Out
Jan 28 2010


In Canada
we navigate by preposition —
out west, up north, down south, back east.

Here, in the middle of nowhere
there is only one direction
— out.
Kind of like the north pole,
where no matter what direction you turn
you’re always facing south.

Here
the highway doesn’t stop
the trains are strictly freight
and it’s bush plane all the way
— short-hop, single prop
jury-rigged, and duct-taped.

Here
it’s all land-locked vacant lots and weather talk,
and a lame old dog
sleeping in the sun.
There’s a sidewalk on Main St.
that ends in a field on the edge of town,
where there are pump-jacks
instead of trees,
heavy gauge steel, and grease
nodding monotonously,
sucking up the last drop of oil.

So underneath
it’s spongy rock, squeezed clean.
And overhead, sky
360 degrees,
as clear and blue as sapphire.
It goes up to the edge of space
beyond the curve of earth
and out past the horizon,
encircling you.

Which is where you aim your pick-up
and floor it.
Yet, somehow, that flat dim line
never gets any closer.
You know;
you’ve tried it before.

Daily Walk
Jan 27 2010


We outlive our dogs.
So there is a succession of pets
— Zephyr, Blackie, Skookum —
who somehow take the place
of the irreplaceable.
Gone
but not forgotten.

The mercy is
they have no knowledge of death.
While we suffer, too aware
as big brown eyes gaze up at us
trusting.
And we honour them
with a swift
and painless one.

We need death
to give life urgency, meaning.
And these condensed canine lives
are that much more precious
intense for it.
They teach us
about life in the moment,
the purity of motive,
the folly of ownership
— all those valued possessions
so eagerly chewed up.
And about being true
to our essential nature,
as they are to theirs.
Loyal creatures, all,
who love
unconditionally.

I can only hope
a dog is there for me
when I, too, approach the end.
But I suspect
she will not be very helpful.
Because we humans revere ourselves
far too much
to let our own
be painless, and swift.

I will arrange for her to be cared for.
Where she will awaken each day
impatiently waiting,
excited by our daily walk.
Because to her, we are all immortal.
And she will, of course
— as she’ll have done each morning
since I have gone —
forgive me for being late.

Perfect Emptiness
Jan 26 2010


You can’t fix your swing
and think,
he shook his head, despairingly.
Hitting coach as Zen master,
baseball
as practice.

He instructs about the mind
emptied,
on repetition
and muscle memory.
The strict discipline
of the strike zone,
indifference to fear.

A small spherical object
intersects
a long cylindrical one,
at 90 miles per hour
from 60 feet,
on a sweet spot
as big as a pencil eraser.
Perfect contact is effortless;
miss, and it’s bees in your fingers
a splintered bat.
You must follow-through, finish
coach intoned, his breathing slow —
like the cycle of existence,
enlightened bliss.

Contact hitters are made
sluggers born
— Ruth, DiMaggio
reincarnated.
Because the eye can’t move that fast,
and the mind
won’t stay still.
Filled
with its monkey chatter,
its flawed attachment
to outcome, to stats,
and all the distractions
a young man falls prey.
Like that pretty girl with the long blonde pony-tail,
left field stands
2 rows back.

They call the big leagues “The Show”
— the lavish club house,
travel, 1st class.
He can only hope —
a career minor leaguer,
talking trash on a bus
that smells of sweat and must,
buddying-up
in cheap motels.
But toeing the plate
under the blue-black dome of dusk
when the green manicured diamond
turns luminous,
it could just as well be Yankee Stadium
on a crisp October night.
When this philosopher of fouls and walks
slows down time to a stop
and suddenly sees everything
with spectacular unerring clarity
— the release, the spin, the speed.

A mighty swing.
Perfect emptiness.
Strike three.

So it’s a slow trot back to the dug-out,
listening to the usual boos and cat-calls,
rude allusions
to his maternity.
And another chance
to meditate on failure, the next at-bat,
on the future
and the past.

He tips his hat to the fans
and scans the crowd,
spitting artfully
trying not to be too obvious.
Hoping to salvage the day
with at least one major league catch
— left field stands
2 rows back.

