something there maybe god down there way deep inside making me move think stand sit but no other explanation honored here no more acronyms or techniques no gurus on the stairs phantom pedestals floating by falling by... the wayside wayward plunge a dark place a cool cave somewhere there with love and with trust and with an overwhelming curiosity waits the perfect storm the nuclear core way down or up in the pit way up in the ditch up in the puddles floats the heartbeat of mine art in hope despairs the instinct whole the instinct wholly and holy both but completely incomplete a perfect almost a definite word posted with the most concentrated effort made to love and to trust and hope... it's the instinct you see... i can't explain where it came from or comes from but there's certainly something there maybe god down there way deep inside making me move think stand sit but no other explanation honored here no more acronyms please no more techniques please no more gurus on the stairs no phantom pedestals no floating no falling no by no way no side no plunge without the instinct no art without the instinct no curiosity no trust love curious hope there it's born there it grows there it learns and becomes a grows and becomes and slows and becomes and slows comes and slower and comes and slower and stops and stops and stops and stops and stops then dies and dies then dies and dies then no more but instinct no more but instinct.

forever

there forever there never ending there until the end is there right there always hanging there over there up there always there never there was there went there been there gone there only there just there simply there forever there

tombday

tomorrow has arrived the cadence the percussion of time and of days and winds and mine eyes and hand grenade blues sprawling across the dream-scapes the daydreamy scape scrapers of tomorrow holding hands out exalting arms raised high knees sink to earth mud crawling up thighs sinking the certainty of tomorrow sinking in that gruesome uncertainty of today...

steel shades sticky lashes hovering above pupil filled eyes where's the white can't avoid the eyes where's the white something else to look at to stare at anything to gaze to ponder to reflect to recall to ponder anything but the deep black pits of those forlorn blackened deep pit eyes and without a second passed slipping out from the lungs like air oozing from the mad dash crash of vocal chord friction comes grinding from the deep hollows within the apology...

i confess contend with my back upright and elbows back that i profess to suggest for the slimmest of minutes the most miniscule of moments practically particular and with particle points and many specks of dust-like time crashing on the stones that mark my path i will confess this confession that i do indeed like many others from time to time from minute to minute or second to lifetime i do digest the desire to retire to suggestions to confessions and as such i desire like you do too to digress and digress over and over and again and again until the very digression which marks my stones becomes the confession the suggestion the profession and obsession that gives birth to the shadows that flutter against my concrete mind those same ones fluttering with you offering to you uncompromising promises and all the joys of gold that come with tomorrow.

so it was

those big old ocean eyes drawing to a close sigh heavily but lips stationary frozen timeposts mark those hands so big so strong resting on flimsy knees and pulsing so calm still no movement unless necessary so calm still no words unless necessary and back those eyes those blue antiques dust collectors still straining struggling suinting to remember those days the old ones when everything was... so it was always was until the end of time breathing in breathing out until no more

still

eating popcorn out of the palm of my hand without using any fingers is boring when you're not here playing brickbreaker on my laptop is boring when you're not beside me drinking a cup of tea in the morning even though it's summer and probably too hot anyway isn't the same when you're not here falling asleep and pretending that your pillow is really your arm or your shoulder gets boring after awhile making animal sounds to myself as i walk down the street instead making them to you makes people think that i'm just another st.catharines quackety quack quack having every day feel like a friday is a magnificent thing but made markedly less so by the fact that you're gone away for a few weekends using a water bottle and pretending that it's nacho biting my toes makes the neighbours across the road in that white house on the corner wonder why i get to live here and they have to live there backing out of the driveway going too fast makes me think i shouldn't leaving the grocery cart in the middle of the aisle so that people can't walk by is much less fun when you're not here looking into the mouths of my culturally appropriated masks and attempting to perform a routing maximandibular advancement isn't as fun as it would be if your maxilla was here coming home and seeing your shoes or your picture or seeing your work or your scarf or your toque or that leftover chicken that's rotting in the fridge makes me real happy... i miss ya like crazy - it's a bittersweet thing though you know it sucks that i miss you but it's a brilliant thing at the same time. my thoughts are with you as you glaze under the egyptian sun. love ya sweetie.

