Yellow Suitcase
The
pillow smells like seaweed
whenever your head's in Halifax
I
always pictured you in Spain
ordering meals by the Mediterranean
the sea reflected in your glass
But
images fade
like our friend the actor
the yellow suitcase in the hall
Let Me Sleep Beside You
With
worthless fingers
I trace a map of butterscotch freckles on your shoulder
My
movements disturb the scent of morning-flesh
raise it to my nostrils
and acquaint me with every freckle, hair and blemish
Let
us not leave this bed
our Tuesday in March
without one sign of spring
or human existence
Hotel Valencia
By
the light of the Spanish moon
a band warms up the saloon
and beer bottles drift in the pool
I try to seduce a stranger
But
she’s kneeling beside a palm tree
soaking up the Mediterranean
with my last dirty shirt
Desert Dream 17
Meanwhile
it’s time to love again
move to the desert
and gamble for booze
I
can live on fritters
and cactus juice kept warm
on some cowgirl’s windowsill
And
upon this, my last ever poem
she’ll sharpen the knife
of the man I left for dead
Bowling League Champ
He
keeps all the pages
the books heavy with ink
full of recipes, death threats and tree-house blueprints
He
keeps pages in the closet
under travel guides and maps
all the countries in which he broke some bread
He
keeps his bicycle by the door
dries his laundry in the afternoon sun
it’s a towel rack on wheels
He’s
practical
he’s a guy you know
a mower of lawns
a writer of poetry
a thief
Sometimes
he’s a Thursday night rocker
every hair trimmed tight
and just when the riverbed cracks
buzzards come shuffling in
Mélange Les Oranges
Montreal
is a woman
a cocktail dress worn one size too small
She
suggests her room
a blow job with red lipstick painted on thick
They
want to keep her to the east
beached and bloated on the St. Lawrence seaway
under the covers of mayhem and language laws
Let
them think she has gone mad
I want her all to myself
drunk on jazz and 24-hour delicatessens
5foot6inch158pound Hug
You
say it’s funny how we move so fast
and think too slow
Like
we want the days to slip past
like mercenaries before the dawn
When
it’s time to leave your studio apartment
we drink to the highway and the end you warned me about
I
load up the backseat of my new borrowed car
leaving you to float in the space between our embrace
Tom Foolery
Maybe
you might want to see me tomorrow
maybe you might
In
the meantime I’ll come up with something clever
a quick quip
bloody your lip
Don’t
worry
the clown never gets the girl
no matter how witty or dexterous
All
he can do is avoid duels to the death
and life’s uncomfortable silences
More To Life Than Hockey
The
Stanley Cup sinks off the coast of Newfoundland
the day you burn your lighthouse down
RCMP
divers come up empty-handed
the day you fuck the farm’s hired man
When
the coast is clear
I build a ship
A
sturdy vessel
made of courage, truth and wood
Starter Home
Got
a hippie girlfriend
nicotine sweat
beads to make a curtain
And
Morrison’s still alive, she cries
as our city snapshots fade on the refrigerator
A
Missouri sun polishes the aluminum siding
and the cupboard’s stocked with incense
and Portuguese wine
If
only Mom could see my belly now
if Mom could see my big red belly now
I could say I drank a river and I got too fat
Friday
nights at The Oasis
where the bartender’s my best friend
all day Saturday, too
I’ve
got a blue-collar drinking problem
I burn bridges for a living
And I like what I do
Phone Sex
Tell
me I didn’t just sleep through another day
that my mother still thinks of me
when she smells fresh-cut grass
Tell
me how different it could be with blue eyes
and if signing was the nation’s official language
Tell
me again about the city that sleeps
how you filled its veins with piss, cum and whimsical ink
Remind
me that heaven is full
but Saskatchewan’s June is dipped in gold
Assure
me there are no subliminal messages
before I hang up the phone
drain another 12 ounces of liquid sloth
and go blind on this comfortable couch
Nowhere Drive
I
embark on a nowhere drive
recruit a courageous co-pilot named Hans or Veronica
follow outdated maps to towns highlighted neon green
I
stop in some lazy hamlet
read the words of dead men beside the river
clean my peace pipe and play the bongos
maybe even play them really well
Later
I visit the only library for the next 1000 miles
spy the town’s only dangerous girl
she’s absorbing Bukowski with a grin
draped in scarves and a faded pink chemise
Her
skin turns translucent under the flourescent flicker
she reeks of Bombay gin
crisp
like the morning after the first snowfall
she could confirm my existence with just one glimpse
Until
then
I’ll maintain my West Coast state of mind
write postcards every day
breathe
and keep my eyes on the road
Later That Day
She
ran away with a pro wrestler toward some Tornado state
a town where gnomes crouch like lawn ornaments
I
fill the trailer with wildflowers stolen from the Hollywood hills
I try to ignore my neighbour’s taunts
his Bela Lugosi hairdo
At
night
I recede into history’s most restful sleep
I dream of the snapshots under my pillow
All
my childhood pals with curse words on their lips
and in their eyes, futures in retail or film
Another Love Poem
What
the fuck am I doing in Gatineau, Quebec?
