Summertime

Summertime and the livin’ is easy
Fish are jumpin’ and the cotton is high.
Your Daddy’s rich and your Momma’s good lookin’,
So, hush, little baby, don’t you cry.

It’s 99 degrees; I’m sitting on his knees
drinking to slow my mind, his hand on my thigh.
After I imbibe, he breathes, toking from a piece,
flame near his face despite the heat.
I call shotgun. Whiskey and weed.

We’re trying to devise
just how many vices
we need to mix.

I take a sip, he takes a hit.
Sooner than later, it’s lips,
rocking hips unable to tell
horizon, skin, or sin, where I
end and he begins.

Oh, Summertime and the livin’ is easy
Fish are jumpin’ and the cotton is high.
I’m one hot bitch and you’re quite good lookin’
So hush, little baby, don’t you cry.

Summertime, the days begin
Waking up in a pile of limbs
I dance with the street sweeper on the way
Back up Clark, singing to the beat
My feet make on the sidewalk.

After it’s dark, we’ll write
poems on the cells of our hands
holding, touching, searching each other
for one loose comma of inspiration tucked away
In the structure of our badly formed sentences
of fleshy psycho-babble,
our conversation defined by the monitor’s glow.

While Autumn hides in the hallway, biding her time.
Watching the seconds fall from the clock like auburn leaves
patiently putting Xs on the calendar we pretend not to see,
because she knows you’re not mine.

I should recognize the waning sun
Add up the differences and signs
But I don’t want to analyze,
So July creeps by, vices multiply.

They wanted me to go to rehab,
I said no, no no.
They wanted me to go to rehab,
I said I won’t go, go, go.

‘Cause it’s summertime, life’s good and easy
Fish are jumpin’ and somewhere a clock chimes,
We’re so far from rich, but still pretty fly
So hush, little baby, don’t you cry.

Now August dawns with gold colored days
and the metallic smell of frost lingers in the dusk.
We start to fight. Find faults to put inches
back in, sleeping apart in the diminishing nights
we’ve still got left together, frigid in the wrong season
unable to weather the change.

My chest is filled with ticks, tocks instead of beats.
You’ve lost the heat you had for me.
We crumble under the weight of vice.
And it could be better, we could fix it.

But, we know don’t have the time.

So, I’ve got my pints and
You’ve got your pipes and either way,
we’re getting fucked tonight.

Summertime, the livin’ is easy,
fish are jumpin’ and the cotton is high.
Your daddy’s rich and your Momma’s good lookin’
so hush, little baby, don’t you cry.

Don’t you ever, ever cry.

I Do Not Write Angry Poetry

I don’t wear words like ‘survivor’
Or ‘victim’ very well. They don’t fit.
A size too small, my shoulders get caught
In the stitches, the feel of the cloth abrasive
and the tag ‘statistic’ itches.
So I just cut it out.

I don’t use poetry as therapy
Treating the page like a chaise lounge
And the audience as an MD
The subtext to every word being
‘Pity me. Listen to my pain, not my art.
You think that other guy went through hell?
Just look at my marks, they’re longer
Deeper and dreamy, conflicted artistic melancholy,’
Like if you’ve ever bled you understand need.
Like scars don’t count, you have to pick at scabs
Until they bleed.

A real reformed addict wouldn’t roll up
His sleeve,
Turning syntax into syringe
Making new tracks to escape on
Because real suffering deserves dignity.

A true resurrection does not happen
Surrounded by a crowd,
no apostles in the garden before crucifixion,
only the company of choice.

It’s having the strength for impetus, for change,
For having convictions.

I fight my battles alone
In the dark
Wondering if it’s real,
If tonight’s the night that
The demon strikes, breaking the door
And crawling in, sitting on my chest,
Weight suppressing breath,
claws hauling out a list of sins
then ticking the box
Next to ‘damned’ not ‘salvation’
Because I’m too proud to pray
To a God that doesn’t listen
even terrified, too paralyzed with pride
to say ‘redemption.’

