Wednesday, September 17, 2008


Inside his clock, a man sees
time negotiate curves in an opposite
direction. He emerges into life
from death. Mid-aged sons and
daughters dwindle to his first
delivery room view. His wife
begins as a completed book and ends
with her first word on their first
date. And the man -- he falls
from crutches into a swimming
hole on a tepid summer afternoon --
surfaces as potential -- two
lovers on a rainy morning.

I lie on wet grass -- stare
into the hurricane's blue eye --
the clock-wise curls of energy.
Yesterday on the weather channel
the widdershins movement
froze me with approaching history.

Friday, September 12, 2008

if books read each other isn't that like making love?

well no / or yes / or an arranged marriage between reader and word /
the places we perch / the places we crouch / the places we orchestrate
in a flood of angel words / look for the rhythm / look for the love

look for the sun floating on a sea of sky westward / ever westward
like fame on a train to Hollywood posterity / notoriety / forever
searching along the beaches for tracks you might recognize as

a string extending from pyroclastic beginnings into the shallows
along a lazy river / fishing line disappearing into the face of God /
smiling Jesus Christ / twelve pages are asking for a divorce

Thursday, September 11, 2008

The Effortless Cost of Flying

you’d think time would behave / prow
to stern / and ripples be the children of moments’
hand shadows / hand puppets enacting
the play of events / you’d think you standing
in the line for coffee would throw a line
to the cashier / expect to be tied to a
shoreline of Tim-cups and hic-cups after beer

you’d think that events would settle like feathers
from a tagged swan swimming in the park
pond / you’d think the statues would stand up
and swim to their place in molasses history
entangled in sunsets and white chairs escaping
from patio cafĂ©’s / arms akimbo / unaccustomed
to any freedom outside the pages in which they survive

you’d think the story would take chapter breaks
for coffee or tea / and perhaps an instructor willing
to lead through stretching exercises designed to
leave space for desert / a saccharin denouement
after the plot has thickened and stalled on the same
rocks forever moving us through history / one unit
like another / unlike anything else / a prejudice

Sunday, September 07, 2008


from crib to grave a reason
that sunlight strikes the innermost places –
alights like wind on the backs of October leaves
and whips them down the street
and they become – the waking dream
which twists bone into steel – milks
magic from the backbones of evening meals –
infuses the streets to the movie house
with the ethics of heros – injects speech
into the voices of the mute and irons
the wrinkles from a game of street hockey
played Saturday night under full moon
and a full house of houses – each with a vision
that flickers between them being there
and not – some bodies have set sail
for tropical sands – some bodies have
lost their oars – and a bottle floats – an empty
bottle floats out of dead eyes whose last
vision was the miracle of a full sink
of dirty dishes – oh hallelujah! hallelujah! --
from crib to grave the dishes march –
toy soldiers – tin gods – no time to prepare for war
when the dishes wait to be washed –
oh hallelujah! – five sinners and a patriot
were born from the game and a smiling face
went to Russia – another starved while insane –
oh hallelujah! the world is upheld
with miracles – the world is guided by faith –
six boys are being called home tonight –
John / Gord /Bob / Tim / Maurice / and Sid –
all from the edge of an ocean and the sound
of creaking timber – some ships negotiate
the whitecaps of humanity – travel without wind –
travel by worlds grouped into magic spells –
and each sentence is a pull of the oar –
each fantasy breaks down the concrete of reality –
each movement of the dance decides
the patterns in the swarming seconds –
from crib to grave life is the dream against the pain

Thursday, September 04, 2008

Rio de Janeiro

These faces lost are found again –
everywhere a reminder of
the disappeared / the unaccomplished /
the thread stretched / out of the door
and into a sultry night / a southern route
that snapped.

Your face – which becomes
the neighbourhood’s face / the city’s
infrastructure / the moment when / you turned
and someone
remembered your smile –
this face is silent.

This face is rain and drought.
It fades into memory knots
that unravel between
August and December. We are
reminded one moment / again before
colour turns to / sepia

and new loves are / consummated / on a dwindling pile of ashes.