"It's about words, and words are all I have…"

Archive for the month “May, 2018”



In a great Hold Steady song the name of which I

cannot remember  a girl sports a tattoo: Damn Right

I Will Rise Again  The Boss too sings of  The Rising

And then there’s Jesus   But not John Lennon  unless

he is resurrected every time you refuse to believe in

Zimmerman  or Tarot  or Jesus fer Chrissakes   But I

doubt it    John is likely in Yoko’s sock drawer


And as I look around the park where I write  the girl beside

me licks her cone hungrily   Incisors glinting   A Rising in the

offing?  Tight medium pink  ribbed sweater   Bra impossibly

pointy    Trumpets blaring


Risings   I’ve had a few  ( I’m hearing Sinatra )  They take so

much energy  +there’s self-immolation involved too   All of

which at a certain stage go the way of your velvet skin  +high

tight cheeks


Ice cream now done  our licker sidles over: I’m working   The licking

ceremony no doubt used to lure un-ressurectable poets into fuckery

Now she straddles me  ( No  not reverse cowgirl )  Leans in on lean legs

+rocks my soul in the bosom of Abraham  No!  She begins to spit up bits

of ice cream   Her eyes roll back  + I call 911    The Rising  my ass


I don’t believe in magic
I don’t believe in I-Ching
I don’t believe in Bible
I don’t believe in tarot
I don’t believe in Hitler
I don’t believe in Jesus
I don’t believe in Kennedy
I don’t believe in Buddha
I don’t believe in mantra
I don’t believe in Gita
I don’t believe in yoga
I don’t believe in kings
I don’t believe in Elvis
I don’t believe in Zimmerman
I don’t believe in Beatles
I just believe in me

(John Lennon  GOD  1970)


Spring 2018



There was a birdbath in his yard   My taciturn uncle’s   It was

among the most magical totems of childhood  Ditto  my mother’s

hairbrush   200 strokes each night   Rapunzel-like hair  down to

there   Uncoiled from bun   Spun golden brown


Unlike Rapunzel  no princely suitors   No gentleman callers  climbing

Rather locked away   In a place of suburban decay:  a plaza  a school

+a pile of plump nouveau riche wives   Sans the luminous hair


At the base of the birdbath lived a toad   Tiny  +bewarted    I loved it

passionately    And did not exactly kill it   Just played with it to death

My own hands bewarted over time   These days I am not as partial to

frogs   Even my young cousin had a run in   His with an amphibian herd

On a slick rural road


There were hundreds of them  +it was pouring  +the car was thumping

Over them  +through them   Frog-matter everywhere!   Windshield + hair


Today I sit at a birdbath of sorts  secret garden U of T   Lawns emerald green

Squirrels shifty   One eyes me hungrily  as men on rooftops used to do   There

are 2 Canada geese  I feel unkindly towards them immediately    +cast unholy

aspersions with a kicking motion   The larger of the 2  squawks apocalyptically


He grabs the hem of  H+M dress  +nearly rips it off of me   With this I

become murderous  wrapping fingers around a throat  so smooth +iridescent

I am reminded of the womb    Where the sound of brushing  entered psyche

Mother-goddess metronome  lulled me into trance  so what was coming wouldn’t

hurt as much   Except it did







I once worked with a 7 yr. old girl   Her mother a deaf mute

Ran away when she was 3  +her most vivid memory  a hair

brushing ritual before bed   For 2 years much of therapy

consisted of silently brushing her hair  And keeping her from

assaulting me   She + I  counter transferentially  returning the

world’s lost mothers to daughters open arms + gnashing teeth

It would be a long long recovery



Heal the patient, heal the world   C.G. Jung


Mother’s Day 🌸   2018



When Tracey K Smith ( Pulitzer  Princeton prof.  poet )  sits down

to write  ( Vogue April 2018: husband poet literati  daughter a

deadringer for Tracey  brownstone done in heathers + blues

hues associated with heaven )  does she become distracted by

the neighbour’s yapping dogs?  Old one died covered in sores

Couldn’t jump up into SUV anymore    Carried like the Christ

up+down the stairs


I called police when barking led to meandering thoughts of murdering

husband  or her  or her demure mother   She doesn’t speak to us (!)

apparently   In tight white jeans  she glares  As every dimple calls out

for more   Or is Tracey distracted  by feeling so good  that anything is

possible?   Probably   People  +especially poets like Tracey  are

particularly dear to those of us who have only wasted a year or 2



She poured doubles like an angel, right up to the lip of a cocktail glass,

no measuring. You had to go down on them like a hummingbird over a

blossom. Birth should have felt like that.  ( ..not written by Tracey K Smith..)




Spring 2018



You will remember these days one day  when your fragrant

sister is all a fire with longing for your Arabian friend   Body

yet crumpled  Skin un-crepey (creepy..)  Mind questing to be

as smart  as you  or anyone  Doesn’t yet know she’s smart like

whip    And is not yet a mother


U 2 eating giant subs  while your lithe girlfriend dances like a

young Storm  y    You will remember these days   Right now they

escape  like tadpoles tossed down the drain  or into the can  Only

to morph into frogs+princes  when it’s too late   That’s no way to

set your tadpoles free


These days that run away like wild horses   But u 2 have no way of

knowing this   yet    Yesterday  midges were flying up my nose   +

hundreds of them swarming my own brother’s mouldering ear    I

remember a kickass girl  in cowboy boots  (Mary)  coming to pick

him up   Easy Skanking  blaring   White convertible   His cowboy boots

snakeskin  (like Keef ‘s in the Wild Horses video..)


Father  long dead  smiling a crooked smile   Dying brain cells on a

rampage  most days    Once I wrote that children are the immortals

among us   To a big brouhaha     And they still are    Needing to be told

to get out of the $15 plastic pool  when it’s lightening out    I implore u to

imprint  your sister’s smooth skin  +her rabid belief in every word you say





SPRING  2018   for Sonny+Rachel   



My young friend + I commiserated  after jerk lobster the other

night   About other jerks  one’s we had loved  and not so much

I recall the phrases: Monogamy sucks   It’s not even natural   No  

it’s all about religion  +opiating the masses   Warriors knowing

who their sons are   Israelites figured  who’s your mama?   moot

The Nazis too   If your mama  a Jew  that was the end of you


Other subjects came up too:  Entropy of lady parts  +Viagra  (even

Tiger Woods has a stash   a big one)   Wanting a 1 bedroom with Netflix

Tortured whispers of:  If I just had one week on a beach/yr.   That’s all

I’d need   To stay   One of us thought 2 weeks a better option   And it likely

would be  To then re-contort yourself into the positions of the cross u bear

To be there


Now lumpen proletariats of love  Lumped in with the rest   Whose divine spark

hot wired to the waiting cab  outside of an apartment   The one in your mind’s

eye  where the young James Taylor +his cat live   James  when he had that thin

moustache   He smiles  +crooks his finger    And mouths your husband’s name


My love is a hummingbird

Sitting that quiet moment on

the bough

As the same cat crouches

(Charles Bukowski  Love Is A Dog From Hell  1977)





Spring  2018   in full bloom  +here comes the first hurricane  severe weather watch in progress  but i digress..

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