A microscopic home.

this is a literary blog. i'm literate so i must have something to say. hopefully.

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

215 cotterbury [2]

The dowdy man,

baseball cap,
beer belly.

Holding a 2-4 and shouting
out directions to 711.

Could some one please call 911
there is a ruckus on the street.

My neighbours were remarried
before they arrived fresh and new.
each had six children, maybe more.
all over thirty at this point, the youngest

they return like this, sans shirt,

shouting curse-words
letting them roll thickly off their
tongue into the warm heat of a cicada buzzing afternoon

there’s a bbq in their back yard. they congregate around
the holy vessel.

watch the meat sizzle, guzzle and kill more brain cells.

begin killing themselves.

Sunday, August 27, 2006

went to toronto again for the evening. escaped and wrote.

The critique of wasted time and conversations found only in women’s bathrooms.

The women stand,
legs like rows of cedars.

Some slender, lean.
Some curved thick stems.

Elbows resting,

they vie for the mirror
in a vulgar attempt
to paint beauty
like it could be constructed
with two hands and tubes
of tints.

Their talk is a foreign dialect,

They call those outside,
whores, and each other,
amongst themselves,
after one leaves the room.

They are animals
in high heels and short skirts,
Blow-dried hair,
bottle tans.

I hide, feet up in the stall.

Listen to each new stock
come in rotations.

Always the same garish

Toronto, one.

Stalking across the curb

weaving in and out of machinery

horns blare in constant refrain.

Berating; they take away

any beauty here.

This sad wreckage

Of attic contents,

Pieces here, there

Strewn in alleyways

The wires ensure claustrophobia

Pains in chest

Entwined in the sky pressing down

All these wires.

I am probably extinct

Skulking across the pavement

A drawl in step.

The crack whores

With their frail bodies,

Shirtless in the alleyways.

first school road

A bridge, horizontal,
sturdy across the busy highway.

White lines lead
to grandparents houses,
to hospitals,

escape route.

My city has become infested
with incubus men lingering
at my doorway
waiting for me to materialize.

I will raise my voice above theirs,
for now there are only hymns

As effective as prayers
without praise.

This is my exodus.

The road stretches flat
like the bridge.

There are bends and full tree lines
that bulge out of their
Given land.

I want to emerge from this machine,
Loiter in the corn fields,
almost full grown.

to become a whole being.

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

Friday, August 18, 2006

neurological ward

electrodes attatched

in patterns spread like capital cities
in ancient geographical maps,
a sailors route
through neurons

a cut,

a slice to save this life

the shaved head the night prior, early
morning drive down london line,

but how does one live with a hole in their brain?

my brother made it through brain surgery number two. it took place yesterday at london's university hospital between the hours of 8-2. we had to leave sarnia at 4:445 and arrive at 5. we didn't get to leave until after six. long long day. at one point I was sleeping in the parking garage in the car, just to get some sleep. All's well right now as it can be. my brother is still there in intensive care of the neurological unit. he should be home in a bout a week or so and that's when we'll see if there has been any further damage to his speech, coordination etc. hopefully we won't have to go in for brain surgery number three next summer. this whole event is becoming a bit to regular for my liking.

Wednesday, August 16, 2006



your city took me in like the pupil
of an eye expands to all that surrounds

this circle
still progresses to
make this existence,

even stuck like this.


inside the second when a cloud
covers the sun

the calm shadows of blue
are shed on my hands

skin glows like
a blinded sun.


I am inside of this malleable
there are participant actions,
the story can only
up bits and pieces

it can never reach
the shoeboxes or
internal dialogue

can not find me
in recluse.

I am safe.

Saturday, August 12, 2006

toronto ( i haven't been gone very long, but it feels like a lifetime. ]

ran away to toronto for a day or two. took a few pictures while there. walked around for almost eight hours. my legs hurt. obviously. i learnt about reggae music a lot while in toronto. went to go hear some jazz. sometimes people just have to run away and go on an adventure. even if you get trouble for it.

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

it's cool, we can still be friends: Bright Eyes

Yeah you still kiss me, but it's just on the cheek.
Yeah you still kiss me, but it's just on the cheek.
Yeah you still kiss me sometimes, but it's just on the cheek.
You pull away, so easily.

And I still call you, but I get your machine.
Yeah I still call you, but I get your machine.
And if I'm lucky I guess it's your roommate answering.
But you're at the bar, or at Gene's (?)
We go to dinner, but you won't hold my hand.

We sit at the same table, but we don't play with our feet.
Yeah we still go to dinner sometimes, but we don't sneak a kiss,
when the waitress turns around.

And we still watch movies, but we don't share the couch.
Yeah we still rent movies, but we don't share the couch.
Yeah we still watch movies sometimes, but you don't lay in my lap,
the plot is slow, take a nap.

And you even stay over, but we stay in our clothes.
Yeah you'll even sleep over, but now we stay in our clothes.
Yeah, you even sleep over sometimes, but we stay in our clothes,
I'm only there so you're not alone.

And you say that I hurt you, in a voice like a prayer.
Yeah you say that I hurt you, and your voice is like a prayer.
Yeah well maybe I hurt you some, let's contrast and compare.
Lift up your shirt, the wound isn't there.

I guess that your truth, is just the ghost of your lies.
I guess your kind of truth, is just the ghost of your lies.
Your kind of truth darling, is just the ghost of your lies.,
I see through them all the time.
So I'm pouring some whiskey, I'm going to get drunk.
Yeah, I'm pouring myself some whiskey, I'm going to get real fucking drunk.
I'm pouring some whiskey right now, I'm going to get so, so drunk
That I pass out, forget your face, by the time I wake up.

now this is how lyrics should be written. it's a hard song to find me, so contact me if you want to hear it. it's one of the best.

Friday, August 04, 2006

Thursday, August 03, 2006

cantara beach

at the bottom
there is a haze that makes everything
slightly beyond reach

the lake itself is cold still
as it will be at all times
as its vastness is too
great for our feeble minds
and our weak bodies and
extremities that chill in its

we tread water to keep warm
our little legs kicking
holding our breath and opening our eyes

this game is dangerous
I can barely see
the outline of your body

the current is strong and
the cove draws me into the river

in gulps of water
I sink to the sand
and twist in the waves

as it is nearly sunset
and soon I will not be able to
feel for the surface.

I’m letting the water in

one drop at a time,
and then all of a sudden
there is quiet darkness

a loneliness in the womb.

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

here is a link to four of my poems published in sentinel this month
page 1
page 2