HOWLIN WOLF AND THE LONG ROAD TO RICHMOND HILL
If you want to get
a man’s attention –
Whisper to another woman
Preferably your
Mother
The man in question
being your Husband
Sitting in the
front seat with
your Brother
On a long car ride
listening to the blues
Or just flip him
the bird
__
Winter 2010
EARLY SPRING IN WEST QUEEN WEST
I saw strange fruit on a tree in my
neighborhood today Exotic tiny
bananas? I live in Canada up north
so no we have no bananas
But we had some lynchings more
than a century ago in the East
When the slaves thought they’d escaped
only to find that they had not And the blues
they still reverberate through Africville
Southern trees bear a strange fruit,
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze,
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.
__
Spring 2010 Songanddancegirl Abel Meeropol Billie Holiday
I WAS TOLD THERE WOULD BE CAKE
In the past this poem has refused
to be written So why not refuse
to read it ? Ah but you are already
in Seduced by the promise of iambic
and the blaze of brilliant sunsets Run while you still have a chance
And you are young enough to make a life for yourself
__
Spring 2011
HEY CARYL
Caryl died yesterday
my husband’s
dropdead
gorgeous
high school sweetheart
We’ll miss you Caryl
You’ve been
with us
all these years
The lusty busty playboy
bunny
of the fast cars
on cold Winnipeg
nights
Sometimes he rode his
bike out to
see you –
2 miles
without lights
But it was worth it
because you
were shy
and you could sew
And made him laugh
I was pleased to
know
He told me too
that my perfume
reminded him
of you
And based on his
description
that used to
make me blue
I can honestly say Caryl
I’ve now fallen for you
too
__
Winter 2010
GIRLFRIEND BREAK-UPS OCCUR EVERY 3.5 SECONDS
We had past our best before date probably
by year 3 but continued to flog the carcass
with a combination of sexual repression &
ennui After year 8 over a plate of garlic
nan Your middle finger flapped close to
my left eye You dropped a 20 on the table
and left without saying goodbye
3 years later you called during a snowstorm
and thought that a celebratory reunion was
in order O my long lost lovely I seriously
wonder if you are not a disordered personality
gone berserk at the Indian Rice Factory
__
Spring 2011
ENJAMBMENT HELL
How does Nicole Brossard
make all of those
words fit together?
As though they were
born of different
mothers
But somehow make
a gorgeous wordslinging
family all filigreed
and baroque
My voice tremulous
as I search for
the right po-mo
timbre –
And the breathy
pause To beat all pauses
__
For Nicole Brossard Po Mo Heorine
Spring 2010
DUSTING OFF YOUR SAVIOR
Have you ever noticed how on certain days
everyone you pass is either an elf or
miscreant? Well I’m having one of those
A small chickadee just appeared at my feet
Thinking it a rat I nearly crushed it Perhaps
a feathered Messiah? While just over there in front
of me people gather round a tree
There a bird likely from another world
is cacophonizing Hi Hi Huuuu Hi Hi Huuuu
But now a seachange And in the silence only very
hip people pass All polka dots smokes and grimaces
__
Summer 2011
IN DAVID’S TEA I WAITED FOR G
I overthink everything in my life and that
ruins my life I hate being a girl so much
Do you know how much easier life would be if
I wait and wait for sleek blonde loveliness
to finish her sentence at this place until the fall of night I waited for Godot
Hoping against hope that she wasn’t just another
girl wishing she were born a boy
__
Winter 2013 Songanddancegirl & Samuel Beckett 1952
EAT THE WORM I IMPLORE YOU
I resent the snow as though it shows up
to induce claustrophobia and mid-winter
migraine These relentless mudbeige days without sun
are raining on my wellness parade Even
the tea at Teavana is not the antidote to my malaise
O you denizens who growl & march zombielike into the frozen haze
Something so much stronger is required until
Toronto emerges from the maze When we will
squander again our hot pink dusks and forget about all of the beige
__
Winter 2013
SWEET CHARIOT COMIN FOR TO CARRY ME HOME
Sometimes I see The Quarter in sepia tones drifting by
in my mind’s eye Was I even there? What proof do I
have except a dull throb mid-chest Was I shot and now dead?
Everyday is the end of the world for somebody
Said Monk Big Chief of New Orleans
Maybe these are my End of Days
Where the blast of Irvin’s trumpet will
carry me home Swing Low
__
*New Orleans LA has the highest murder rate in the U.S. for cities with a population of over 200,000.
Winter 2013
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