Tuesday, December 15, 2009

10:30 (am)

waited for the bus in the
too cold street, 7:00 am,
a dim reminder, cracking
trees, crunch of snow
packed into ice, 1st ave at
the entrance Moore's
Meadow, the few cars that
pass, all focused on the
road ahead, bus arrives,
i enter, cold and waiting

Sunday, December 6, 2009

(i don't understand...

i'm here
     --in this somewhere

motionless, a fear,
certain insecurities

unsure of self,

the room     cold
     too much dark
     around my eyes

            i wanted to tell
            you how i was.
            to tell you where
            i am,

don't know if i'm ready,
the world is too big
for my small hands,

                                   a word

misplaced     my
     directions home,

the heart--
     forign ground,     a wild

     it's difficult,
           b/c i have a lot
                 to learn,
                              to understand

     the look in her eyes,
          the long of her smile

i don't want to be here,
this uncertainty, this obscurity,
the way       i feel
           when i look
                   to the ground at
                   your feet

love is a choice
     to choose, make

find what     i'm looking for

               to see what's right

to know...

          in this place
          that we're still

called you in the afternoon,
listened to     our silence,
          static & a dial tone,

to grow up,
an instant,
to face the mirror
     & see

i don't remember,
               the only...

head out,

rootless,     on the edge, by
                  creek and snowbank,

when for a walk,
saw a histroy in--


                 no response...

Monday, November 23, 2009

This Town XIII (two days --

              my name is today,
                           i'll be gone tomorrow

his meticulous nature, --
            (two sheets of loose leaf

                                                      (leaving this
                                                                  town --

                                     left this place
                                     the other day                               waited for the bus
                                                                                         one last time,

                                                             never looked back,
                                                             forward into the                                     uncertain,
                                                                                                                           expectation gone

                                                                        leaving this town,
                                                                                  i know

                                                                                                 collecting space, --

                  she stepped out of the fire,
                  burnt ashes in her eyes

                                                                            the embers of her heart
                                                                            blown away by the passing wind,

this place let me go,
i let it go                                                                                                                       so long

                                                                                                                                               forgive us

                                                           two dogs fuck
                                                           as i walk by, growling
                                                           into each others necks

          looking through glass
          below the table, legs crossed                                                   broke down, interrupted,
                                                                                                                      stained glass

                                                              this is
                                                                           what it is

       failed history,
                 it happened
just like they
            said it would

                                                                                   this now is what
                                                                                                  needs to be done

                                          this here is what
                                                 has been done

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

(fell asleep with book in hand)

                       history & poetry coexist

                       a river across & through                        into & out of
                                                                                                               the same place

poetry begins & history waits
reshaping the old maps
                                                                           with familiar lines
                                                                                        crossing out the new ones

                              in time      as time always does
                                        poetry & history                      collide

                 an accident occurs          unnoticed

people wait on the                      margins
                                                                        & fringes

                                        these dots do not
                                                   connect to make shapes
                                                   but what happens
                         in between                    falls to the wayside


                         the others with
                                      the others

           as history begins
                       poetry waits
                                on the sidelines

              waiting to be written as poetry hides

Monday, October 26, 2009

(finding a dead cat in the morning before work)

it didn't just happen
beside a green

it ended
in an instant
before it could really

nor did it wait around
for the right moment

though maybe
drug it off the road
& put it there to rest

these things don't just

like that,

we don't stumble upon them
& assume that they actually begin


we go back & create
a story to make sense

of it

so we feel okay,

but it happened

& it's not

Monday, September 28, 2009

This Town XII

with soft hands
i'll tear this town

rebuild along
missing lines of communication,

a history found
in debris,
shards of glass,

dirt trails with
cigarette butts leave
one night memories
across scattered landscapes,

someone asks,
i respond with plastic thoughts,
too lazy to carry the right amount of words

Thursday, September 24, 2009

The Long Poem: A Precursor

The poem lays alone
on the page
without a name, nameless
in it's uncertainty.

