Surrender

The line up for free coffee
is growing daily up until
they too
take away the free love.
Not something I am unaccustomed to
all I crave is
the surrender to your clever ways
play me anyway
I’m game
raising flags at red lights
stopping my heart from beating
to feel yours
hiding away under the life machines
holding on to technology
like doctors
who are poets in their own way
like us
saving lives
with words.
It seems redundant to write
how you
have the words
I want whispered in my ear
you have the hands
caressing my skin
and all the other ordinary words
poetry stems from
but ’tis true. Yes.
Shakespeare is in love again.

I found these words scattered
around from six in the morning
where my notebook lay empty.
I raise my love to you
and bore you to death
with my obsessions
and that is how easily
you can forget me.
You are the air
I am of the earth.
(And this is another reason
I will surrender
for both
need each other
more than they know.
It could be science.
It could be love
it could be none of the above.)

naked on the sand

I have checked

too many times

to count and analyze

what x means in relation to o

counting hearts

along the shores of my mind

waiting for theater shows

from my old drama class
to play scenes

from my manuscript.

A few sips of this tangerine dream tea

and presto

a poem is sprung

from my private highway

steering the myriad ways

that lyrics and poetry

headphones and paperback

continue our métro treks

from one part of this city

to another.

Trying new restaurants per capita

like ice cream flavors

kissing at bus stops as teenagers do.

I am not so easy to love, this I know. Thinking about this and that
how my heart has a protective bat
that hits metal hearts that break through.
You left me at the beach
I was working at that bar in Old Montreal
the one my boyfriend ran
putting money in jukeboxes
to hear Come As You Are
in 120th anniversary celebrations.
You could not have found a better place to say hello and good-bye
until six years later
it was the Act 5 Dream
with Mexican directors
shouting “take three”
and as you sat there
watching my artistic train wreck
you envied my hands
my hair
my mind
how I let my guard down
when your eyes rested upon mine
even with your poker face on
I saw through your magnetic eyes.
The director said you had the perfect stance
as you sat there
along the shoreline
contemplating love
life
pain
loss
my heart ached
but it was all an act.
I put another coin
and pressed the same song
drank some Metaxa
shots
and overslept.
Missed my train
and forgot to unravel
the myths once again.
My shift started at five
so I took a shower
and dreamt about the taste of your salty lips.

The Sea

I’m just a tad more romantic

hopeless (to be exact)

the two combined

leave vomit on my shimmery and shine

same pants you rubbed

same sex you craved

and then the boxing bell rang loud

while we were in the bliss of all that fun

time to pack the bags

I have my train ticket

do you have the time?

I have my thongs with all the right words

do you have a rhyme?

I have my invites to the latest parties

do you want bits and pieces of my crime?

I confess to nothing

I embrace my sins

count me out

of the nails and pins

on the sleeves of your love

count me in

to the rhythm and blues of your heart

that’s all I wanted from the very start.

You, me, in all that denial

I sleep nude after I wake up

feel the sheets on my skin

as I press redial;

you hate when I call you

say the truth

stick me and you across in that booth

and your touching the letters

on my skin.

I dream in so much color

and waves of the ocean

the subtle drowning in me

wakes me up

I held my breath

from the bottom of the sea.

You might think I am a great storyteller

but I do not/cannot sit for four hours

in misery

reviewing colors and fabrics

with no glasses.

Just lay me down

I might float

or not.

Someone I am not

I know how to cross

my heart

use the telephone

to connect to myself again

but I cannot be someone I am not.

At the Palacio Royal

you told me about King Carlo III

I told you about the Wheat Kings

you told me

let’s run with the bulls baby

but I pulled you into my body instead

and we lost the frenzied crowd

in the centre of Pamplona.

One morning we woke up

with nothing but sand

on our bodies

at La Concha

I wondered how

we didn’t get

arrested or caught

but we were always good liars.

