Lady,
Its been one week since I’ve seen you,
And I never told you
but my funny bone fell in love with your laughter.
You made a womb of my inadequacies and breach birthed hope.
Before we met, my heart was a cave of spider webs and kerosene promises
You fog up the inside of my eye lids
You are balcony sex honest

Lady,
I have spooned you in my sleep so often my new nickname is soupy.

And I know its kind of classless to say this now but
Lets cover ourselves in edible ink and make art
Lets fuck like we’re doing 200 clicks on a Ferris wheel and we know we’re going to die
Lets get it on like a baboon on absinthe finding a strangely attractive chee-a-pet in the sky

Lady, I want to tap that ass so bad you’d think I’m Fred Astaire or Gregory Hines
And if I do touch your bottom...just call me Midas, because your derrière is gold!!!

Lady…come here (with two fingered beckon)… straddle my face so long that come winter, i am stuck to your clit like a tongue to a lamp post. I want your sea salt on my lips and
Like triple chocolate ecstasy ice cream I could eat you till my teeth hurt.

Lady, I want prune hands...no I want a prune tongue from drowning in your sweet sweat

You can grind my pelvis down to sand
Make beaches of my bones
Lay an open ear to my shore
Pick up a sea shell and listen to my heart beat your name…
It drums "my love, my love, my love"

Lady, you’re sooo hot you’re matches in the shifting jean pant pockets of a hipster under a heat lamp
Lady, you’re hot like the vibrator with a temperature valve stuck on brimstone
Lady, you’re so hot you turn men into mac and cheese...
Once you get cooking its seven minutes then they’re done.

And to own my own mistakes
I'm about as good in relationships as the Loch Ness Monster is with space travel
I know some days I’m so dumb you’d think I’d have trouble counting the sun
But if you let me, I'll be your Galileo
Spend a lifetime praising your celestial body as the centre of the universe
I'll write tabloid expositions that beauty like yours actually does exist

Lady, you put honey bees into the psyche ward
Because they’d go crazy trying to remember anything as sweet as you

Lady,
This is not news but you’re so hot
You're kind of like pissing out a kidney stone
You make me healthy.

And its been one of those weeks since I’ve seen you
So in the name of improving my health
I’m going to wait for you on my front balcony,
My tongue a flaming torch of words for your cave
Hands molded to delicately hold your cellar while drink your wine
And just wait for you, to come.

Because I can't seem to be able to say it without repurcushions anywhere else...I miss you
like innocence
saturday morning cartoons
birby
like sneaking across the border
like water fights
like good teeth
my sister's laugh
my father's health
my mother's smile
Jeff Slone

We travel

Backpacks like chastity belts

Using a compass like a condom

Running from our cerebellum’s small town sense of knowing our neighbour

 

We fuck

Like global warming or a rig’s pin prick possibility come true

Like a tape re-recorded over…three dozen times

Like the meet, love, part, and love again play is staged in front of amnesiacs

 

We tutor

Hand out pencils like light sabers or turtle shells

Math equations like straight jackets or film cigarette burns

Love children unconscious like solar flares or spider bites

 

Some of us travel…to fuck the tutors

Meet a silly sliver of skin with a sense of a global upbringing

Just nicking time bad enough to gamble on the uncertain

 

Some of us are the travelled to

Spin a smile like a famous speaking statue

Turn an honest word into the blurred burr of maybe,

Just maybe this was meant to be

 

And I tutor the fucked traveler,

Remind them that seagulls don’t have to die in the oily part of the ocean

That schooling is as much about the ins and the outtakes

That carnality is just a space between words

09-01-08

Its weird,
Leaving a twelve year old's wet dream in your altar
Refusing to pray
The day younger than a husband's first double take
and cabs in vancouver being what they are

Its weird
Sucking pollen from another's Piccadilly
Playing find the first scar
Knowing models in an east side bedroom are a rock star's fairy tale

Its weird
like Prince in anything not tight and purple and leather
like a hip hop show without the baseball caps
like a hardened homeless person without a good story

