hell

unable as i am to throw anything away,
i came across in the junk drawer the other day:

bits of string
expired pizza coupons
chinese takeaway menus
three hundred and sixteen twist ties
seven golf tees
recipes for chicken wings (i’ve been vegetarian
for twelve years)
screws of various lengths
fridge magnets
yellowed dilbert comics clipped from the newspaper
dental floss
the joker from a pack of playing cards
seed packets for wildflowers
a dead chapstick
a guitar pick
nine ketchup packets
dad’s swiss army knife
an eaton’s charge card
five dead batteries
shoelaces
folk fest wristbands from three different summers
several brittle elastics
two broken pencils
nine dried-out felt pens
thirteen business cards
joe’s wedding invitation
lorne’s funeral notice
a radio shack tape recorder
four “special” beer caps
a postcard from new york city
a plastic skull ring
ribbon
a bic lighter
eyepiece caps from a pair of binoculars
visa receipts from 2002
warranty cards for kettle and microwave (both of which
are long gone to kitchen appliance heaven)
film negatives clipped to photo reprint orders
popsicle sticks
a piece of petrified double bubble 
a black and white photo of dad playing the harmonica
with jamie on his knee
a red crayon
fourteen ETS bus schedules, twelve of them out of date
a mix tape of songs from 1986
half of a very linty chocolate bar
an oilers key chain
picture hanging wire
three pairs of one-armed sunglasses
nineteen paper clips
candle ends
a kazoo

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

below the line:

and this is just the stuff that i KEPT …

 

The power of ten

White Shirt is in the house … Frontenac House!

After three weeks of agonizing secrecy, I am relieved to finally be able to scream it from the rooftops:

My poetry manuscript White Shirt will be published next spring by Frontenac House as part of its 10th anniversary Dektet 2010 collection.

The esteemed Calgary publishing house has been printing four poetry titles a year — the landmark Quartet series — since 2001. (“Frontenac House’s annual competition must offer four of the most sought-after slots in the poetry biz in Canada.” — Richard Stevenson, The Danforth Review.) In celebration of its 10th year, 10 titles will be released in 2010. 

The other Dektet authors are Jocko Benoit, Lori Cayer, Adebe DeRango-Adem, Jannie Edwards, Keith Garebian, S. McDonald, William Nichols, Nikki Reimer and Douglas Burnet Smith.   

From the Frontenac website:

“The titles have been chosen using a blind selection process by a jury of leading Canadian writers: bill bissett, George Elliot Clarke and Alice Major. The jurors and publishers were impressed by both the number and quality of the submissions.”

What the jury said about White Shirt:

“This is the ‘classic’ hard-drinking, hard-living, gravelly poet’s voice — only it comes from a woman. It’s a bust-out-of-the-closet voice where occasional touchstone rhymes and furious lists score the page. The poems are stripped down, poignant, exact, and as heartily playful as any serious blues. Here is Sappho crossed with the Supremes.”

Er… Sappho crossed with the Supremes?

Bonga Swetso!
(i.e., awesome, for those of you who haven’t read Kate De Goldi’s The 10 p.m. Question)

Meanwhile, the Edmonton launch of Quartet 2009, showcasing poets Nancy Jo Cullen, Anna Marie Sewell, Bob Stallworthy and Pierrette Requier, goes tonight at the Artery, 9535 Jasper Ave., beginning at 7 p.m. Feel free to drop in for an evening of poetry, performance and music.

And btw, that gorgeous photo of me on the website was taken by my good friend and photographer extraordinaire Randall Edwards. Nobody shoots writers & artists like Master Eds. And all the best people know it.

 

if the bruising

if the whiskey
flowed back in the bottle
if the bruising
branded the abuser

if the bite
if the cold
if the rip cord
if the night

if the sleepwalking
if the fist
if the charm
if the knife

if the wishing
if the dance
if the seduction
if the snake hair

if the pleasure
if the shock treatment
if the conjurer
if the memory

if the death card
if the half moon
if the fallen
if the believer

if the screaming
if the nail
if the kind word
if the redemption

if the mercy kill
if the tainted
if the bleeding
if the comfort

if the breathless
if the standing
if the quicken
if the mask

if hand on mouth
if broken bone
if strip mine
if purple rage

if jealousy
if smacking lip
if hatred
if the obscene

if the baby
if the connection
if deliverance
if the hard kiss

if the “go faster”
if the forbidden
if the bad touch
if the hurricane

if the perfection
if the tiger eye
if the simple truth
if the forgiveness