Smoked Meat

in the shadows of Elliot Trudeau
grafitti dumpster a cliche routine
I was trying to understand the CFL
with my Molson, Tots and Poutine

but you had to come in take the stool by my side
an empty bar so many choices
but belly up to me you’d decide
than with your scarf and brainy voice
you would scoff and you. you had to chide
how is it that I bothered you
when it wasn’t I who came from outside?

As if the Sun is to be blamed for extinguishing the night

when you slinked back out to grab a smoke
no cameras around and you didn’t have a phone
looking up from the trash see the airbus has flown
in the cold still winter air hear the highway moan
I am the island in the city of Mary
and I should have been left alone

I have found things for which I am loyal
my precision. my love. my kills
looking down from up on Mount Royal
the seagulls circle your landfills

you can have a brother or a wife
and not know them til their funeral day
it’s easy not to notice in life
it’s easy not to hear what they’d say
they will know you now friend by my knife
pass the Schwartz’s, S’il vous plaît?

The Dogs of Bologna

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The Urine soaked leaves italic culture
brought me to a girl crying over spilled gelato
distant yapping cani de Bologna
sneak through a Sangiovese echo
distinct tribulation a speaking vulture
sadness pusillanimous Limoncello

ancient the walls tell the story
terracotta arches structures of the wars
cured dead livestock a way to preserve
a third world country in high-reaching doors
red, white, green in all its glory
but the truth is made of scars
and the lies fusilli torment
anecdotes from splenetic whiskey bars

 

 

 

Lansdowne blood out

When the bat hit it broke my ankle in 9 places
I was keeping touch with Mama Kin
I didn’t know when you invited me to 8’s and aces
this was the night the gang would do me in

Was it that the pit-bull was yours?
I didn’t know where she got it from no lies
I was out for weeks with some band on a tour
got home when they were dead from getting high
just another Brockton lullaby

so you befriended me
coked me up and told me lies
brought the rockabilly girls and the money
right along for the fairline ride
looking at your tattoos when I heard the blast
but that shot missed my side
she had a rose in her hair and that broken bat
guess when I fell you thought I died

 

Maybe what I fear

Woke up drunk on a beach in Martha’s vineyard
surrounded by 100 rabbits in the rain
We played a gig on a Governer’s yacht in the ocean
the one’s with the money wanna touch me that way
Woke up in a Chicago jail cell frozen
I think it was the very next day
maybe longer maybe farther its all erosion
all the houses and the people look the same
I will wake up somewhere else I’m hoping
somewhere else away from the pain
or maybe I’ll just keep on corroding
keep on waking up in the same place same way

 

We spoke of raccoons

I was dumbfounded in myself
I was concerned over the discomfort of my own arm
while holding your hand as you fought so hard to catch final breaths
your pain so real
but its only mine I can feel

You awoke and you whispered that you had no regrets
Remember at age 6 all alone I was left
you ran off – thought I’d let you forget?

we spoke of raccoons

you spoke of great things that you’d done in your life
seen the world in its beauty made lovers and friends
you left behind worries, empty places. your wife
and than you pulled me in close, being a dad never ends
you left behind smoking told me do whats right
and since you planted that seed I’ve not lit up since
yea I quit too dad but like you I’ll still die

than you asked me to write. I can’t even find words.
we spoke of raccoons, flowers and birds

What breath your last? would you die with eyes closed?
Do you believe that I loved you? Did you know I write prose?
I was a child when you left me and now I’m all grown
I won’t get these answers time is not mine to own

your eyes wide, you blinked and looked scared
I wiped away the drool from your face, your hair
but my arm hurt and throat dry
I just left you there.
I did not cry

looking out the window, breathing from your tube
looking out. from your pillow.

there he is.

the raccoon

 

 

Average white friends

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How many empty cans have I left behind – pyramids of brandnames
I was your sister                                                                                            sorority troll
I was drunk peeing in the corner plagiarizing bandaids
of Xanax blisters                                                                                           Philly superbowl
How many empty bottles have I left behind – average white friends
whose lies I swallowed to ease the pain
the whole is torn in the stomach the headache never ends
I’ve played the song to the last refrain.

How many empty souls have I left behind – addicted to their loss
I’m beyond
I can travel to your empty places for me it has no cost
across the pond
they say I’m lucky to see you but you are desolate – you are frost
attractions gone
you have died you have spoke to me in your tongue I am deaf I am  lost
countdown to none
How many ounces,
how many pills,
how many stories,
how many kills?

 

 

 

 

 

I master write

I hide the poems I write in sock drawers
under
cum socks                     and drugs
on hotel room walls
behind paintings, under rugs
Like DNA in the sheets in the sink and the tub
I wrote a thesis on napkins left at the bar and the club

I have read what was said
by my idols all dead
they passed on
left words like Jawn
that changed my life with one thread

Have my words been read would I even care?
I imagine the Spanish maid there
finding notes
that I wrote
stands crying in the hall
but she cant read this
its in English
thoughts dropped they fall

so someone asked me
cut down this old tree
shed the bark show the rings
show its age and dark things
stop throwing away
words you say
like spilled semen you tossed
all those words that were lost
washed away down the drain
just one seed could have changed
born a human a writer a lonely old maid

so I gave it a go
gripping my pen til it explodes
spilling ink into prose
my eyes pull to the back of my head
the words building up I picture her spread
til the cap pops off ink blots shoot like lead
the new black Rorschach that cannot be read

and more regret than relief
as I drift off to sleep
with my pen in my hand
softening from stone to sand