Subscribe Below…

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.

Advertisements

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.

It Bit

It bit back one day.

One man breaking another at the knees,
concrete shins shattered,
patella split like pistachio shell.
The public canings had to stop
and so it bit back one day.

It bit with the ferocity of fourteen years chained to a wall,
first glimpse of its star,
first scramblings up a dirt road.

It bit with the might of a nation under siege,
rocket teeth on apartment nailbeds,
tearing the crossroads up at the white lines.

It bit like capscaicin under the lids,
bhut jolokia shavings stapled to the cornea
and plastered over with Glad cling seal.

If bit back like the man in Unit 731
strapped beside his vivisected brother,
leather over his wrists and ankles.

It bit like it knew
nothing more
than to bite.

It bit through leather straps
and gold chains.
It bit through jade amulets
and distance.

Through age and a forgotten life,
it bit through skin and bone,
it bit through vein,
it bit through a mother’s child.

It bit with eyes shut
and breath held.
It clenched for a moment
and then it bit harder.

It shook and tore,
it bit of spite,
of revenge,
of memory,
of instinct,
of indulgence,
of forgetfulness,
of nature.

It bit for the others,
it bit for itself,
it bit for you,
and then it bit for me.

It bit, then ran, then built up an army,
and then it hashed.

One man breaking another at the knuckle,
pane glass shattered,
nowhere to run.

Bitten by fourteen years
then chained to a wall,
lights turned out,
and forgotten amongst the nutria skins,

It bit because it had to.

The Girl I Lost To Cocaine

Lost in Hyperbolic Space

The girl I lost to cocaine
knew of hyperbolic space
first hand,
saw the world in graphite,
and had calculator eyes.

She wore her quadrennial pendant
on a red, white, and blue ribbon
around her neck, between her bust,
just so I would see it when we spoke.

There was something better about her.

She was the proverbial Killing vector,
curving space as she went along
meandering,
philandering,
she was the ecumenical whore
who knew how to compute cohomology groups
and inserted them into her cervix.

I tried desperately to get answers out of her
but they were buried under layers of abstraction,
splitting cells in her uterus,

and so I took to reading books instead.

She taught me QED, QCD, and QFT
but when it came to the big and quick
she only knew how to kill a buzz.

So the girl I lost to cocaine
became as far removed from reality
as that conjecture by Hodge
on algebraic varieties;
shapes that have no shape
not unlike she and I in bed.

She rippled like time
and shook like foam.
She took hits of smack
off the spine of my textbooks
then ate the contents of the pages,
and when she sank to that singularity
in her mind
she dreamt up such magnificent things,
such beautiful poetry,
mathematics of the purest variety,
mathematics so symmetric
that it couldn’t have been complete.

And so that girl I lost to cocaine
was the brightest thing in the night sky.
We wrote papers together
and ate poems about pi,
we flew in airplanes every second thursday

together

and computed de Rham complexes
in an imaginary anti-de Sitter space
while licking the lead off our fingertips.

She snorted everything,
my jokes,
my stories,
her powder,
her life,
and differential forms.

She is no longer complete.

That girl I lost to cocaine
is now buried
under piles of abstraction herself
and I’m learning
as quick as I’m able
so I can dig her out
and crucify her
on a binary operator.