Its weird
Inside the pong game of my emotional instability
Its weird
Behind the thumb print on my chest that reminds me I'm fragile like a worker bee
Its weird
Underneath the fortune's fool tarot card

Its weird
Hoping for a stranger that brings you back to the point when you remember why you loved her

09-01-07

I should have cheated
Found the last drop of ocean in another's navel
Taken a cock grab more seriously
Found a new school of hard ass on my kitchen countertop
Played the cop tasering with my tickle stick
Made some movies
Played the elephant and the rhino

I should have cheated on you the second I uttered the "L" bomb

I had a dream tonight
That I walked in front of the mirror
And I was hairy chested but still skeletored

Now normally I'm about as hairy as a fire hydrant
But I've been searching the bottom of my feet lately
Re-evaluating my fingernails
Looking at the ash underneath
Unsure if I'm digging my own grave
By taking shovels from short term friends
Or prepping the ground for a time capsule
Filled with the before

The Price of Organizing a Slam

 

If drama was a fruit I’d be the pit

Because even after everyone’s had their chew

I’m still sitting in the middle of it.

This is the 2nd poem in the one poem/story a day January Project


Because of my gas fireplace
If someone is speaking from the fridge in my kitchen to
Someone lying on the couch in my living room
Their features are distorted--veiled by a wrinkle in the space time continuum

When you told me it was over
Legs stretched on a sofa too short to sleep on
Freezer door open as I searched for the gin
I looked through the veil
Saw the young lady who picked me up after the erotica show six months before
Bowed to our early choices
Pathetically wondered if you had met someone else
Turned on the stove to brew some tea

My stomach shived, my tongue back of the bus
I would not be changing your mind

As I succumbed to the realization that you were not
'lying on the couch' and your hands were only happenstance for my heart
I thought about going back over the previous two hundred or so days
But realized that your eyes still shined
Your perfect pale skin still making me think of Al Purdy's bad forgery line...
I told you that you give me gas

A new brickhouse poem

My fireworks need Viagra

My tears are pouched like marsupial children and

My red chakra has a fucking yeast infection

 

My heart has arthritis and if eyes are the window to the soul

Then I’ll need hydrochloric acid in a windex bottle to get that shit clean

Or have to use some bleach as visine because I have finally come down with

Masculaneous bitteritus—male pattern bitterness.

 

Can I get an awwwwww?

Sentimental braggarts.

 

I was asked recently why it is that I dated more women under the age of 25 than over and my response was two fold.

1) I have spent more years under the age of twenty five than I have over it and

2) most women I know above the age of 25 have come down with feminitus bitterius, also know as old age ugliness…

 

Now I’m kidding of course but I have seen those

Both men and women whose lives were more optimistic than Michael Jackson at a kiddie porn convention

Turtle because of a cheating spouse or

A smooth talking one night standard

Or because they only half believe the adage that you should never settle for anything less than gold in a partner

 

These, my friends, would sour like bad wine when

Their lead knight or copper princess rusts in the rain

Not settling also means that you dump the fucker when he tells you to dress sexier

You leave her at the curb if she nags you for new toys like a Lexus or new and improved Stephen Harper Strap on

but also if its only half good, like a boy scout or girl guide badge that reads, “at least I’m not alone,” then even if its 1:30 AM on a Tuesday you send the fucker home.

 

And normally I, the octopus teaching the sign language class

Scream “DTMFA” but I’m dealing with my own port-a-poti of deliverance.

My piggy is squealing and I’m having a hard time loving like I’ve never been hurt and trusting like I’ve never been lied to.

Can I get another awwwwww? Now you’re just sweet.

 

So we should fight the Voldamort of voicelessness, right?

Battle the Lex Luthor of loneliness, right?

Tell the tella tubby of our inner turmoil to take an antacid, right?

I want you all to standup and on the count of three I want you to yell, ShaZam!!!