It waits
for the moment, a moment
to return.

It isn't done,
it isn't done.

Monday, September 7, 2009

Towards a Mill: Early Morning

A stiff breeze,
cold against frost,
warm glass,

A drive down
a familiar road
to a familiar place

Snow drifts along
black asphalt beneath
metal and plastic, exits
the rear in a confused

The road snakes
towards a venomous
point, lined with stakes
and trees
that mark the way

It's still cold,
but the check engine light
has finally gone out, a sputter,
spark to say it's okay

No radio, only silent
conversations with passing
cattle and sleeping birds, the fence
post remind me of a dream
I once had

Not so far off,
the orange haze
and timber smell,
the strange hum of equipment
and blades
still present from
yesterdays shift

It will be another day,
the mouse will deafly look
on and see only sawdust ghost
in plywood shells

Sunday, August 30, 2009

This Town XI (Missed Connections)

no real sense of home
or others things

more made to order
a place between
(de)composed bodies
of ink

a location of common

though always
interrupted or just
not fast enough

it's somewhere
to go and play
the last scene again
and again


in the centre
it will be
the same

parked cars and
swing sets
say “let's go here”

it's there
on the rusty banks
and stiff waters

the bridge outside
of town that just
got going

we realize
the wrong way

Sunday, August 16, 2009

This Town X

the PiG

a dead city

rebirth inevitable

questions optional

it's a damned thing

a friend

a water spot

a tree




find the inside


too many

ways through

the centre

a path

too beaten

to be used

it's just a town

my town

and i'll be damned

if you get to it

before i do

This Town IX

before trees
in vacant lots

not ready
to be cut

to ash

a red sun

just outside
of town

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

Hands II

with awkward hands
you set me down
in a field of garbage
to hide a few things
within a blade of grass

This Town VIII (I Can't Remember)

dawn breaks
in time for dusk,

pulls a scab back,
reveals the rawness
of flesh exposed
beneath pot-holed

each drop of oil
leaves its mark,
ready to burn,
while smog creeps
in, settles to rest
at the feet of ancient
streets covered
with tar and dust,

grass gives rise
to an orange haze
that makes its way
into the bloodstream,
colours the sky
a sickly shade of red

this town
can't remember

and neither
can I

Tuesday, July 7, 2009

This Town VII

i wait for a bus
i know i've already missed
and recall the feel
of the grass from Moore's Meadow
in the palm of my right hand.

it's this town, the cutbanks
and muddy waters
that converge on absurdity,
the midtown valleys that hide
in the past, rocks that jut out
of the ground deliberately.

this town is constantly changing
as i trudge through my sleep
through battered statues
that hold me deep
beneath the bones
in some familiar way.

and the trees no longer
moan and sway in gusts of agony,
though they tell
of misdirection and slight-of-hand
and a commodity that verges
on the plague of necessity.

every little trail leads me
deeper into the bowl, closer to its core
where even the weeds have something
meaningful to say, but
they mumble in tongues
and look away.

in the dark we almost
become friends
and listen to dogs bark
at the shadows between the trees.

we bark back,
of the significance
of our conversation
and when it's too quiet
to hear anything
it's gone.

Hands I

her hands tremble
while the grass
yellows in the sun

Monday, June 29, 2009

This Town VI

two beers later
the room feels dark,
the tree sways closer to the point
and when the sun finally sets
it gets cold.

the instances that lead
to this moment
recall themselves
in the struggle to forget fear,
but break down at the root
level and infect the tree.

later, when thought compels
a book to read itself,
it reads into itself
and walks the same road home.

the road doesn't change,
but alters itself in the slip
that leads into uncharted
combinations of the same word.

somewhere on the walk home
a drop of rain causes a flood
and the word disappears
amongst the puddles.

at home the buzz of lights
reiterate what happened
in the puddles
and the blue haze
drones long into the night.

