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wwwTonight I watched a woman die on the internet.

Surrounded by cameras and pudding,
her upper lip curled under her teeth
like it wouldn’t let her spirit take the bones.

Her face sunk into her gaping mouth
and with the snap of her tongue
she made her sine wave finale
and bid us all adieu.

I did not subscribe to her channel.

I find the future to be a not so pleasant place sometimes.

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That Strangely Knotted Memory

ImageWe shared a bed in Taipei and you told me you could never love a man with manicured hands
so I manned a cure to this problem by way of auto-cannibalism and power tools.
Faking a knuckle-dragging persona, I could now feel warm caves with my fingertips
and ended up hurting you so many ways with these stinger lips.

That salt’s not kosher so don’t rub it in my wounds,
you wanted our love to grow in your womb but it was too soon
like your brother, taken by a bus,
it should have been just us but your heart only swooned.

I was a doctor once and I can put you back together
I know so many knots that I can tie your wounds shut with trefoils in my mind
and weave your shoestring dreams into that forever-sweater
that you promised I would find under the Christmas tree that one time.

When did gravity become stronger than us?

 

Men Are All Like This

ImageYou said my hands were like liquid gold
which is why I never rub my eyes
even though I think it would be
amazing to see the world as perpetual sunrise
I think it would be rather difficult to blink.

These golden hands fill crevices
like the space between embrace;
inching closer to coagulation,
wandering and whisping to a wanton oneness…
that only liquids know how to fake.

I force myself up to the wrist where I don’t belong,
my mark is left on everything that I touch,
my shimmer won’t dull under water or sun,
so take my hand in yours, princess,
be the container of my flow, princess,

but bring a towel for fun.

Men are all like this.

Canines and Glasswear

Hands of Homeless Man with Change in Cup

I passed by you every morning on my way to work
I never gave a thought, nor a look beyond
what I’d normally give a stranger.
But you were more than a stranger; you were stranger than stranger,
you were just strange. You and your ripped jeans, shaddy jacket
broken boots and skinny ass dog.
You’d sit there smiling.
What the fuck do you have to smile about?
You’ve got nothing, no home, no family, no friends,
no ability to better yourself, and your dog’s gonna die and you’ll be alone
and I couldn’t figure out why.
So I sat one day and I bought you some fries at my lunch and offered half my Coke
and I asked you, I said “man, please, I need to know
how it is that you get by day to day without me ever seeing
a frown on your face, dispair in your eyes, as you sit on the street corner
watching people in their work outfits, suits, dresses, skirts, shoes that cost more
than you earn in a month. How do you watch them walk by with a smile on your face
as you sit and beg, you outstretch your arm, cup in hand,
being chided, chastised. How do you sit there every morning
and have hope, sit in the cold, in a Canadian winter,
with a half a fucking jacket, your poor dog freezing beside you,
no food, no water? How do you keep yourself positive?
How is it that my coworkers and friends, my family and myself,
we all get down, we all show our other side, we all have an other side?
We all live our days working and making money,
you sit here in ratty clothes begging for help
with nothing to show for it but a chipped cup, yellowed teeth,
glassed over eyes, a nappy beard, and a lifeless life.
What is it that you have to offer, what is it that you can teach me,
that you can offer as advice, that I can use to keep positive on those cold nights,
those times when I miss my friends and family, when I feel alone and empty,
when my life feels pointless? What is it that you know that I don’t?
What has the road taught you? What do I need to learn?”
And you looked me square in the eyes and said, “heroine and prostitutes” and got up and walked away.
You died the week after, stabbed under a bridge by the water. You made the papers.
You got famous that day. The city knew who you were, Facebook groups cropped up in your honor.
A homeless man leaves only a cup and a dog.

女体盛り

ImageI once ate sushi off a woman.
She was my girlfriend
but it wasn’t sexy.
Not at first.
But then
I got
To a
Small
Piece of
Tuna that was
Completely over
Her clitoris and as I
Grabbed it up with my
Chopsticks she squirmed
And I wasted a good piece of
Sashimi.

Little Lovely Darling

ImageYour sun-coloured eyes and diamond skin
did the impossible and burned beauty into charcoal and roasted steel into hope,

and your sing-song voice kept the fields growing thousands of poppy seed muffins in heart-shaped flower pots even when the wind was howling “don’t you dare” forget-me-nots.

Your kitten paws and cinnamon hair, that jewel encrusted, teardrop smile with the unanswerable corners on either end pointing to heaven.

My little lovely darling, if only gemstones knew how to swim.

Even a pond knows the colour of the sky, burned on its skin every morning and worn like a fresh coat of catfished lies.

Take the bandages off and wear the floaties because there are jeweled planets floating in a pond just above my skin, beautiful.

So let me wear you in that special little pocket I sewed in every single shirt that I’ve ever owned because it’s sartorially improper to fill it with things that I’ve never known.

Be the boutonnière that sees me down the aisle and whithers in my hands, and with your memory make me a better man.