I wake myself.

Then, between Hail Marys
the sound of clicking rosary beads,
I pray to St. Anthony hoping to find normalcy,
But instead discover gravity.

That things move only when forced.
That there’s no divine intervention.
Only choice.

I refuse to be defined by my problems
I am beyond the outline of my scars
I am worth more than the case numbers
Or the broken bones that have healed within
Creating hills on the horizon of my body
Or the stains on my skin,
Ink black then ball point blue fading
Back to paper white.

I write love poetry
Because love has saved me.

I play with words
Because I like meaning.

I say things prettily
Because I want to live in a world of beauty.

I do not write angry poetry.
I do not share the crosses I wear
Or the things that broke me
because I value my privacy.

My revenge will not
Be the venom of my words
Or living an entire life of ‘after’
But the songs I sing, my desire to love,
and my laughter.

All in my Head

We laughed when by honest mistake
I put the cornflakes in the fridge
and the milk in the pantry.
Later,
when I got lost in christmas tree lots
and drove in circles around the block
we smiled to cover our unease
but when I lost my wallet and keys
we couldn't hide behind our teeth
so I got replacement checks,
but the balance was off.

The doctor likes to talk a lot.
He says words like aphasia
apraxia, agnosia which sound
more like goddesses than symptoms
more like muses than a gathering
storm forming in my synapses
lightning striking but firing less.

They say the Irish never forget,
yet I see my face in pictures
I don't remember taking and
people tell me memories that
I don't remember making and
my words are waning and my
brain is straining but
neurofibrillary tangles and
amyloid plaques have
backed me into a misfolded corner
that only a coroner can diagnose
like some sick practical joke

but no one is crawling out
from behind the couches.

My husband, my rock, my caregiver
takes my hand over dinner and
whispers "I'll always love you,
soon you won't be able to remember that,
so I'll say it as much as I can."
He squeezes my hand.

He leaves me crossword puzzles on the table
I'm able to do a few but across and down
leave me confused and sudoku is a lost cause.

I pause when I see him,
not because of his old age
but because I'm having trouble
remembering his name.

And Washington thinks this is all a game
that stem cells are more
precious than my memory that
embryonic studies are murder as
I get further from myself
because some Texan's religious convictions
have turned church into state
and takes a life for a life.

But I'm not really dead.
My heart still beats,
my lungs still breathe
and maybe this isn't even a disease
it's just all in my head.

"Oh, Canada" (draft)

Canada,
I have lived spread eagled on the border
Between desire and empire
Dreaming of your territories.
Je me souviens, very well,
When you were between my thighs
My strange Northern Ally,
And I touched your maple leaf.

I have heard your white noise,
And compared to American boys,
There’s something I enjoy about those
I found in your home and native land,
From the BC man who fucked me and
Stole my poetry to the Nova Scotia
Lady who let me travel her Saint-Lawrence
River of blonde belly hairs to the locks
Of her seaway.

Canada. I want you. I Seskachewant you.
I want to dribble syrup
On your snow white mid-drift and
Nibble it off when it gets hard –
You know maple candy always melts
In your mouth.

And hell, if you want to carve stars
Out of bite-marks and stripes with
Your nails on my spine and shoulder
Call me in October when the weather’s
Colder and we’ll have our own
Sugar shack.

On the first of July we’ll celebrate
The dirty act which made you
In 1982, and named
My foreign soul mate who knows
Dominion on my affairs of state.


In the room women come and go,
dreaming of Toronto.

Oh, Canada. I don’t mind being under you.
I flirt with the border patrol, the royal mountie
Can mount me anytime he wants, thinking common-wealth
Thoughts as he plays with my loony and two-nie and hails
God save the Queen.

C-A-N-A-D-A

You’re my strange situation, my fascination,
Your vowels so round they fill my throat
Like poutin, Molson, and sin,
‘til you make me scream ‘EH! ‘eh! ‘Eh!
My darling canuck, ‘til I make you howl
Like the Habs just won the stanley cup,
Je ne sais pas que je te desis mais,
You’re what I’m talking aboot.

