For you, The Reader

Not sure about the quota
the stats
for the day
but I cannot switch it off.
My Reader says,
I read you breathlessly
eager to ingest
every word
like hard liquor
burning my insides.
(And here I thought
I was nothing special
full of self-doubt
and betrayal).

Do I excite you? In what way?
To hold me close
to smell my skin
to part my legs
and feel me from within?
I know about the phases.
I read Neruda’s sonnets
the morning, the afternoon, the evening
and I feel his currents
sweep me into his waves
that crash against my body.

I’m truly a romantic fool
yet so alive
with wonder
like a little girl
lost in a shopping mall.

When I see the wicked words
I want to bathe naked in them.
Can you imagine such a scene?
Shredded paper in the floating water.
I am sure you would comply
if I ask such strange requests.
You open up my soul
these words
come out like waterfall
with no self-control
no edits.

I stop washing dishes
forget to eat
all to get this cough of words
stuck in my throat
to you,
whether you read me or not
others need it too.

Now I get stopped in the street
my identity no longer hushed
I love your poems
I read them every day
Please keep them coming

so this one is for you, my Reader
the ones that connect
the dotted lines
into their very own
heartbeat.


Soul tapping

It is the tap of the soul
that ignites the mind
the body close behind
and when the paper runs out
the words never do
in my sleep they scream
and shout
always on the united screw
of the interlocked worlds
scouring about.

It should not take much
to spread her legs
those words, one touch
you got her entrapped in your webs.

At least she knows trauma
spreads her internal drama
all over the kitchen table
in sexy New York aprons
with no underwear
and tons and tons
of unmarked cars peeking in her lair.

He loves the show
and makes her dance
she shakes her hair
in a stoned trance.

She has to cook
buy protein shakes
read her favourite book
with nipples erect
continues her bakes.

And the soul
keeps on tapping away
waking her up.


my gift

If I had a way of controlling the morning sun, I would rip it from the sky and place it just above your bed.

Upon opening your eyes, your first sight would be the colour of my love.


Honesty

Perhaps you thought

it did not matter

that you changed

a simple no to ru

but all the little deceits

are grand masterpieces

of woven lies

in a name

that should exist

to prove we breathe

freely.

My instincts, my third eye

even if I never knew

it would not bloom

for your walls are

much higher

and magic

is just an illusion

and fantasies

they are just in our mind

and reality

is a misplaced puzzle

with lost pieces

we refuse to search for.

This is how

I shut down

again

revealing

a skin of words

along the inside

of my blood.

I thought

you were

a stone

that I would pick up

and keep in my pocket

or a wave in the ocean

I would let caress me

and the metaphors

never end

yet this poem must

even if it seems obscure

all we have is trust.


Elements

It is not how
the sun rises
but the colour
of the sky
at dawn
dusk, twilight
that I marvel at
more than the necklace
in a green box
of the tiniest butterfly
captured in my drawer.


Windows

Open up the window

let it out

get down on my scraped

ten year old knees

do nothing but shout

about how

epiphanies come alive

how we bend our minds

to strive

for these words that haunt

memories that jaunt

to remind me of how

it used to be

in my mother’s arms

in my father’s embrace

that comfort I need to face

feel again

in an imagined place

at this time when

you make a question

into life lessons

as if a gate has opened

once locked

a dam blocked

and you

the boat

slipping endlessly by

as I wait afloat.

When you hear my voice

swearing about the knots

it has a complete familiarity in itself

talking to myself, all alone

laying my soul on its shelf.

How modern love has come to this

words and voices we miss

modern sex without a kiss

evolved to pictures

erotica unsolved

mysterious you

hilarious me

exchanging thoughts on a leafless tree

as Fall echoes the emptiness

we lay it out bare and confess

to nothing we did not

know before

yet all we want is more

of this and that

skinny and fat lattes in the Montreal cold

to warm the bones

let the truth unfold.

The windows are shut tight

to not let in the air

it chills my bare body

lets down my messy hair

and somehow you are in the room

no longer locked out

as I sweep with my broom

all the dark sorrow that I want

to live without

you hold on to my run

and ask me

are you ready to chase the sun?


