Category Archives: poems

THE PROPER TOOL from Three Blocks West of Wonderland

poems

It’s the first poem in the collection; a bit of whimsy, hostility, envy.

The Proper Tool

I’m raring. I’m keen. Keen on the job, keen on green
suede, pea soup green suede. Round mountains
of breast meat. The taste of breadfruit. I’m fond
of blue fin, the Nepali coast. On off days I mourn

road kill, vanishing tooth fairies, yell above the wind
in ironwood trees or run over wild boars. I try to decipher
your posture, sagging down pipe. Was it something I said?
Did I wing a wrench into the works of your Stoly-propelled,

part-time life of letters? Did my leaky duck plump
body mangle your shift,
the entire working class hero period?
You don’t know your Gatsbys
from your Kowalskis, pub-crawling from slumming.

I buy jade, Siberian tiger’s eye. Thyme
infused bath bombs. Glass beads. Silk and suede,
green suede, so much easier to stroke than you.
Go saw yourself in half. Go nail

it in, back against the wall. Paint yourself, or it,
black. Into a corner. Weld your metal. Meld
the two halves of your dark side. Screw yourself.
Gather the loose ones. Punch yourself out.

Evolution, from urbanite to islander!

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Island view south

This poem from my new book, Three Blocks West of Wonderland, inspired by our move to Bowen Island in the . . .


Year of the Monkey

Full house. Madhouse. Ill-fated deejay,
jester fixed to his back, grinding out tunes
in celebration of our new digs, life,
in the forest, despite the clear-cutting
a hundred years ago. There is talk

of the I-Ching. This will be
an extremely progressive time predicts
a guest with faith enough to practice.
Monkeys are shrewd. Agile.
You will find great success in 2004.

Happy New Year! A toast. To the pileated
woodpeckers, heard more than seen. Cheers!
To the deer phantoms, droppings molding
in the front meadow. Where do they go
in the winter? Why don’t I know these things?

We make clumsy attempts at lighting a fire,
heating the house, woodstove couched
and cold-shouldered as a guerilla soldier
brooding over such hatchet-challenged wimpiness.
We brave the Jacuzzi though. January. Naked ape it

on the Continue reading →

WINNIPEG DOWNS from Three Blocks West of Wonderland

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Ekstasis Editions, 2009

I’m finally coming up for air after 10 manic days of mania, albeit with a skewered neck and pain radiating up the entire left side of my skull. Occasionally it will roost in my temple or behind my ear. Well it’s true that the only out is through so here I sit, too messed up to focus or write so will blog another day and in the meantime share a poem from the new book, Three Blocks West of Wonderland.

WINNIPEG DOWNS

Games of chance. Sleight of hand. Games invented
to wash us out of her lush, chestnut hair,
setting little sister and me off to stoop and scoop
discarded tickets. Plucky as yard hens. Two bags
full. Staggered, not by one-too-many beers
but a winning wager, she whooped I can buy
you girls supper! Dragged around like carrion
in a diesel-rank yellow Beetle, we fought

to hide in the nausea-inducing verboten slot
where balled-up fists could not reach.
Dutifully she ordered a Mama burger
though professing to prefer the Teen. Two bites. I bet
she had no appetite after six months of whiplash prescription.
Her lumpy thumbs hefted fivers, entering the weekly lottery,
blowing crumbs of crud off a scratch & win ticket between pulls
on a machine-rolled fag, corduroy car coat pockmarked
with cigarette burns. Bingo-lottery-horse-and card-playing loser.

My hand. A mother rather like that species
of turtle that leaves the clutch in a lurch to hatch,
scuttling down to the tavern, I mean, ocean. To be fair,
she always returned to pour salt on our sugar
sandwiches or fry up some baloney. Midnight shuffle
back to our shack behind the white fence of birch
to catch me in the hook of her hand, give me something
to cry about. On special occasions
her bad nerves, moods, might recede.
Christmas especially mollified her.

A waitress—blinded by Chinese restaurant-light
brutal as the belly of an illuminated submarine—
she did not see us, our saucer eyes, our brightness,
so busy she was rubbing lucky charms
and rusty magic lamps. Telling stories. Lying
in bed reading True Confessions, liking her coffee crisp.

She can rest in her La-Z Boy, now that the little buggers
are grown. Against all odds.
Now that she’s toothless, painless and respectable
except for the plethora of aces up her sleeve.
In no position to coerce, she cajoles
us into playing gin rummy. Crib. I have to laugh,
the way she groans when dealt the joker,
as if she knows him intimately.