We stood in front of

The Aqueduct of Segovia

felt like tiny rocks along a beach

this monument provided all the water

once upon a time

and you bit the side of my neck

with all the trivia

forgotten on my spine.

Your history became a part of mine.

Your dark eyes

sharp tongue

would not let me rest

as the sun set

on so many of us

on the shores of Ibiza.

I hope you liked your tour

your eyes soaked in mine

muchos gracias

because the world was different then

in ways that

no youth can comprehend

I never saw you again

for you are someone I am not

a love I buried along with the

sand on my skin.

Sitting in my car

If you want to know what I thought
all you have to do is ask
and when I said
well nobody walked out of the theatre/
most of the audience don’t know why
they laughed on cue/
rolled their eyes when needed/
and romanticized all/
because what can you do
in denial of your life
bring out the ties and sex acts
one by one
you can butt plug your existence
or pretend you know why he doesn’t want to be touched
like most men do
or why she likes her ass slapped
like most women do.
I can offend but a prompt is just that
and fan fiction is still fiction
and New York movie critics
need a sundown on this topic
and Madonna needs an opinion
all wait for the review
just have your own fucking nonsense bottle of wine with their logo
plaster it all over the sites
like someone wants to be you.
How is that
no one cares about what the waiter said last night
arguing with me while he knows he is wrong
didn’t high school end?
Never
it goes on
with every new Leader
or heartbreaking news story.
Watch the news in pain
as literature drowns
and best sellers float
but my book will not bring out all the kings and queens
and if you read or not
nothing changes
it’s still Friday and tomorrow is Saturday
drinking and waiting for The Hip to feed the soul.
Another -33 day in love with the guitar and sounds
of refusal
to sell out.
Sorry, to disappoint
but it has to be done
every once in a while
to see how
there is nothing closer to fiction
than reviews.
Every reader
wants to escape,
I hope my rope
is long enough
to touch the ground.

Gung Hay Fat Choy

I know he wants me to send him love

but all I got are fortune cookie sayings

on this snowy Montreal morning.

Last night I drove from grocery to grocery store

when others were watching prime time

cursing about this or that

until that tiny box of fortune

was pointed out to me

like a winning lottery.

Then  I landed in bed

edited in the nude

locked the windows and doors

played Bobcaygeon

for light inspiration

and I thought how no matter

how many times

I would see his face

it could never be enough,

but others await my class,

alarm had flutes,

tangerine dreams of green tea

oranges, firecrackers, incense

zen music, tai chi exercises,

tea party in my world

but at seven tonight and seven tomorrow

my Osheaga friends meet again

to go back in time

while this afternoon

at half past three

ultrasounds  mark

lies or truths

like the check-marks

I give every day.

I had being stuck in checkmate

I hate to skate

but he knows all the right moves

and all the right tunes

to start over

day

after

day.

hip and cool

In the darkness of the day I can feel his arms around me

as far as he is

he can duck and press the gas medal

quickly, urgently, not even a riot

could stop him from ringing my bell;

he can come up close to me

and kiss me with his fluent tongue,

charming words,

hot love escaping his pores

as he races to see what the fuck

I am up to today

with my theory of the day mood swings

poetry readings in crumpled sheets

playlists of old tracks of my heart

that still make me pounce

on the front line of his soul.

Every city sinks at one time or another

every colour turns blue

shades of grey

are just a fantasy

memories float on the river

of my small city

(who the hell collects postcards besides me

who the hell cares for seashells

in the middle of winter).

One hundred pages left in my galley

but I have to check on my sanity

from time to time

escape the characters in my head

that live and breathe

without my knowledge

never wanting their story to end.

It is never enough to love for eternity

not even  possible

to have one love

all a mere rock on the bottom of the ocean

no one can see.

Ready for him

when he is

determination

should be written on his sleeve.

The only lovers left are the poets

creating a secret world

among the appearances

of the living

who often

seem dead. I am so alive.

