New Blog (Sort of)

this is not a poem,
the poem is elsewhere,
look here no more,
follow the link
& see

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, 1^st 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

(i don't understand...

i'm here
     --in this somewhere

motionless, a fear,
certain insecurities

unsure of self,
      voiceless,

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
                               encounter

     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
                                peace,

find what     i'm looking for

               to see what's right
                    there--

to know...

          in this place
          that we're still
                    here

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

to grow up,
an instant,
to face the mirror
     & see
              myself/yourself

i don't remember,
     time--
               the only...

head out,
              back,

rootless,     on the edge, by
                  creek and snowbank,

when for a walk,
saw a histroy in--

     waiting,

                 no response...

This Town XIII (two days --

              my name is today,

                           i'll be gone tomorrow

his meticulous nature, --

            (two sheets of loose leaf

                         paper,

                                                      (leaving this

                                                                  town --

                        gone,

                                     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

(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

                 unaware

people wait on the                      margins

                                                                        & fringes

                                        these dots do not

                                                   connect to make shapes

                                                   but what happens

                         in between                    falls to the wayside

                         leaving

                         the others with

                                      the others

           as history begins

                       poetry waits

                                on the sidelines

              waiting to be written as poetry hides

(finding a dead cat in the morning before work)

it didn't just happen

beside a green

dumpster

it ended

in an instant

before it could really

occur,

nor did it wait around

for the right moment

though maybe

someone

drug it off the road

& put it there to rest

these things don't just

happen

like that,

we don't stumble upon them

& assume that they actually begin

right

there,

we go back & create

a story to make sense

of it

so we feel okay,

but it happened

& it's not

okay

This Town XII

with soft hands

i'll tear this town

apart,

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

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.

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

whirl

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

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

recognition

though always

interrupted or just

not fast enough

it's somewhere

to go and play

the last scene again

and again

listen

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

This Town X

the PiG

a dead city

rebirth inevitable

questions optional

it's a damned thing

a friend

a water spot

a tree

reach

fold

grow

find the inside

edge

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

down

reduced

to ash

a red sun

sets

just outside

of town

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

streets,

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

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,

unaware

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

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.

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

something,

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.

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.

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.