Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Ice Age

Little Bear's tears
have turned to glass
on his cheeks.

Webs of frost
cover the palm trees
and waves of ice are frozen
along the shore
where the gulf stream
finally rolled over.

The city looks like
a construction of sugar cubes,
shrouded in shades
of gunmetal and lead.
The day star's brightness
is concealed by
unremitting gloom.

This is what is manufactured
from free will -

funeral sky and sea of ice,
too cold to break
upon the world.

Thursday, April 22, 2010

Twilight Zone

There are cracks in the moon
where reality creeps in.

She doesn't care about Grace Jones any more.
Can't remember the concerts she went to.

How funny it seemed to get stoned and try and drive places;
pull up in the middle of the expressway thinking they were at a stop light;
become transfixed by the magnified fish in a tank.

The joy of animals is in the physical.
They don't sit around and ponder the purpose of existence.

Their purpose is to be.

They aren't afraid of the glimpses beyond
that show through gaps. They don't close their eyes

and pretend not to see the reflected echoes
of moon that sequin the edges.

Sunday, April 18, 2010

Cutty Grass

How they hold their small candles
spikes of blonde
from pale cones.

They would light the dark,
with autumn seed.

Thursday, April 15, 2010

The House of my Father

I have consigned him to memory -

Dust settles on him
like the haze of light
as it falls through trees
onto a clearing.

I will strive to be at peace
with the knowledge that he
is not really dead,
just dead to me.

And that after all the long years
of growing up, a treasure
in the trove of his love,

I am no longer welcome
in the house of my father.

Tuesday, April 06, 2010

Heavy Ness

When I sleep I feel long and slim.
Bones rest light and fine, glowing slightly,
like phosphorescence on the night sea.

But when I get up in the morning -
same lumps and clumps in the mirror -
same press of gravity.

Suburban Contagion

Madness spreads through neighbourhoods
from yard to yard like black flowers
of deadly nightshade.

Written in the language
of tags I can't decipher,
sprayed on the fences.

Subliminal contagion -
don't make eye contact,
keep walking, head down.

This is what you get when you
write with your eyes shut.

The Game

I can't see what to do
because there are different colours
and I cannot seem to get my brain
to conceive of them going together.

When I run out of ideas
the machine gives me hints,
but you have to be wary
of following the machine's suggestions
because the machine lies. It's not trustworthy.

The machine has no intuition
and can't seem to strategise or plan ahead.
It has no ability to sacrifice
an available move this time
to get a better chance next turn.

But sometimes the hints unlock
possibilities I hadn't seen
and progress the game much farther
than I would have unaided.

Using the machine's ideas
means that I can relax
because the outcome
isn't my responsibility any more.

The machine likes mixing the colours.
It only senses numbers, is unaware of colours.
It doesn't care that once you put
a black on a red the line is stopped -
can't move any more until you find
a logical numerical sequence to unlock it.

Sometimes the games have doorways,
boxes, or different pathways to choose -
options, options, too many.

I always want to know
what the other options were.
Did I make the right choice?
How would thimngs have ended
if I'd moved the black queen
instead of the queen of hearts?

There's never a five when you need one.
I have everything down to six on one line,
and everything up to four in red,
but no five ...
I have five in black.

I deal again
and despite the fact
that there are three red decks
and three black, there are no cards
that follow consecutively.

What are the odds of that?
If I were any good at maths
I could work it out.

Break Up Christmas Morning #13

Take your cage of white mice
with you when you go -
preferrably first thing in the morning.

Don't give me that sad voice,
heartbreak hotel (old song by elvis),
forgive me routine.

I'm washing my red lace thong,
donning the glittering marabou feather
I stole from that bird in the palm tree,
and setting out in search of my
crazy horse roots.

I've stitched on the fin from a mermaid,
cast a net of stars over my hair, and tonight
I'm dancing a salsa on the wild wet ocean
at the door of Neptune's lair.