letter to anyone that i've ever known for a weekend or two

long time, huh? been busy some. some real busy. pretending to dance again. i've missed some of you - not all of you - a few of you...

many of you i actually stuffed into the back pocket of an old pair grease stained jeans that i donated to the salvation army some time ago - back in the old days maybe - back at that old apartment - that old kent street house in fonthill right around the corner of that subway station by danforth and broadview just around the corner from lake street and perpedicular to that old barn on parnell - yeah, back in the old life - that one that passed or is passing or will pass i'm not sure which one - seems so long ago - remember those? all those days - i don't either.

parts i remember - but so much scattered - fragments of fragments of pieces of fragments of bits and pieces of tiny particles exploding off of microscopic fragments of fragments all dressed up in shiny tiny particles and leopard skinned hats... remember those old days? i don't either...

parts i remember - but so much scattered - scattered puzzles and bloated crosswords - a blueprint - a retired soothsayer rocking in that chair - remember that sanded oil stained chair creaking in the sunroom the way it did? crawling around in those sunrays the way it did, remember? like an olympic swimmer - stroking frontwards backwards side to side spinning in circles drawing geometric shapes - shapes of all sizes - scratching your windows - hot - magnifying those sunrays - those gasoline sunrays pouring magnified sunrays all over the walls all over the ceiling and the floor too - splashing intolerable sunrays boiling temperatures burning hot - three times hotter than the hottest desert - melting those soldier-like cactus plants - framing the frames of those molten windows like a platoon of snowmen gasping for air in a midsummer heatwave...

how are you all doing i wonder sometimes when i wonder about why i don't wonder more often - how are your families - your children how are your relatives and your co-workers - how are your classmates and your pets - how are your neighbours and your partners - those are my thoughts while i wonder about wondering about whether it's worth wondering or remembering - better to wonder than to remember better to forget than be forgotten? not sure... don't know... don't remember... not sure... of much... when it comes to all of you... all of you people... you remnants... you fragments all of you people you pieces you bits you microscopic innate illegible references of the old times that passed the old times that are passing or the old times that will pass... all you shadows you photographs you old ancient obsolete reflections please take solace in knowing that as i sit here wondering yet again about why i don't woner about wondering more often it has just dawned on me that even though i don't remember any of you i am very happy very glad to know that i've forgotten every one of you...

the space between

stuck here hovering over your eyes peering into your face these days gone by those days suspended hanging like a neglected marionette on the wonder wall clinging desperately to the dusty strings of time and now still sitting stumbling through those flickering hallways dancing slowly seductively with the well wishing wall washing wall flower witnesses those shadows all buried now buried deeply deeply within the wallowing walls of that timeless tunnel it can be said softly that the time has come so it is so it was in the beginning squinting peering carefully between the space that tiny space that imperceptible space between the space between so condensed so compressed like miniature candles sideways stacked melting brilliantly transforming those weak-kneed wax houses into tiny log fires melting gently in the november snow melting ice and coats and glasses melting walls and obstacles melting time and place melting circumstances melting me into you.

night stroll

through sad stained glass
and carefully crafted
poetically polished
window frames
a lone figure emerges from the shadows -
out from the darkness
a lone figure emerges from the fog -
out from the clouds
she moves carefully, this one -
floating with weightless toes
along the bed of pedals
that marks her path.

october

the train station buzzing in my mind
like those traffic machines
and people machines
dominating this landscape grey
and through it all
through the screaming steel skyscrapers
thrusting through the thin air
cutting slicing dissecting
the sky so blue
so brilliant blue
is a lonley sapling
seemingly so small so insignificant
and there's me
standing there on the crest
of one tree hill
choking on the memory
of those freshly painted
blood stained leaves.