Day to Day Poetry, Day to Day Writing, poetry

#11 Lugubrious

I spend my days folding into myself,
shoulders caving in to keep my heart hidden
further and further I go deeper within
so I can disappear
in this chaotic numbness residing
in every inch of my being.

I am no longer whole,
eternally carved;
I can’t stop un-clenching my fists,
I can’t look anybody in the eye.

Day to Day Poetry, Day to Day Writing, poetry

#71: Letters to a new love

I feel nothing coming but the apocalypse,
it surrounds me in a muddle of tar I can’t get out of –
it clings to my skin and stains the white palms of my hands yellow.


Once you’re past your golden years,
you begin to smell like the stink of the old apartments you used to live in –
the stale cigarettes, the empty beer bottles,
the mould that crept inside the walls of your bathroom,
it’s a part of you.

You carry that stink with you within every relationship you try to begin.


I’m so excited.
I’m so excited to start again with you.
Here are the memories I want to relive:
I want to stare at you at 4:30 in the early morning,
with mania in my eyes and cackle –
I want hysteria to shield our bodies from the sputtering rain –
I want the hilarity of the situation to make me choke, make me stutter in that
wordless, heavenly language between insanity and laughter –
Why, why are you doing this with me?”

“What do you mean?! You wanted to! This was YOUR idea!”

And for you to follow through, unquestioning, never doubting, even for a second, the scope of my irrationality.


I want to love you with as much intensity and naivete as a sixteen-year-old would,
I want you unraveled and exposed.
I want to take your hand and explore the universe with Halley –
75 years of continuous up,
no doubts, no downs,
no diminishing returns –
a new life without boundaries,
a new life without
cul –
de –
fucking –


No flat tires, no bad decisions, no seizures from sheer exhaustion, no holes made in the wall by balled-up fists so full of anger, no crumpled, white dresses, no cut hands, no locked bathrooms, no used-up, spent razor blades, no broken wine glasses, no listening to the silent, repeating drops of water tiptoeing down a rain pipe, no cold nights spent in park benches, no empty apartments full of yellow paint and scratches of I love you in neon pink spray paint, no dead birds.

Just sinking beds, and furious love-making.


Someone told me it would never feel the same, just different.
That you can’t pick out the good parts and replay them,
that it’s a new experience entirely.

I want a re-load.
I want to go back to my last checkpoint and start over.


I smile at this new world I now live in,
it’s so hauntingly familiar, but somehow different.
Waiting for this to become comfortable,
waiting for this to transform me –

waiting for the day where I find a land stable enough
to exhale the past that once imprisoned me.

Day to Day Poetry


–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.

Day to Day Poetry

Day to Day Poetry #53

Every time I have to write something that’s hard
a lump forms in my throat
and my stomach tightens –
my head starts aching and it doesn’t stop,
and it throbs along with the pounding on my chest.
Most of the time I solve this problem by closing Microsoft Word
and never looking back,
but inside I know I’ve given up.

It happens so rarely that I go back and finish what I started.
Each attempt is a panic attack.
Each story is a battlefield.


Day to Day Poetry # 50

Read one of Bukowski’s posthumous poems,
sing to Gronlandic Edit,
scroll through endless pictures on Deviantart,
lick dry lips,
pound down old, black coffee,
read one of Hemingway’s short stories
compiled in an anthology given by your best friend
using a dried, marijuana leaf for a bookmark,
sing to Oxford Comma,
remember the way the smooth curve of her back felt
underneath your fingers,
regret all the friendships you’ve lost,
write a crappy poem,
attempt to re-establish yourself
in an apathetic world,
remember the way he rambled about
our Type 0 civilization,
while you laid horizontally on his bed,
wondering when to go,
count the hours, minutes and seconds
of his return,
bearing the gift that will keep you awake
until 6 in the morning –
the one thing you’ve been waiting for
since you ran out
four days ago –
addiction is seeking comfort
from that which is destroying you –
because real life stopped doing it for you
a long time ago,
waiting endlessly for Godot,
how long can this clever, cover-up story
and day-to-day charade
keep going
before it catches up to you?

Hemingway said
that all it takes is one unnecessary word
in your narrative
to transform it
into an ego trip
rather than a

6:49 PM.
Just enough time for another lit incense,
and a paragraph from Sartre,
before you offer your brain and creativity
as sacrifice,
just to feel