It’s All So Terribly Vivid
At some particular point
castrated by the glass ceiling fixture
my eyes gave up.
in this unremarkable darkness
my anticipation is voiced
by a car crash
not some anxious dream
but a local drunk
who got too wet
at 2:53 AM
At some particular point
this rare bird
embarrasses us both
with his three point turn,
his rush to escape
is a familiar trial
to those who live
in such a hurry.
My Song
Silence is the page sifted
for Ondaatje or Cohen who
could give voice to harsh sensations one may push through.
A million pages fall between the couch cushions
A million more to go
At least the canopy is warm and the lights keep his voice wet
There was a concert hall this boy played inside
a hall for any parent who wanted to know
what children sound like.
Those same sounds fill his skin
every missed note or busted reed
voice enough sensation to keep the Earth spinning
so the birds can reach my door
I need to know,
now more than ever,
if the birds can hear my thoughts
so they know when not to sing.
That same boy could listen this city laugh every year
Funny how the space between words
is enough to set the room ablaze
Pushed through to make a joke, or
harsh enough to break it.
Funny how big this city is
Funny how as the city gets bigger,
his world shrinks.
The computer could make another world.
Squeezed from the canopy,
he pulls from the fruit of the indentured
and types away at whatever he can’t keep quiet.
Hercules
Curly tops,
remembered arms, and
drapes of women cover the rest.
An impressive feat of art
to carve out some flesh
enough to capture the majesty of those
who deserve some depiction.
To look for veracity
in any of this
is a nauseating mistake
rather look at what makes
ideal of a Roman’s ass
or if yours could carry
the weight of his labours.
Content as witness,
we left the museum
in our own states:
my aunts knees
returned to stone
and my own nerves
hardly worth their description.
Ordinary Signs
My hand has stirred
a depth I fear
no wider
than the narrow trace of rain
streaked across my bedroom window.
Making drink to passing cats,
themselves a faint space
between the evening
and my swollen eye.
Their fur collects
in my air conditioner
that hates to be interrupted.
Sooner I be forced out
than give time to bogus repair,
as if I’m one to tolerate
fewer disappointments.
Turn over a few ordinary signs
I find tricked by the wind
and notice
my neighbours are everywhere.
Carry on about the news
and this terrible weather
that has kept so many indecent, or
make amends with the sour earth
and chipped autoroutes
our children love so dearly.
Instead, I’ll collect myself
among the drains
lit by some faint politic
and plenty of luck
wondering if a drowned mosquito
is my last hope
for intimate conversation.