the Realities Concerning Love

The maddening thing about democracy
is that it makes a rough life for the weird and the weak.
The crowd's ideals and goals are easy:
you don't have to think and you don't have to speak.
A traditional love affair starts with a kiss on the cheek.
Your eyes filled with tears with every concession you made;
life was so miserable before you were gay.

A home can be more than a place
to take off the shoes and rest tired old feet.
A double bed shouldn't be crowded by
two unhappy people in a dusty basement suite.
Days shouldn't be spent walking
confused squares and circles on downtown streets.
You used to feel like you were trapped in a bank robber's safe;
the sun never shone before you were gay.

Poets were the worst liars. Their illusion of
true love didn’t turn out so fucking grand.
Nothing would have worked, a marriage
or a string of drunken one night stands:
they all just clumsily pawed at your clothes,
your body with sandpaper hands.
You’d say yes to any boy that asked for a date;
love was so peculiar before you were gay.

TWO: Four Years Later

Your blue eyes cross as you focus on the small
flickering flame that you hold so close
in front of your face.
Breathe in: whether you need it or not
the effect is still the same.
The thing about this stuff is...

i used to take simple pleasure in running
through fields of skeletal dandelions.
When those tiny dry parachutes take to the sky
and then float harmlessly down.
If they don't grow roots where they land
the field was already barren.
The thing about this stuff is...

The clouds roll in and it rains heavily
all through the night.
The smell of your chemicals hang in my hair,
in my clothes, and it burns my eyes.
The very worst are the words that cascade out of your mouth:
cheap explanations and unfinished sentences.
Suck it all in as fast as you can.
The supply is running low and the cost to replace it
is forever getting higher.
The thing about this stuff is...

When the earth runs out of places to accept its dead
and the tombstones out number the good people left alive,
where will we park our cars,
manufacture plastics,
fuck our prostitutes,
or plant our crops?
The thing about this stuff is...

ONE: Clouded Visions

twice i've watched the sunrise in your company.
my eyes burned with the smoke of twenty-five cigarettes
consumed within three hours, with all the windows shut.
i talked, you talked, he talked:
the thing about this stuff is...

she's got an itch, and no matter how i try
i cannot scratch it.
love is a beautiful distraction
but it only kills the time
in between what she's really after.

there were fruit flies on the food when i came to rescue you.
i moved to do my best with empty, shaking hands.
if i push you into traffic will you come out clean?
the thing about this stuff is...

the silent could be eloquent and the coward could be brave
but why can't they find it in themselves
to be as strong as they could be?
love is a beautiful distraction
but it is not what she's after.

here and there and everywhere in between:
i have discovered sleep to be pointless -
the clouded visions come at night;
words scream around my brain and get lost on the way out,
laying shredded among discarded cans
and big bags of sugar.
the thing about this stuff is...

she's got an itch and no matter how i try
i cannot scratch it .
i only claw her skin off to the bone
because love is no distraction
and it is nothing compared
to what she's really after.

the thing about this stuff is:
once painted
always painted.

on natural functions:

my heart sings songs that no ear will ever hear.
through my veins, sonnets and odes flow.
should my blood spill, those words are wasted;
when the blues become red and the rhythm
of my heart falters for moments, i lose the
sentiments that were to leave my lips
and be whispered into the waiting ears
of my love.

skinny arms

television dreams of a drunkard
falling haphazardly down somewhere
around my ankles and toes.
while bending to collect the episodes
and hallucinations,
a startling realization hit like a baseball bat
on an intruder in the house of paranoia.
two toxic influences, two similar addictions
swirling around and drilling holes
in a perfectly fine brain -
tape your hands and forearms together, fool.
even if i run out of things to say to you
i will never run out of things to drink.
the moon hangs low tonight.
it is within my reach.
i will grab it and swallow it.
i will affect the tides,
dogs and coyotes will howl at my white, white face.
i can hear the train, i can see the tracks
but i have yet to see that lumbering vehicle pass.
cobalt, cerulean, peacock, sapphire and discontent:
no matter the layers of white primer, black paint
through the cracks and dents easy to see.
ain't no way to wash myself clean in that salty sea,
i don't even float anymore. straight to the bottom.