P.S.
Jan 24 2010


We console each other,
the failed poets.
Hold symposiums
in corner bars
over soapy glasses of beer.
Concoct catty bon mots
eviscerating celebrity authors.
And read out loud
to ourselves.

We check the in-box
far too much,
for fan mail
free lunch.
Do odd jobs,
with an ear to the ground
for found poems,
feeling smugly superior
to our fellow servers and clerks.
Saturday nights we set aside
to alphabetize a crumpled pile
of rejection letters,
filed under “Collected Works”.
And we keep applying for grants,
expecting rejection
from that incestuous band
of self-serving jerks.

We write more bad poems
that will only get worse,
oozing out angst
and envy
and bitterness.
But we are content, nevertheless,
convinced we'll be discovered
after death —
vindication, and redress
for the humiliation and neglect
we suffered with.

An obscure poet,
rescued for posterity
immortalized in print.
Or at least hoping to be read —
post mortem,
post script.

First One Out
Jan 24 2010


The air is thick
with fat wet snow,
drizzling down
windless.
Tires spin
branches bend
streetlights dim,
like feeble yellow snow-globes.

The kind of snow that sticks,
so the city becomes a picture postcard.
Where evergreens, limbs extended
look like little kids in soft white dresses,
curtseying
for adoring parents.
And festive ice tops broken fences.
And cars, cocooned
in cream confections.

I am the first one out.
My footprints break
the smooth glazed surface,
leave no doubt
who the vandal was.
I feel I am trespassing on perfection,
should have stayed in the house
looking-out from darkened windows
as the frozen street vanished —
hard edges buffed
sound muffled,
all our stuff equalized
beneath a puffy white comforter.
The world
slowly filling up.

Feeling grateful
for our undeserved luck
here, on the cusp of weather —
a couple degrees more,
it’s cold hard rain
in a grey December.

Winter Sleep
Jan 20 2010


I get unobstructed morning sun.
Lying in bed, the ledge
is just above eye level,
so we stare each other down.
Me, summoning the will to close the blind.
The sun, indifferent, blinding
blasting the glass free of frost,
making dust dance
in a shaft of light,
illuminating every flaw
with its merciless probing.

Each day
a little earlier, a little warmer,
this sun is definitely a morning person
— punctual, cheerful
energetic.
I’m not.
So I drop the blind,
roll over,
hold out for snow.

A giant icicle has grown
dangling from the eaves precariously.
It is utterly transparent
as smooth as liquid mercury.
It resembles an unquenchable weed,
fed by sunlight.

Soon enough
it will fall —
a dagger plummeting to earth,
a shattered hologram of ice,
a crash that obliterates sleep.

The first casualty of spring.

The Thickness of Air
Jan 20 2010


The plane came down hard.
With a great blistering squeal,
the mushy give
of rubber,
muffled gunshots
as tires popped.
Everything rattling, like a second-hand car,
only slightly less stressful
as when we took-off.

They say wheels up, wheels down
are the risky parts.
But it’s the 5 hours in between
I fidget and shift, belted-in,
worrying.
The soft light, the soothing drone
the curved cramped cabin,
that will open like an elevator door
on a whole new vista,
as if a team of fork-lifts and winches
had trundled in new scenery,
while we waited back-stage, in a sealed room
breathing stale air.
A generically modern capsule
of aluminum and plastic,
it is crammed with strangers in flip-flops and sneakers
in the unnatural intimacy of seats
bolted to the floor.

The atmosphere to earth
is like the film of water on a wet basketball.
And we, a mere molecule
suspended there.
Even infidels and heretics
believe in gravity.
But at 30,000 feet
the thickness of air,
the principle of lift,
the thrust
of hot escaping gases
seem far more miraculous.

Edge
Jan 19 2010


She always felt claustrophobic
here.
It was the trees
looming up, crowding close,
the dark and brooding forest.
Like unbending sentries
an impassive palace guard —
at attention, sight-lines centred
on some fixed and distant point.
While the murk concealed eyes,
obsessively watching us.

