Day to Day Poetry, poetry

#6 Exegesis

There’s nothing happening
and no one knows what it is

It’s the divine and the apocalypse
calling out to me

Murder and rapes and suicides – oh my,
trigger me happy, my dear
those words mean nothing
to me.

Despicable, your middle name,
tangled in the viscous consistency
of your
cold
dead
logic.

I’m the joke you like to spread in your bed
on mornings when loneliness becomes
the lump in your throat
you
just
can’t
swallow

Not really sure
what sort of facade
I’m supposed to be
seeing through.

I trust your lies
because you have nothing else
to give.

There’s a gulf of dead stories
I have to cross
to get to you –

..

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Day to Day Poetry

#69

–vibrating cellphones, blue blinking light like
a searching helicopter halo above darkened alleys, futuristic Tokyo settling
in to reveal Robert Deckard in a tan trench coat hunched in front of a noodle shop
inhaling soup in a torrent of rain with men in blue behind him, the retired Blade Runner
his eyebrows wrinkled, cheeks set in, I ask, “Do you  like working there?”
looks away before distractedly replying, “yeah yeah I guess” and hopes nobody notice–
how about the old sunken face of a woman with black hair just moaning
a big bowl in front of her–catching what, I guess drool, like those scary faces you see
in walls of B list movies, mouth opened so wide just endlessly screaming, reaching
for something you can’t really see, she’s barely moving just groaning little sounds of
“Ugggghhhhh” zombie livified, I whisper, “do you want these (curtains) drawn all the way
round?” she smiles and says, “yes, yes please yes” and I pull them back, privacy
fraudulently manifested although such a thin piece of cloth still can’t erase that moaning
groaning pained face of the zombified woman whose bed is so close it
refuses to be separate–”they’re giving me poisoned water,” one old man in a cricketing
wheelchair keeps insisting at reception, “poisssooooonnneeed wattterrrrrrrrrr” his voice
so spidery you can almost trace the barely visible tendrils floating out of his dried up lips
in white wisps of smoke that curls at the tip–the first time she spoke it was through
dried spouts of breaths, little whispers so grey it felt like fog, like the one that scattered
that early morning drive to Barrie inside a tiny Honda with a hippie teacher who once
sported a purple beard while he TA’d–who offered to buy me a burger, she said “if you don’t like coffee,
try cafe mocha” and it was divine, I squealed at the whipped cream and she laughed and
said, “that’s my favourite part.”

Now, with a shaking finger, she points and whispers, “That’s my doctor.”
And I said, “Yes, I’ve met him.”

–which floor? the question drawn on her face, she turns to us and
he pressed 3, she withdraws a finger back (it was hovering at 2)
smiles and apologizes, “this place is a maze” –like Union station?
Remember? We laughed and I
took your hand to go
wherever they wanted us to go
where you said, “We’re just one
big experiment
inside a rat maze
here at Union Station”–but she looked confused when
I showed up in her favourite dress, the one she
danced in, pranced in, would not let anyone touch that night
a piece of clothing she loved and adored for twelve straight hours
and now can’t remember, that’s okay, there’s always time for
remakes and
please tell me  you haven’t forgotten me – as selfish as it is, as profoundly,
incredibly, divinely selfish as it is –
don’t forget me don’t forget me don’t forget me
even in your comatose dreams, please don’t forget me – and

endless games of crib.

In between the poisoned water man and the zombified woman and the
fake blonde with the bulging tan she gave all her milk to because they thought she
was lactose intolerant so she ate her cereal dry, and those big megaheadphones
to keep all the sounds out at night,
she smiled and bit a strawberry, red going down her cheek,
and says, “Babe, that’s more of a start
than you could have ever asked for” with
as much suave as her namesake could say
while she married Mickey Knox in a white flowing dress
with flowers in her hair
on top of a highway.

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Day to Day Poetry, Day to Day Writing

#66

I met her again, a creature I once lost, re-united in the early hours of the morning, stretching on a blue bed with the sunlight kissing her cheeks, optimistic about living her afternoon, her world now divided between the present and the future, no longer existing just for today — there isn’t a single tale from her past you could ask her to retell or recount for your sake, she is only capable of desire, so uncontrollable that it is barely legible, and today I captured it, even for just a moment, I caught her at a standstill, so completely different from her continuous fluidity and ever-changing identity – today I knew what she meant – having shaken off the dust and grit of ten dry years, obliterating the fog that consumed my mental capacities and shouldered my anxiety, today and always, however she speaks to me, in half truths, single stories, contemporary jargon, in microscopic signals on her eyes, lips, or hands, however inexpressible her thought, however deep into the crevices of her mind she hides in, straight from the surface to the depths – today I knew, even standing on the extreme verge of self-love, destruction and sobriety, I knew what she meant.

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Day to Day Poetry

#65

Wish I could still be pre-drinking,
and make it to a crowded place, limping
from high heels that tipple, short skirts riding
up to lace thongs worn proudly for a night,
lost in the morning,
fog in the mirror, birds singing, sunlight streaming
through a stranger’s window,
chaotic events memorialized in poetry
a few days later, smudged eyeliner
in an empty coffee house, amidst broken leather chairs,
torn out pages from a book with highlighted passages
meant for re-reading and then never re-used again –
to be happily snuggling into my blankets,
and take out my phone to capture a selfie worth posting,
assured people are scrolling through their feed and pausing,
appreciating,
what I put out for them –
wishful thinking, endless wanting
for validation from
people I don’t even care about,
to be working a 9 to 5 job and doing things I despise
just so I can come home to an apartment I can undoubtedly pay for –
and not worry about making ends meet or living
from paycheque to paycheque –
give up passion for a steady stream of breakfast, lunch, dinner
without having to compromise on health,
not having to rely on chemicals to ease that monster anxiety, peacekeeping,
serenity achieved through the purest of means,
instead of this day to day surviving,
battling every morning  when it’s the last thing I ever want to do,
debilitating.

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Day to Day Poetry, poetry

#64

Choosing to love is
ripping apart old skin
exposing vulnerable flesh underneath
wet, pulsing meat ready to be
pierced, torn and engorged –

or

engulfed in the old skin of your beloved
and promises of eternal care and
safekeeping,

destroyed only to
resurface,
molded together

yet

the only way to get there
is to stand alone,
a gaping, open wound,

trusting

waiting.

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