[ rumours & whispers ]
| next lover |

montreal memoir

paris. bistro. open windows + sills. (you) hawksley + furs. moulin noir, pas rouge. curl/lick to cowlick or horse lick/ing a hand [or 5/five]. five fingers down your pants. five minutes in your pants. pants on fire. feet flaming. dance moves are amazing. electrify. electri-fry the circuits into blackness. 1/2 of the N.A. in black, not brown. brown lungs. cigarettes falling, smoking. white turning to black. al roker in a white suit, talking about [a] black-out. throw back to the fifties: radios + racism, the 3 r's... minus one, lost in the time-travel. a two-thirds full Delorean. Michael J. Fox. choose CNN over FOX. Kevin Bacon stuck in a powerless Toronto. however will he cope? fuck kyra. fuck kyra. fuck kyra. fuck kyra. cause there's nothing else to do. radiohead. purposeful blackouts for emphasis on encores. flies flies flies. sit down. covering james. no, not quite. flies! NO. bus. the wheels on... the power's out. let's get out of here.

a best friend is like a high-tech pen...

a best friend is always there, at the mark, get set, go for launch of whatever project or plan is brewing. easily accessible, as a pen. right there in your pocket, at the ready for your next creation, perfect thought.
a best friend has this mystical way of seeing right through your problems to the source and the solution. a clear, direct path that you never imagined is right in front of your face. just as a light on the end of a pen in a darkened room does, cutting through the black to the papertrail.
a best friend never runs out, never leaves in a time of need. ever-present, always capable. any good pen is refillable. a lesser friend would be a cheaper pen: thrown out at the first sign of trouble for a new one.

graffiti-o

a thought flashes
quick as
'a'
being read on a page, aloud
of sex in the library bathroom
/ female
or else
the northwest corner of the ottawa room
while the attendant slips out for a coffee
suddenly spending more time in 819
waiting for someone to comment on my stack:

mclennan
ondaatje
mcfadden
auden
niedzviecki
nowlan
kroetsch

and suggest we read

dennis' eros of desire

to one another
as he presses me against the dirty stall wall
and smiles,
his lips forming perfect o's
around my nipples
his words forming perfect thoughts
in my mind.

graffiti
the only thing we leave behind
as a notch in the headboard

of literary giants.

ch-ch-ch-changes

jane lived. happily. she lived without love. although she was constantly told she needed it, she did not listen. she did not need love, even if someone needed her. she wanted nothing and asked for even less. all she asked for was the capacity to love everyone that was special to her. she never requested anything in return from these people, apart from their respect for her love. that was plenty for her. plain jane. she never knew what hit her when he came along...

l.a.l.a.l.a.

marco
returning to zaphod's
on a sunday nite
/ missing him on friday

after a bad deal gone worse
making it seem like april again
all things considered,
not much has changed
/ except me
& you not being there [again]
... but you weren't there then, either
*
it all started
as they were leaving
too shy, then
to even say goodbye to you
too tearful over the
real goodbye,
the l.a. farewell
i guess i can't share myself
b/w him & you
/ not like you ever asked me to,
cutting out b/f he even arrived
now i'm saying the same goodbyes
one @ a time

you first
/ can't even be bothered

lover for hire

[re]building

i was throwing myself violently against the walls of the house that love built, knowing the foundation was solid but the walls were questionable, weak. my anger eventually reinforced as it rebuilt shaking up the builders just enough to prevent a relapse.

fucking in the bushes ii

montreal memoir

check your cred

only u n i q u e insofar as our credit card numbers vary

a best friend is like a high-tech pen...

freud trilogy

-- do you have a boy? -- err... -- cause there's always a boy. whether he's the father, the son, the holy lover... -- none. -- a father, at least. -- oh go away, sigmund freud.

graffiti ii

making out on the bus, 2 a.m. graffiti to the right: fuck love!

the writer's scarf

the writer hates the fact that her scarf still smells like you. she resents that she has to wrap herself up in you every morning, for warmth + you are nowhere to be found anymore.

permitted

FIELD USE BY PERMISSION ONLY & it is covered with seagulls, from one goalpost to the other.

marxist checklist of composition

steal blank register roll. compose long poem on it. give it to someone you do not love.

graffiti-o

15

repeated 'its mine' 'im on there' 'thats mine' from the crocodile dundee cowboy unable to keep his internet station from poachers much longer, his fifteen minutes //not fame/ almost up.

OPL

library twenty-five

say something, anything

time enough to let the lesions you've left on my soul heal into heart-shaped scars for you to kiss.

it never happened

i drove by your house stopping to consider ringing your doorbell ending once and for all time the never worked out places worse than unseen faces invisible souls it was already too late.

nighttime turtleneck

a sincere /fleeting craving for sweater wearing weather & soft turtleneck nights /with you.

words of advice

do you have any words of advice? wrap yourself in a blanket and sit out in the rain till the blanket's soaked through fall in love with the stars; they always disappoint that's harsh

taxable commodity

learn to count by fifteens 15-30-45-60-90 count down the minutes, in quarters sections of hours. and the tax: fifteen % of our lives.

dear aussie bro

sandy: independent without being superficial, possible? ever?