Point. Counterpoint. Pulse.

Kick kick shuffle back to the beat
walking through winding streets
ever so trendy with your soaked chucked feet
the picture of early twenties rock

with your vintage tee shirt and raggedy sweater
(that may or may not smell faintly of urine)
and ear plugs feeding the life blood
while your liver pays for youthful magic moments

There are many differences between us,
I spell 'savior' without a 'u'
and when we kissed your lips
held no Eucharist
only the stale taste of old Beamish, taco chips
and the lingering smoke of your cigarette
Kebab house blues - that's what I'm talking 'bout
I just didn't know it at the time.

Are you afraid of silence?
Ringing of blood rushing through
the capillaries of your ear canal
aural unsatisfaction
the night dullened and dumb

is that why you write?
permanent marker on swing sets
and yet
You said your songs were secrets
because although you are a master of words
you'd rather leave them unsaid
empty syllables
running around your head
strings under your fingers sonorous and wordless
speaking in tones for you

but when I look
I see words coursing beneath your paper skin
ink moving through veins
and somehow,
you manage to breathe
music

the quarter notes and commas
syncopated rests and fermatas
combining in your semi colon
or just cruising your blood stream of consciousness
point. counterpoint. pulse.

(so,

fiend
or
friend?)

Proximity

the greatest single factor in meeting
is proximity
the space between you and me
measured in heartbeats, chipped coffee cups, kilometres
asking for a pen, a dance
remarking on the weather - cold, grey, what I call Irish sunshine

communication being the shortest line between 2 people
with the distance over time
dividing into smaller and more manageable signs

excuse me, do you know where the library is?

Minding my Ps and waiting in queues, ears attuned
to the conversation I wish I was having
he asks her whether Barcelona is nice this time of year
she laughs and replies
behind my eyes I picture them without turning
her faded blue camisole
his dirty backpack with threadbare socks

Space is not a void. Or a vacuum.
It's a place where we move
coins jingling in our pockets, a tune on our lips
wiggle in our hips
a languid afternoon tea

How you keeping?

Cascading causes like run on clauses
crash us into each other
stepping on toes or cobblestones
stringing sentences together
and trying to say what we mean
but somehow losing the translation
from synapse to syntax

and trust me, alcohol only makes it worse.

Proximity requires prescence
being with someone, being with everyone,
just being
here
is a picture of the effects of proximity
that these words articulate some part of me
and now echo in you

the desire to communicate, the hope you resonate
meet
in the space between sounds
because silence is not the absence of noise
but the potential for creation

Last Words

These are the last words I have for you
no longer will you haunt my sentences
hiding between the letters and sneaking
into the dots of my Is

There are many differences between us
I spell savior without u
when we kissed your lips
held no Eucharist
only the stale taste of old Guinness
and the lingering smoke of your cigarette
I just didn't know it at the time

I hope you never read the words I left you
Because I didn't mean to give them to you
That little peice of paper covered in ink
heart beating lips dry hands sweating I dared
to leave with a sleepy man you work for
after knocking on a window and disturbing the peace
of my mind
was meant to be shared, not taken.

Those words (and these) though written for you
do not belong to you
they belong to me.
And you stole them with your silence.

I hope that little peice of paper was lost
amongst the napkins behind the bar
or on the floor beneath some old woman's heels
covered in spilt red wine or mud
that would blur the words and tear the paper

because dirt would be better for them
dust and neglect, in ignorance
would be better than your knowing silence
that rings louder than the flat line
of blood that rushes through the capillaries
of my ears

I'd prefer that you hate me
than ignore my invitations to poetry slams
or for a shared pint with yours and mine
or cared enough to call and say it was just me
instead of a callous and cowardly text message

Rather that when you saw me at the bar
you were so overcome that you would have to leave
turning on your black heels, pulling
your leather jacket over your shoulder, scowling.

