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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Character Portraits, Day to Day Writing

#67

Here are simple tricks to make people like you:

1. Don’t shame them when they laugh too loud – join them in their candid laughter, even if you don’t find the situation humorous.

2. Listen to their secrets, and never argue with what they feel. Everyone’s emotions are valid and legitimate, they’re not talking to you to tell them how to feel rightly, they’re talking to you to listen to themselves narrate the story and meaning of their own lives, and to include you in that epic.

And 3. When they talk to you about what makes them passionate, about dreams and wishes that bares their naked excitement they can’t hide in their eyes, don’t interrupt them – encourage them to tell you more, and join them in their wild, pounding passion – be the listener you would want another person to be, while you tell them your own story.

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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, 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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Day to Day Poetry

Day to Day Poetry #56

There is a world of questions and predilictions
inside that logical, mechanical mind of yours,
a constellation behind your furrowed eyebrows,
and a secret curving with the cautious way you try
to hide your rare, golden smile.

Buried deep within those eyes that endlessly wander
and dance through universes and alternate realities,
are stories of childhood that you stumbled in, while telling,
and confessing, in that strained, honest way of yours –
“I don’t know what to share, because I don’t know what is important.”

I imagined my hand caressing the stubbles on your cheek,
as I whisper in reply: “Everything is important.
All of you is important to me.”

You said:
“I don’t want to know you as you posture yourself.
You act in a way that half represents yourself,
and the other half defends yourself,
and I want to cut through that barrier and know the whole you,
as much as I can,
because the guard you put up
is so little about you
and so much
about the rest
of the world.”

Darling,
the rest of the world frightens me,
but your giant hands that curl with the gaps in between my fingers,
keeps me satiated,
full,
and all-knowing.

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