Children of the Revolution

To you The children of the revolution I offer my deepest sympathy To the bell-bottomed Love-beaded Flower-children Who died on barren fields That oozed socio-political decay When all you wanted was To light your truth-filled pipe To breathe in And watch your own mind Playing with stars To Kodak a Soho thigh And fill a worn out knapsack With the sufferings of a dying world To lose yourself In existential nothingness And make love To the world Under a psychedelic sky What an absurdity That you should forget Where you are And that here Such things Are almost impossible . . .

Strip Down and Face Me

Strip Down and Face me Shed all those defences, those misconceptions, those memories that hold you back Those were in the past, we are the present Strip Down and Face me Smudge off all that make-up and lipstick Take off all those expensive threads you wrap yourself around so neatly Peel off any last layer of skin you got on Strip Down and Face me Show me the core of your soul The ideas and beliefs and aspirations you revolve around With a blindfold on, your sight is temporarily disabled Feel my breath on the back of your neck The way the warmth works its way down, making your spine melt, melt into me Hear my secrets gently pouring down your ear Smell my perfume: Dolce & Gabbana Light Blue for Men Ten Thousand kisses have been laid upon you; I’ll try my best to break that record every time With every person I’ve encountered I take away from each experience And in return, I leave behind a piece of me Find me in the grains of time You can find these little pieces and find me, fix me Map out my whole life story Or better yet, why don’t I do it for myself?  . . .

The Sun Never Sets

The sun never sets in this city. Light clings to the horizon like a jealous King gripping his crown as he banishes every illegal glimmer, each gratuitous glow. It is a sky radiance raped and bright abandoned; dark, empty, no longer alight . . .


Her love lies listless in the bosom of a bedroom Between dust and dirtied sheets Emptied drawers and lonely, closeted spaces Unwashed windows and the widow woman’s tears Water she now knows the taste of Behind wandering walls, beneath unfamiliar floors Her desire slips silently unseen Around toes, over hands, through words Balancing uneasy on the tip of anxious lips To be swallowed whole and undigested In the middle of the night, it moves Voiceless amongst forgotten names and unwanted numbers Creeping – Creaking under the weight of foreign feet As it is carried across candlelit cityscapes, Scraping concrete against open mouths Clothes slip too easily from her borrowed body His absent sweat stinging memories As her rhythm clings to the sound of moans Hidden in graves dug belly-deep She sleeps to dream its freedom . . .

The Café


A woman sits in a chic cafe somewhere in western Europe. A waiter walks up to the table and places an espresso in front of her. Madame: Excuse me. Waiter: Yes, madame? Madame: Could you please ask that man over there to stop living? Waiter: Certainly, madame . . .

House-Sitting/In Joy’s Bed


Months ago we woke snorting up brown and lime green snot We held hands and laughed about it lay beside each other in bed Took turns soaking the sheets with contagious sweat At the bleating horn of the other’s alarm on mornings he or I could have slept in Instead, grabbing at the other before the day tore away to laces undone fumbling down Livingstone Street’s steps Cold feet scalded sweetly on hot water bottles sainted long johns undershorts worn three days in a row piles of clean and dirty laundry on the floor The first night unpacked we lay on the bed looked out the window to ocean cranes The mattress didn’t spring it absorbed our shapes When he and I were in it it was hard to roll around so we pressed legs to legs licked each other like ice cream cones lost hairs in the sheets held on while we drifted off  . . .

Funeral Day in Saint John


Weeping by a fake porthole in the Hilton’s breakfast restaurant I eat seconds of bacon, and thirds My grandfather wouldn’t have minded my breaking kashrut He would have whispered “I won’t tell if you don’t tell about the cheeseburger yesterday,” and chuckled sweetly My mother is at her mother’s place not listening to the sound of the phone ring— sealing saran-wrap around a sponge cake, our Friday night leftovers soggy, teetering in the pan The ocean solution looks like all of us— in bits, floating wisps of white pollution What’s wrong doesn’t drown us We are doing dead man’s float except for grandpa My sister arrives with the breakfast vouchers I get whatever I want before I figure it won’t be out of pocket I would pay for anything today even though I’ve been on boiled beans and rice for weeks had no choices to make about money Her and cousin Jer come back from the buffet with full plates laughing about something Jeremy gets on the phone calling our younger cousins to join us We all eat as much as we can  . . .