her skinny arms reach down and pull me out of the bathtub.
my eyes closed, soaking wet and sleeping i might just be
happy to see her, and perhaps my veins have gone
to rest in their beds; now less visible under pallid skin.
the smell of a spring morning floods the squalid room
and today, maybe i will draw the blinds and let the
the light of the day shine on my face.

.......

These scissors don't cut through much -
their blades are mighty dull.
They match the drag of days with nothing better to do
than watch the clouds saunter by: wispy white on a pleasant
blue canvas, swirling and swimming like the cigarette smoke
spilling constantly from my mouth after it takes a quick
vacation in my lungs.
Knife in hand, i contemplate a visit to the attic.
The silver rungs of the seemingly endless ladder end
with the cool embrace of King Elvis
or Jesus Christ himself. I blame those scratches on the cat.
(It sometimes seems easier to believe scars that deep
could come from feline claws than the nails hammered
into a man something like two thousand years ago could
bring us salvation.)
Staring at the ceiling in the dark is more satisfying than
the back of my eyelids on sleepless nights, wondering
where you are and why i care. When the snow falls silent and
the sidewalks seem like tricks and traps, though a fleeting
moment of happiness tears me away from the doldrums
of dreams and nightmares, the accompanying cold
and my brittle bones collaborate to make my journey
uncomfortable. When even the fading light
of the refrigerator needs to be viewed through
dark glasses and morning doesn't break until sometime
past noon, it is time to decide if the white-knuckled fist
wrapped around the neck of the bottle is
really the one with the tightest grip.

.....

it's time to take a while to recline on the isle:
a well deserved rest in a sapphic cemetary.
an observation of the marriage between
self-loathing and masturbation
inspires change in those that want it.
do not forget to book your return tickets;
this is a nice place to visit,
but it's no place to live.

ode to a poet

Last night i went swimming with Sylvia.
The water cold, the waning moon,
her hand in mine, the tide was high.
We went out too far, the bottom dropped;
we should have drowned but
the ocean rejected us.

Her failed attempts, the same as mine
are meant to happen at a specific time.

Twice came death, we laughed and joked;
twice the waters rose - we coughed, we choked.
It was then that suddenly i woke,
i left Sylvia doing the dead man's float.

Tomorrow night, i swim alone.
My black thoughts will sink as stones.

Self portrait

there is a man who sings to himself
as he produces songs for the public.
he doesn't know the weight of his words
as he spews prophetic poetry
to anyone who'll listen.

he has bright eyes and a bushy tail
and he greets each morning with
rings on his fingers and bells on his toes;
there is no funding for the arts
just the beating of bruised and broken hearts.

there is a girl who cannot keep a straight face
as she looks into the eyes of the public.
she doesn't know the gravity that pulls her
as she poses and postures
for everyone to stare at.

she has brittle bones and a blackened soul
and she greets her evenings with
rings on her fingers and bells on her toes;
there is no funding for the arts
just the beating of bruised and broken hearts.

crossing bridges

i follow bread crumbs i don't remember
leaving along the way - collect my
scattered thoughts and return them
to the broken container where they belong.
Then, i sift through my sordid secrets,
seal them in a mason jar, and throw
it from the high level with the idea
that one day i will follow them and
be swept away by the North Saskatchewan.

Dejected, i sit at the back of the bus,
riding alone to avoid the vicious whispers
of the elite dreamers at the front. i
watch the pigeons fly as i cross the
low level. The snow is white, but
the flying mud taints its natural
beauty. The quiet sound i imagine
that is the wings of the dirty
birds reminds me that there isn't
anything about you that i don't love.