Than be peferctly able to wave a half hearted hello hello
share a dance where our eyes won't meet
and spend the rest of the night twirling about
with a woman who moves better than I ever could
and places her hands without shame on your backside

But that's the way of things, isn't it?

Words. Words. Words.
Empty syllables resound in my head
I should have interrupted you
saying that I'm a girl who doesn't kiss
after a first impression
Who doesn't spend the night
on the first date, or fall in love
with someone, a stranger, a dancer, a Canadian
with a heart of stone and teeming with apathy
who could disregard a girl who's willing
to wear her heart on her sleeve
and bare her soul in her poetry

Words. Words. Words.

there is no word to describe
the feeling after I've put my
fist through the porch window
and dripping red and shining
with shards of glass
I wave it at my ashen faced brother

Savage? Not enough.

There is no word for the place
beneath your chin
that I wish to press my face to
and inhale the scent of your
black macaroni hair

at least not in the (English-Irish-Spanish-French-German) five languages
we aren't speaking

There is no word to describe
gathering (take a breath)
the bleeding heart courage
required to leave you
the words I had fired
in my mental furnace
until they shown like diamonds
and then you reply
I want to be friends

Disappointment? Too clean.

What could would capture
the glorious silence
following the last note
echoing off rafters and balcony
as the conductor shows all his teeth
forgetting professionalism and saying
not too quietly
fuck. yes.

Nothing.

These phonemes and morphemes
vowels consonants sounds
leaving my mouth
weaving invisibly across the tainted
air stained with my breath
mingling on currents
and entering you

are absolutely meaningless.

The Words, I mean.

There's nothing we can do.
Words.
His 70 year old heart is worn
withered beneath his weathered skin
and it's the end of your shift
so you're going home to eat your wife's porkchops
instead of doublechecking the stitches

Your Mother and I are going to court.
Words.
sit stiffly in the middle of
a hard wooden bench and ask you
questions about memories you aren't
even sure are real
How did that leg break? Who gave you that black eye?
What's that scar from on your cheek?

I love you.
Words.
I'll put my lips to your forehead
and make you tea with 2 spoons
of sugar and a dollop of milk
in the green cup
without you even asking.

I hate you.
Words.
walking past you
there's a weight in my stomach
and my ears ring and my face gets red
ashamed and angry and hot


Words. Sounds.
Nothing said.
Everything done.

Interrupt Me If I'm Wrong

Interrupt me if I'm wrong

Roaring voices straining to speak
above the saturated air
silently my eyes travel
the solid black horizon of your shoulder
and rest on your chin
as accidentally I brush your arm
with Guinness courage given

dizzy drunk dancing
circles around a dark haired man
eyes shine lips smile
he knows Hello Hello
and takes me to an alcove
that smells of cigarettes
where our faces press
against each other

Interrupt me if I'm wrong

shillouetted by the firelight
eyes trace the lines
of your face and rest
in the shadow of your bright eyes
I envy the syllables that roll off your tongue
and through your lips

I wish I was bolder
to reach across this card checkered table
saying that I've won four games and my prize
is to go take your hand and press
it softly against my cheek

Interrupt me if I'm wrong

beneath the emblem of your home and native land
alight with a blue glow
timbres and tongues tangling
marble white bodies bare
what the fuck was that
I don't care because it was us

the sun streams through
lights floor beams as
lazily let my eye I
linger on you
rising and falling softly
but it's goodbye

Interrupt me if I'm wrong

but I don't want to belong to you
and I may not be long with you
but there's something here
I'm not wrong for you

These are my intentions

to make you my world famous pancakes
to swap CDs with songs that speak for me
to exchange books so we can learn
and watch you make shadow puppets
that all look the same (but I'll never tell)

I don't want to keep you
I just want to know you
while I can
and enjoy the random acts and events
that caused an american girl with dimples and a bad sense of balance
to collide with a canadian man who sings and dances as he cooks dinner