She hated the damp uneven earth
the snags and burrs
reaching out,
grabbing at her as she walked.
And she was unnerved
by the wind’s relentless whispering,
the groaning wood
the sudden rustling of leaves
— like a flock of dull black birds
bursting up into flight.

While I feel protected, enclosed —
the cool green,
the warmth
of rich dark soil.
Because I need a place with an edge
a clear-cut border;
close enough to know
I can breathe,
can step across into freedom.

She returned to where she came —
the big important city,
where anonymity frees her.
But there’s no there
there
no outside,
and I am claustrophobic;
confined by its sprawl,
trapped
in cacophony and traffic.

The Conjugation of Take
Jan 17 2010


The conjugation of take,
taken, took.

“He took a lover”, let us say.
As casually as an umbrella
when it looked like rain,
a penny for change.
A simple act of will
a dalliance,
women
throwing themselves at him.

Did not fall in love
did not give himself up
to her.
And not the one true love
soul-mate, or life partner,
but the indefinite article
— a conquest, a notch
to add to all the others.
And “lover”
as in making love, not in it,
as in seized, not given.
And “he”, of course
because women are not nearly so free,
or weren’t
when such things were written.

And the future tense of take
will take, will have taken,
until the word becomes discarded
and break, broken-hearted.

A sentence of 4 small words
parsed
until it is purged of all glamour
and gallantry.
He has become a cad,
and she, the object of desire
a brief distraction.

He took a lover,
and she was taken
advantage of.

Keep Yourself Warm
Jan 14 2010


A cord of wood
split, stacked
in a tightly packed rectangle,
sides flushed plumb.
So a man stands back
sweat freezing, breathing fast,
admiring his handiwork.
Tangible wealth
hard labour banked,
as substantial as gold under the mattress
winter fat.

A scent you’d think they’d package,
balsam fir
spruce and spice and earth.
And heat, barely discernable
simmering at its core,
as the wood
slowly slowly decomposes
— bacteria, eking out a life.
‘Til it becomes as light as balsa,
dry rot
lousy fuel.

2 years to season, at least.
Too green, it makes a dull heavy thud.
Well-dried, it has a hard ringing crispness,
splits true, no resistance,
burns clean
and hot.

In a long cold winter
the wood pile relentlessly shrinks,
leaving bark, and splinters
— like growing old,
imperceptible
until you notice.
You wonder if you’ll make it ‘til spring,
or have to lean on the neighbours
plug in the baseboards
burn the stuff still green.

Or keep yourself warm
cocooned in blankets and fleece and comforters
for a day, a week, a month,
spooning with someone you love.

Games of Fetch
Jan 12 2010


A poet needs a day job,
preferably involving an alarm clock
sweat
the “f” word,
dropped as freely as stevedores
— as punctuation, interrogative, exclamation mark.

Not so much the minimum wage
or exposure to daylight,
as release
from the black turtleneck uniform,
the blank page
staring accusingly,
the avant-garde eye wear
that pinches your nose
and makes your head ache.
And remembering
that everything’s material
— the brain-dead boss,
fellow workers, high on pot,
customers from hell.

As for me
I walk the dog,
dutifully stopping
when she sniffs,
carrying plastic bags for shit,
keeping her safe from traffic.
Not much of a job
but it clears the head remarkably.
Because her delight’s so pure,
her focus
so unselfconscious.
And how she inhabits the moment
so completely,
her short life seems almost immortal.

So now, I live less in my head
than my body.
And I have surrendered the clock
to endless walks
and games of fetch,
more than enough
to numb the mind
of any self-respecting poet.
But at the same time
I am forced to stop,
the close observation
all writers cherish.

A 24 hour day job,
with no pay cheque at the end of it.
And time for even fewer poems
that will not be read
by a world racing to who-knows-where,
and could not care less
anyway.

Wrecker
Jan 11 2010


It’s all heavy chains
and grappling hooks,
hydraulic force,
diesels smoking torque.
The world-weary tow-truck guy
beetling-in under the car
scraping hard-packed snow,
his thick competent fingers, grease too deep to clean
impervious to cold.