the private sector

public rise & private fall

flesh & bone

i like the feel of my bones under my newly shrunken flesh. i love the feel of yours under your shirt, through your skin: the illusion of solid structure, bone flesh skin on skin wanting our bones to grind together into a fine, soft dust.

proximity alert

i only want to be the white stripes on your sneakers & on your stereo.

red wine relief

up for grabs

thirty-five cash three fifty-five coin five chapters gift certificate sixty-one tan jay clothing credits ======= one-oh-four fifty-five capital-list ---- up for grabs

busstop ode

busstop, mackenzieking you, composing songs for me me, writing poems for you //both bad ones, at that. why speak, when actions are much more sly and sexy and intriguing. please, leave a little mystery to me.

protection of a different kind

please protect me and keep me from the boys who bring me harm and heartbreak. wouldn't trade it for you and yours.

the usual

'the usual?' [regular iced white mocha with soy milk, no whip] 'the usual?' [heineken] how they know me. [not] the only way?

a new motto for artists

i was
throwing myself
violently
against the walls
of the house
that love built,
knowing the foundation
was solid
but the walls
were questionable,
weak.
my anger eventually
reinforced
as it rebuilt
shaking up the builders
just enough
to prevent a relapse.

only
u n i q u e
insofar as our
credit card numbers vary

-- do you have a boy?
-- err...
-- cause there's always a boy. whether he's the father, the son, the holy lover...
-- none.
-- a father, at least.
-- oh go away, sigmund freud.

making out
on the bus,
2 a.m.

graffiti to the right:
fuck love!

the writer hates the fact that her scarf still smells like you.
she resents that she has to wrap herself up in you
every morning,
for warmth

+ you are nowhere to be found anymore.

FIELD
USE BY
PERMISSION
ONLY
& it is covered with seagulls,
from one goalpost to the other.

steal blank register roll.
compose long poem on it.
give it to someone you do not love.

repeated
'its mine'
'im on there'
'thats mine'
from the crocodile dundee cowboy
unable to keep his internet station
from poachers much longer,
his fifteen minutes //not fame/
almost up.

time enough
to let the lesions
you've left on my soul
heal into
heart-shaped scars
for you to kiss.

i drove by your house
stopping to consider
ringing your doorbell
ending
once and for all
time
the never worked out
places
worse than
unseen faces
invisible souls

it was already too late.

a sincere
/fleeting
craving for
sweater wearing weather
& soft turtleneck nights
/with you.

do you have any words of advice?

wrap yourself in a blanket and sit out in the rain
till the blanket's soaked through

fall in love with the stars; they always disappoint

that's harsh

learn to count
by fifteens

15-30-45-60-90

count down the minutes, in quarters
sections of hours.

and the tax:
fifteen % of our lives.

sandy:

independent
without being
superficial,
possible?
ever?

public rise
& private fall

i like the feel of my bones under my newly shrunken flesh.
i love the feel of yours under your shirt, through your skin:
the illusion of solid structure, bone flesh skin on skin
wanting our bones to grind together into a fine, soft dust.

i only want to be
the white stripes
on your sneakers
& on your stereo.

thirty-five cash
three fifty-five coin
five chapters gift certificate
sixty-one tan jay clothing credits
======= one-oh-four fifty-five
capital-list ---- up for grabs

busstop,
mackenzieking

you, composing songs for me
me, writing poems for you
//both bad ones, at that.
why speak, when actions are much more sly and sexy and intriguing.
please, leave a little mystery to me.

please protect me
and keep me
from the boys who
bring me harm
and heartbreak.
wouldn't trade it for you and yours.

'the usual?' [regular iced white mocha with soy milk, no whip]

'the usual?' [heineken]

how they know me.
[not] the only way?

i was once told i was shopgirl.
then i was the dig-me girl.
later, i became the writing of david foster wallace.
now, though, i am my own poem: ladybug.

spraypaint my love for you
in every bathroom stall i encounter,
every wall gets a heart
every body sees my heart on my sleeve
stars write your name across the sky
my heart reads only pain.

the perimeter up one side of my body :
my height in inches, centimetres
::
not easily known, not known by many :
known by anyone who's ever stood next to me, looked at my driver's license.

i miss the sound of a
subway train approaching union

almost approximated within the st-laurent
(tunnel)
but not near close enough for comfort.

the contents of my mind
are always under pressure

keep away from sensitive situations
and discontinue contact
if you develop a reaction
to my irritating ways

do not apply to broken hearts
and keep away from intense heat.

all warnings blend into one:
[ab]use with caution.

you meld with me
as a headphone jack
snapping
into its socket:

click

sit & stare
and smoke. repeat.

dreaming lewd fantasies, a grin
creeping across your face
devious eyes know
but silence. no words, no actions.

the luxury of being like
everyone else
i do not possess.

im glad i gave
that book to you
the games people play
or id be incredibly tempted
to start playing some myself.

i could say so much
but im out of things to say.

leaving you for so long
i now know what it's like
to be without you
don't ever leave me again.

even waiting
e x p e c t i n g it completely
doesn't make an iota of easiness.
painful?

do you remember what i forget?
or
do i forget what you remember?

id rather snowbathe
than sunbathe
any day of the year.

bite
bite
bite
bite
bite you
yum.

easy
comes nowhere near the word
love.
it has a really good restraining order.

you took yourself
you took my heart
&
you took my best friend,
grand prize draw.