Simon & Garfunkel on the radio
and ugly cat in my lap
maybe I am drunk
I’ll
turn the music down and give you a ring
first I should cut off this college beard
at least return a lifetime of empties
24 bucks for half-a-tank gasoline
That
should get us to a place I know
it’s along this road that leads to contradiction
and gets wrapped ‘round the lyric of my new favourite song
Even
if we do crash
the locals are friendly
their women marry young
offering dowries and small but meaningful breasts
But
the last thing I wanted to do here
was write another love poem
I had no choice
I was thinking of you
I was listening to the radio
and drinking imported beer
Before The Microchip
Computers
are cold
typewriters hot
Punch the keys
feel it
hear it
roll the paper in
Drink
the last warm beer
roll a perfect cigarette like some magnificent jailbird
Computers
are cold
typewriters hot
like
brass knuckles under sick lights of our last subway stop
a shimmering fist that no one notices
Sorry I Took So Long
I
didn’t mean to pass you by
on my way to the fair
a
quart of beer under one arm
the other bracing you against the world
I
stop the car
’cause I’ve never met a girl so young
drunk
and bored
I
never met a girl I couldn’t get to know
get to love
to lick
lose
SomeAntics
Daffodil
snowflakes drop
float
and melt atop your painted eyelids
You’re
talking about distant lands again
places so warm
breezy and blue
You
want to take me along if I carry the blender
and snap some pictures:
you embracing palm trees
and me the pina coladas
In
return you’ll read to me
as I sweat through cotton sheets
or pray for a fan and a reason to stick around
You
say your name is Grace
but I believe it’s Liberty
maybe even Sue
Your
hair is brown
and I like the way you walk
quick
in sensible shoes
Girl In Yellow
She
hails a taxi with a disastrous smile
and both knees exposed
Across
town the music starts
a lonely tavern gaze soaks up the booze
the band
She
dances with a stranger
moves in close
like she’s living with another’s consequence
At
least she’s got the cigarettes
and gin
Goddamned
Saturday night
So full of itself
Then
Sunday morning drops by
hangover’s an old friend
pack of smokes 25 familiar lovers
Each
haul
one
more
forgettable
kiss
Judy Aardvark
When
I was young and love wasn’t spread so thin
I knew a fat girl at the top of every list
She
smelled like pages of a secondhand dictionary
and slurped sarsaparilla fizz in the rain
We
would walk the sloppy erosion of highschool football fields
sometimes she’d smile and finally be pretty
She
said she was guided by Lucky Dragon fortune cookies
and a Sir Francis Drake drifting through the Ouija board
Last
I heard
she moved to Sudbury and married a fur trader named Jacques
Trampoline Girl
Sunday
afternoon is a lawn chair
balanced between blades of knee-high weeds
It’s
a tumbler of iced tea
sweat absorbed by the unwrinkled sheet of sky
It
sounds like boing! boing! boing!
when she eclipses the sun with a Kraft Dinner grin
and yellow pigtails
Even
the boys slumped against my fence seem amused
smoking their fathers’ cigarettes
and nodding
Nothing
ever goes boing! this side if suburbia
except for a pretty girl
with a name like Serendipity Sue
Things We Don’t Say Anymore
Sitting
at your kitchen table
we play a form of checkers with empty bottles of beer
Pablo
writes his latest address
on the corner of last week’s sports section
Confessing
that I don’t have Amy’s new number
we decide to drive by later
With
the past covered and beaten
we have nothing left to discuss
at least until the beer money runs out
Now
it’s your pick
a song fills the apartment with sepia-toned images
and we are comfortably silent for 4 minutes and 12 seconds
Then
someone sighs
you head for the stereo
and we all feel old
In The City
On
the sunny side uptown
folks tip the paperboy and mow their Saturday grass
rich kids cruise in Fairlanes and Cadillacs
Suzie
sniffs polythene and Johnny gets drunk on roller skates
he delivers Bennies and Valium to neighbourhood housewives
Downtown
Joe Louis is still the champ
and Joe Louis is still the nigger
Corner
men smoke the spice and rap Espanol
they shuffle and sway
walk the hip hop be bop
Hand-rolled
cigarettes dangle from grey lips
and ashes curl like elephant trunks
Something About Nothing
The
gymnasium’s empty and the janitor’s my best friend
lost my lunch money on a dare
my pituitary gland drowns in a river of sperm
and my liver throbs with every sip of study hall beer
But
you know all about that
and them
and her
Hope
she’s good to ya
maybe not
told you so
For
me
tranquillity is a summer job
and I’d like to sweat til February
Come
spring I’ll take a taxi home
makes me feel like a rock ‘n’ roll somebody
cursing and sweating on someone else’s upholstery
drunk on stars and a moon you can rub for wishes
Later
I’ll collapse on the neighbour’s lawn
my ear to the ground
listening to the grass grow
and my youth sift down through the familiar soil
*Suburbia Somewhere
I
follow the curve of your sad-lip passing lane
it’s hard keeping up with a heart pumping government-issue nicotine
a rusty valve absorbing dust and delusion
You
pull away with turbo speed
you’re headed for the city where we used to wish for famine
and wish for flood
Too
bad constellations spill across my 40-dollar compass
useless as that fabled tower
the same one that pierced a full-moon sky
our last together
At
least your eyes can shimmer here
like puddles on some desert highway
high-noon highway splitting the hometown of our memory
a village where metropolis is myth and promises fade
Fortune Cookie
Love
is sitting right in front of you, dumbass.
Love is sitting right in front of you.
Love is sitting right in front.
Love is sitting right in.
Love is sitting right.
Love is sitting.
Love is.
Love.
Dedicated to:
Friends,
family, the day and all the grand things in between.
Thanks.
Thanks
to Bowie, Leonard, Bombay Gin, Du Maurier
and the girls that walk past my window on Decarie Boulevard,
Notre Dame de Grace.
More
thanks to the smooth people, tranquillity
and hungry Yetis everywhere.