The Bridge interlude

The closer I come

the further you feel.

I could not tell you

because you did not want to know

then I did not want the truth
no matter its profound beauty

it is hard to look at your shadow

for so many months

hard to love you

when you put up concrete fences.

On that full moon

I would tell nobody

die with it

live with it

breathe with it

why ask at all?

I wore my high heeled blue shoes.

Someone may know more than you

and so ready to peek inside my soul

while you sleep awake

and wonder about fate.

I am starting to not trust the internet

and it all started in Soho

the information lied

your hopefulness

my mood swings

my answers

your neighborhood.

Little things tell me what you want

and it may not be

so deep inside of me

as I first thought

it could be as far away as oceans are

safe from my loneliness.

Relying on technology and shoes to get me places closer to you

when in essence
it is further away.


it’s been a while

he says he loves the way
I do irrelevant things
and then he takes it all away
he doesn’t read me anymore
much less see me
and the windows
are finally sparkling
the forest has those paths
and you see what I see
if only in grasps of straws
for that moment
and that’s enough
for a while.

If you think there is no more
heartache inside of you
you are mistaken.

Just when I think
my life is misplaced
I start again.
I can’t speak for you
or him
or her
just for the poet
and not the muse.

I am too simple
and complex
in one sentence
imagine up close

shattered dreams
illusions
hopes.

Just know
it’s never about you
it is how the silence
between us
has become
too comfortable.

Not sure if this is much
of a poem
or thoughts
or the combination
of both
of the artist
putting on makeup
to go to dinner.


empty space

Woke up to your sounds
some kind of growl
similar to Ginsberg’s Howl
when magic gloves were something wacky
yet
poetry still did not mean a thing
as the Beat Generation continued their song
except me and the few
that saw those portals open
unfamiliar senses and sounds
of lost loves and words so profound
our senses were alive
with the realization
of how tulips lived and died
and the beauty never lied.

Fancy that you, baby, can comprehend
how my love rides
on tulips’ waves
their intensity, purity
their unspoken poetry.
Every word erased
is replaced within my soul
sprouting spring seeds
in the middle of Fall.
The letters in your name
as magical as mine
are to you,
so strong, full of inner fame.

These words are from my pages,
pondered on ink
then let loose on thumbs
tiny screen aches
morning solitude
pre-dawn dates
taken from my cup
to yours.

My doubt is grand
but when you hold out your hand
my faith sees the stairs
to your magical door.

I believe every blessed word
tantalizing and pure.

I cross out and rewrite now
too much thinking
on a full moon night
now day
now mine & yours.

I sleep, I wake
I wake, I sleep
and there you are
smiling at my return
watching me
watch you
watching you
watch me
this perpetual need
to be as One
and cease this infantile run.

Montreal is the call
as you wrap yourself
around me
in this empty space.


Your arrival

Your words set me on fire

wake up and sleep to them

catch a bus with them on my fingertips

hold my hips firmly and kiss with them

all like a downpour of rain on my wet skin

breaking all the barriers from deep within.

It is a rush of sensations in all the right places

a blur of the faces

in front of me now.

It is how you are with me when we are together

and apart

that matters most

even when

at times I feel like a ghost

you can carry on like my host

until you open up my windowsill

and let yourself in

to cross your legs at my show

the way I bend, the way I glow

and you watch so closely I fear

that you will hate me and leave me

so I stand clear.

All my doubts piled up like laundry

all your songs inside my head’s playlist

pounding out anger with my tiny fist

letting out poems at red lights

producing thoughts like blinks

motivating strangers with cute invisible winks.

And the night it comes and goes

your melody, it grows in the Fall

you try so hard and I collapse

spin from exhaustion

dramatize my life,

examine the point of a knife.

It’s all in my head

and the stories come out in my bed

as I stare at the ceiling’s dull color

and mark my state as semi-dead

but then you arrive with a book

to steal my heart again and again

when you see me running and counting to ten.

I don’t even care what the book is

you just bring it to me

and that alone

is what sets me free.


Self Reflection

Jesus said to him, "I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me (John 14:6).

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