Come from your frustration

and enter my highway

park

drive

and stay a while.

Write another poem.

Hoodie

keep your hoodie on
stare into my extreme distance
yet with a touch of a button
I could be right in your trance
I like the abab rhythm of your hands
as they soothe my ruffled words
my constant negative off shore lands
at your doorstep along with my birds
cannot go far without them
you in my head
lay me sweetly on your turned hem
adore the French, Italian, Spanish food
as you feed me their pots of stories
each lover unique Yet obscure
ready to lure
you
intrigue you with secret recipes
aren’t we too old for that game so untrue
to our claimed values
of pop culture phenomena, the blues.
Enter my booth made of church wood pew
tell me everything and all that I knew
without a glance
three times I heard your voice in my fated chance
to see how your breath tastes in mine
to let the suds dissolve in their own time.
Nothing is certain
draw the red velvet curtain
just kiss me
under the sycamore tree
.
No one wants to go on Friday night
but you
so far
so true
.
Sunday is meant to be with your lover.

Friday the 13th

A couple of hours of sleep

coffee, adrenaline, words

reading before my first sip and weep

trying to capture the dawn

staring at paintings of Santorini

anything but this white lawn.

Go to Target fill up the carts

don’t forget the 30% off in stationery

oh, my pens, joy, more broken hearts,

fill it up with all the empty journals

waiting for my adoring love

to inspire me, rip off pages,

crumble words.

Date with the girls

the younger girls

celebrating birthdays

more than silly made up days

and let the men

do what they do best.

Haunted by sleeplessness

moon cycles;

setting of the moods

your stories

my confessions

I can scare off so many people

with nothing but words

that have more power

than you think.

All we have between us are words

and see how many connect

disconnect

follow

unfollow

read

skip

bleed

tattoo words on skin

on chambers

on walls

they lay dormant for a while

sleep on this or that

about how words trick us

into believing

we could be sweet

manipulative

cruel.

Just tell me how poetry spills your soul

directly into mine

so fluidly.

I could love you with my eyes

now, feel you with my soul,

fuck the words,

only don’t mistake me

for someone else.

The trick to unlocking your secrets

is listening to your breath

in deep silence

all the while

I ponder how I wish I could make up my bloody mind

because I know

we were bound to meet

one way or another

and as for 50 shades and chocolates

I have to see it and taste the flavour

to make up my mind

because all these critiques

of love

and movies

are just that.

I actually love Friday the 13th

tonight it’s byob

and no men at our table

only in our hearts.

Streams

I missed my turn

forgot the money on the counter

almost let the beans burn

soaked the pot among useless banter

called my mom to talk about his soccer career.

He was eighteen until twenty-three

why are you asking? are you drinking beer

Just thinking

you forgot again, why are you so distracted

you need to stop working, she says

I already do what I love

teach, write, love, hate, soak the soul

pray to candles, talk to birds at Walmart

while my daughter rolls her eyes

you are different, Ma

and then she tells me her warrior

ways and vow I had nothing to do with that

part of her.

I write poems in parking lots

and dream that you are in my head again

kissing my collarbone

singing songs on my bare skin

you already did that didn’t you?

They wanted him, she says

it broke his heart

leaving soccer to come to Montreal

you know that they had one second of silence

in Korinth

when he died?

Yeah, Ma, I know.

He was a true champion

but he didn’t make money

they paid for his food though (wow)

and his accommodations

and he saw all of Greece.

He was born in the wrong time.

Aren’t we all?

No, we’re not.

okay, I have to write a poem.

Do you want to see his love letters?

And of course, I cried

some more.

My poems?

Yes, and I didn’t sleep that night.

I held her close as you held me.

I confess to you my original sin

recycle the empty bottles of gin

encounter ghosts in flames

break down my barrier with word games

only you

can enter

where no man has been before.

All this to say

you do remind

me of him.