 

ShaZam!!! We’re going to give our homes a c section

ShaZam!!! We’re going to drink so much penicillin that we’ll be the place where good cheeses go to die

ShaZam!!! We’ve just become the fireworks whose label in the fine print reads “life may be all back of the tongue but we’ll still lick the lamppost in winter and try”.

Strange Days...I'm at home right now, lonelier than a Bush supporter in Chicago. I am unsure of what the new year will bring. Kind of wish I could walk away from everything. Going to Toronto in a day and a half and ... the mifey textes. You know its love when they can read your mind. Going to the brickhouse later. The invitation's open to ya'all.

What would it take to pawn off who you are?

Would a big diamond ring be the thing?

Glistening so bright they’ll name stars after it?

How bout a date with Brad Pitt or Angelina Jolie?

How bout a date with Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie?

Would you tell them you voted conservative in the last election if that got you 4 hours blissed out video tape, soon to be released primal footage?

 

Would you take up smoking for ten grand?

Would you go back of the bus for five?

Would you eat the bacon because it was the morning after and she was buying?

Would you strip away the suffrage for a shot at Hollywood?

 

Would you take his money if you knew where it came from?

Would you say the right things to the wrong people?

 

Ya see I’ve been trying to find out what it means to be a good person…

And I used to know…

But now I have syphilis in my throat,

I’m a zebra trying to mate with barber poles,

Hornier than a junior executive in a Donald Trump look-a-like convention.

I feel like I’ve given an inch and I’m now walking on ankles.

 

I know…I should just tell the executive thoughts to go find a five cent movie and to choke themselves a soda, but I’m just wired wrong.

I’ve tried eating the porcupine of my ego one quill at a time,

But that just leaves me without writing.

And I can’t find the dancing gnus of my spine…

Maybe I’m looking under the N’s.

As in Not here,

Not now,

No she can’t or won’t.

 

So after much time to think about it I’ve come to a decision,

Maybe its time I become the bad guy,

Toss gentle glances that say,

 

“I’m a closet BC Liberal, you should give me an arts grant Mr. Premier.”

“No, I’m not going to question you officer.” because I like to travel outside of this country.

Or how bout… “Yes, you’re totally right boss…when are those staff evaluations?”

 

Or maybe I’ll just stick to women…even in a room full of sensitive poets everybody likes the bad boys. And all it takes is a couple of doozies upon an unsuspecting lady.

 

“Darling, I have written about women before but I’m going to have to start studying new languages because you’ve made me realized that I’ve wasted all the good English archetypes on lesser women.”

 

Or try…

 

“Honey, you play beauty so well that its like those near death are each like a strata various on fire and seeing you is like giving them one last new string.”

 

“Sweety, if my heart was a rubix cube cast on the street, you’d be the cold rain in a storm…you make all the scrapes and scars of the sticker of my skin wash away like a young child’s bad dream.”

 

But that would never work. I can’t think about stuff like that with people I don’t know.

 

Chris on the other hand… “Mifey, you have forgiven me sooooo much over the years…that trist with the bartender in Honolulu, my old French teacher from grade school, that time I called you David, as in Haselhoff, but what I really love about you is not your eternal forgiveness; not your twelve inch personality; not the way you make the perfect afternoon latte but is that you were the person who told me first about Vince Carter going 0 for 13 in a game against the raptors and that news is like the JFK shooting, I’ll remember that forever.”

 

And maybe I’ll never find what it means to be a good person,

Someone who knows exactly what to say when your sister tells you that her 12 year old friend just died.

And I probably won’t be the person, that made your grandmother cry,

Maybe I’ll just be the one who says to the young girl sitting on grandma’s knee

“Your friend just thought mermaids died in our wrists. She was just trying to set them free.”

Grrrr....I can't sleep and I can't write and I'm most definitely sick of reading about stephen harper.

Yes I have succumb to Chris and Lisa's wishes. I would say humbug if it wasn't around x-mas. Drat I will say instead.

We'll see how this carries.