The Proper Tool from “Three Blocks West of Wonderland”

poems, , ,

Heading to the printers soon. Woo hoo!

The Proper Tool

I’m raring. I’m keen. Keen on the job, keen on green

suede, pea soup green suede. Round mountains

of breast meat. The taste of breadfruit. I’m fond

of blue fin, the Nepali coast. On off days I mourn

road kill, vanishing tooth fairies, yell above the wind

in ironwood trees or run over wild boars. I try to decipher

your posture, sagging down pipe. Was it something I said?

Did I wing a wrench into the works of your Stoly-propelled,

part-time life of letters? Did my leaky duck plump

body mangle your shift,

the entire working class hero period?

You don’t know your Gatsbys

from your Kowalskis, pub-crawling from slumming.

I buy jade, Siberian tiger’s eye. Thyme

infused bath bombs. Glass beads. Silk and suede,

green suede, so much easier to stroke than you.

Go saw yourself in half. Go nail

it in, back against the wall. Paint yourself, or it,

black. Into a corner. Weld your metal. Meld

the two halves of your dark side. Screw yourself.

Gather the loose ones. Punch yourself out.

B U S H W H A C K poem-image

poems

VELOCITY

Tremulous leaves quiver
but barmy birds eye
pistachios, fooled
by the flying V disciple’s
green skin peeping out
curling red pants of shell.
Crutch free at last
he climbs sunward,
higher than any other
for a glorious hour
of ecstasy,
whooping hubris
before seeping sap loss,
Icarus molting,
plummeting boughs.
A Helios thrill killing.
Winking navel
above the fork
must heft life up,
out, of the maelstrom.

And the livin’s easy…

poems,

DIVERSIONS

Learn how to eat a kumquat.
Watch giant sink holes
chow down on suburban family homes,
or floods that force
a Fargo wedding party to improvise.
Giggity Giggity Giggity!
Bird dog with Glenn Quagmire,
noxious as hound’s-thistle
or do it yourself.
Right single-handedly
Dial-A-Lover.
Get a second life.
Come out.
All aboard
the tattoo parlour car.
Fly your freak flag
out the window.
Evolve by gradation,
colour or tone, your choice.
Master effervescent technology.
Ride a ride.
Tilt-A-Whirl,
tumult on the horizon
causing you to retch.

The fun never stops! Poetry, his and mine.

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Listening to Miguel Migs playing Bump Selectra, a dub selectra mix on the Beat Blender play list on Soma FM, recalling the meeting Josef and I had with the RDI consultant this morning. It was a fairly productive meeting though I suffered a headache the entire time. We need to work on Junior’s non-verbal communication skills. Less talking on our part as well, so that he is forced to reference, check in with us. An over-reliance upon words keeps him in his own head in a sense. It’s so frustrating that he was misdiagnosed and not identified as ASD until age 10! He was prescribed years of speech therapy which turns out to be the last thing he needed. Vocabulary does not equal communication. We want him to look at us before talking, before launching into a topic. It is imperative for him to shift his attention to the person he is interacting with. Get in his face, literally, is what we need to do. There are techniques like pausing until he references us, feigning incompetence and doing something unexpected. All these things force him out of his static thinking mode. Our objective is to help him develop flexible thinking and dynamic communication.

The fun never stops! As we all recover from our fabulous AURAL Heather performance enthusiastically recieved at the Violet Femmes 2 compilation showcase, I now must focus as well on a grant application for the next week, for the Canada Council Spoken Word and Storytelling program. I want to write up a proposal for a Continue reading →

Heroic as a high school graduate… “Window Seat”

Journal, poems, , ,

Art Bergmann at our home studio on Vancouver Island

In a major funk, not sure why. Probably pre-show anxiety (AURAL Heather @ the Media Club tomorrow, April1). Maybe I just need a break from reality, been feeling restless, suffering a severe case of itchy feet. At least the sun is out today, had to use the goLite yesterday for a shot of Vit D, it was so dark. I am listening to some lovely songs my peripatetic and talented friend Emaline Delapaix sent. She’s in a Montreal suburb right now, a little lovesick I fear and cooling her jets until she moves to Toronto.

All right, well I’m not going to write a review of Art’s (Bergmann’s) show, return to the stage. I’m sure others will. I was overjoyed to see him performing again. I will talk about the influence he has had on me and Continue reading →