Home

	Sign In Sign-Up

My Poetry

More of My Poetry

Velcro I envy the children carelessly playing there in velcroed sneakers how they run in all directions with no direction no motivation no destination no concern for possessions I envy them with their wide-eyed expressions and their pencil cases someday, my mother the thief will lie in a simple box her ashes will pepper no ocean or sit silent on any mantel and I, will envy the children and the velcro that keeps them together.
we were the quiet ones ... when cigarettes were three bucks a pack and, we could skip class and walk two blocks to buy a dime bag. we were excused from our studies when there was a football game and, we would sit in the top row rolling our weed, and talking about what great artists we would become. that was before we knew how much it hurts to need so many perfumed bodies, how sad it is to love so many women. we smoked, got high and wondered who among the virgins would have us; who among them would crack the smoke-filled air with her screams. we were stones then, skipping on life, this ocean. -- I skipped three -- I skipped three, too - we didn't compete with one another. we wore black, mostly and loved everything that was wrong. stoned, sitting in the top row, comparing Kafka to Dostoyevsky. while everyone else cheered for the team - we were the quiet ones.			The Importance of Chess He is five-years old, and already knows that the knight moves in an "L" and advancing a pawn will get him his queen back. He is obsessed with the game, and begs me to play with him whenever we are together; which isn't as often as I would like, so I always do. Sometimes I let him win, and sometimes he just does. He is fearless, bold and outspoken. A little piece of me in every step he takes; every word he speaks. He consistently tugs at my pride. Sometimes, I dream that we are saying goodbye for the last time and at that moment when we embrace, I always wake up crying. And, every time I take him home, as I kiss his freckled nose and mess up his hair; I remember these dreams and I always drive home in tears. Nothing in the world compares to him. He is my son.
Epic I want to write an epic poem on your skin I will start with the title at the nape of your neck continuing with each stanza filling evey inch down the centre of you finishing at the small of your back Then, I will shine the light there and watch as the ink stains the tiny hairs and runs to every pore Then, I will turn you over you - my page I will peel you like fresh fruit devour you as a man, hungry devours a peach Then, when my pen is dry when I am spent and full of fruit when the room is littered with rinds and the linens are smudged with words in blue I will start thinking of my next epic poem. Jarvis Street Monday Night Even in this heat the whores are on every corner Selling their cracks to buy crack With bruised arms they hold their legs up and cry through the pain sorrow at the burden of their addiction Down the street a man in unmatched socks walks an invisible dog Dragging sound of sandals hangs like humidity With hands fat and pale holding the leash while imagination pisses on the hydrant Countless figures poured like coffee out of darkness shaking empty cups with tar hands Characters smudged by cruelty Their stories will not be written or made into songs our children will not hear of them over roast beef on Sunday Years will erase them their existence will be forgotten.			The Kiss Gustav made her real surrounded by gold submissive, and knelt on a fresh flower bed wood thrush hair spotted with stars the air around her explodes with shapes and colours her head, tipped to welcome and receive his kiss.
			I see you are growing up I see you are growing up In three years you will reach the age I was when I first chipped a tooth in a playground skirmish In four years you will kiss a girl (I hope!) but, not before you put worms down her top The days have passed like bicycles on the boardwalk smaller, as they become distant but still bicycles Once, you slept on my chest curled up your little breaths painted the room with smiles your every move a photo I see you are growing up into a big brother man of the house no longer a baby I see you are growing up into a friend a son to be proud of.