Friday, June 26, 2009

This Town V

what's the mystery
in taking used tin

and stealing old bikes
in the middle of the night,

or when a shed burns down
and people flock to watch

the collapse of an
urban monument.

this town ought to be

if only
a way out,

but when an old man
takes death by the mouth

and inhales
to grab hold

of the last breath
and exhales

the memory of the
last goodbye kiss

something seems
almost forgotten.

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

While I Wait For A Happy Poem

I'll wait for you in an
empty field

with a dandelion
in my hand,

pace with the wind
at my back

and talk with
the tall grass

while playing games
with the beetles
between my feet.

I know it's going
to be okay,

a little spider
told me so,

hummed it in my ear
before I fell asleep

next to a stone
where I dreamt

of you
in the green.

Thursday, June 18, 2009

This Town IV (A Simple Hello Will Not Do)

this town becomes a location,
a place to hibernate, a way
through to something else.
its identity manifests itself
in the bulbs of a dried flowers
that don't really belong here.

somewhere in the corner of yesterday
it cowers with tomorrow and hunkers
behind red trees and waits for the cover
of progress, but when moisture lifts,
the sky takes what it can and let's it all go.

of course it only takes a few drops
to know what falling is like,
but a change in climate
only occurs when watching TV.

and somewhere amongst the tall grass
that grows against the decayed buildings
waits the faded image of
a place that demands recognition.

Monday, June 15, 2009


one looks like a photographer,
only his eyes are too close to the action;
one looks like a councillor,
only I can't hear what she's saying;
another reminds me of my mother,
a little crazy, a little sad;
another has a mouth that falls away,
one looks into a cup of tea and reads
misery into the leaves; one holds a mop
and cleans like a lover, wiping up the pain;
one cooks food and prepares the conversation,
one sits alone with a pencil and pretends.

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

This Town III

I don't k(no)w how long I can wait,
what if i/t (d)constructs i/t/self
and leaves me dismembered
in the outsourced mono/poly, but maybe
I could start by sewing bodies to/get/her
as I walk down 15th Ave
to(war)ds the dis(locate)d centre
where it's sup(pose)d to make sense.

Sunday, June 7, 2009

A Day In General Pain

Sunday. Warm, too warm. The blue sky reminds me of the last tear drop before the storm. Soon the sky will cloud over, send globs of white light running to the ground. I'll stand in the cool of labour and wait as time rains down, lost in the drag of boredom. It's slow, only a few customers mingle in; each looking for the same specific thing. And in the moments between customers my co-worker and I will share a cringe of disgust behind a fake expression, being sure the next customer won't see us. Outside people walk by in clouds of heat, bodies moist with perspiration. Some look okay, others don't. A slight breeze picks up and the leaves spin out of control in the corner beside the trees, taking us away into a vision reserved only for those who can see outside.

Wednesday, June 3, 2009

This Town II

It becomes a foreign place, 
its distance, its movement,

the vacancy brought on
in familiar sights,

but to look back takes too long,
creates new meaning

in old introductions.
Some nights it takes

the the whole sky to feel

This Town


I came to this town on the back of my mothers breath
and the grunt of my fathers expectations,
the fear more opposite then expected
and soon discovered that there are strange apposing forces
at work.


In the still of night traffic patterns mock me,
their constant flow toward something I can't see,
a movement across the gap of integrity that seems to touch
some silent voice.


Pleasure fills this town and desire keeps it going.
It isn't as though the forests want their vengeance,
the trees don't care either way.
However, when the waters run down the side
of the mountains we hear their cries of clear cut loss
on the banks of the muddy waters.


I have been here 15 years now
and I don't know who's changed;
me or this town. Maybe I've grown
as the town has aged.
Some of the things I remember
are gone, others I simply forgot.


I don't much expect that it will make sense.
Maybe it's meant to be awkward,
a fidgeting that creates meaning
in the friction between fingers.


It's gets harder to stand in the crowd,
to watch the stream carry the dead fish away.
The night are long, but at lease they're quite.


Some call it the end, others wreckage.
It just happened, falls apart at the streams.