The clunk and clang
of metal on metal
is solid, final
comforting,
after mashing through gears, forward and back,
flailing against
an immoveable mass,
slipping into knee-deep drifts.

Nose buried, axle tipped
careened into the ditch
it becomes 2000 lbs of scrap,
spinning its wheels
burning gas.
Every northern kid knows this
— something for the treads to grip
and get it rocking,
back and forth
a few inches more, each time
until the triumphant weightless moment
when it rises up out of its hole
and sails effortlessly forward.

The volunteer pushers
flushed, spattered,
the grim driver
feathering the gas,
the laws of physics
forward, and back
in a perfect choreography of motion
determination
good deeds.

But today was too deep
the road too remote
and I called for a tow.
The winch plucked the car from the ditch
with steady inevitability,
no triumph, or suspense
no community of effort.
Which I realize I missed
— the rhythmic rocking,
the delicate touch on the throttle,
the heave-ho machismo of men,
hard cursing
frozen breath.

He preferred cash,
reluctantly accepting a cheque,
as he swung himself up
into the diesel wrecker.
Tow-truck driver
as good Samaritan.

Estate Sale
Jan 8 2010


Paint darkens
floors scuff.
You can see the wear
of hands grasping
high traffic,
marks left
by sharp objects
ducked, or dropped,
sleeping dogs.

Years pass
edges fray
blind spot accumulate.
Until fashion leaves us behind;
so the place looks its age
and the smell of food won’t wash away,
molecules of home cooking
infusing the carpets, the walls.
First kiss.
Last rites.
Middle child.

The new owners will gut the place,
down to studs and drywall.
Because location is all that counts
in real estate.
Which is the least real thing of all,
as neighbourhoods rise and fall
and rise again.
While this house has been the constant
in all our lives,
a touchstone, we thought,
its value
indestructible.

Less than a week
as the contractor promised
and it’s gone,
like a hollowed-out pumpkin
the day after trick-or-treat
— the collapsing grin
as the flesh begins to shrink,
the vacant eyes
softening.

A highly desirable location
said the street-smart agent,
sizing-up the lot.
An excellent price.
I’ve yet to add up the cost.

Kosher Wine
Jan 6 2010


I remember small glasses
of kosher wine,
over-sweet
the purple stain
the foxy after-taste.

I remember honey cake,
golden loaves, thickly sliced
tipped back invitingly
like toppled dominos.
Oblivious to the niceties
of presentation
I would reach in for a middle piece,
avoiding the over-cooked crusts
on the ends.

The cake cut the cloying sweetness
of the wine.
The wine nicely moistened the cake
which had crumbled, in the over-heated basement
underneath the sanctuary
after services,
laid out in advance
to keep the Sabbath
free of work.

This was rare,
observing the day of rest
the service, sparsely attended
mumbling along to the prayers
in the ancient guttural language
that seemed more incantation
than words
— the verses, well-rehearsed,
the ritual tongue
familiar, yet mysterious.

We were not religious,
secular Jews, seduced by our worldliness.
But still anxious to honour
thousands of years of survival;
and wanting to believe
something so ancient and durable
contained wisdom,
had attained some higher truth.

My parents must have felt guilty
about something,
dragging us there, those rare Friday nights.
Or lonely, perhaps
ungrounded;
a young family
no relatives
living in a raw suburban tract
of shoe-box houses
non-stop children
big American cars
parked like trophies
on rutted gravel drives.
The lust for life
after Depression, and war.

But I never touched down
found my footing
in the company of such an insecure God
in need of so much reassurance,
constantly demanding
our devoted worship,
such a capricious, and cranky
taskmaster.
So I never believed,
never bought any of it
from the start.

But I still remember the wine and cake
on folding tables
with a starched white cloth,
the beaming rabbi
the bearded men, wrapped in tallises
davenning.
And I find myself reciting
the old familiar prayers
in my head
whenever I hear them.
Still not sure what they mean;
yet comforted
nevertheless.

Layers
Jan 3 2010


An arctic high
dropped down,
and wouldn’t let go —
powder snow
clear and cold
eyelashes frozen.

We dress in layers —
cotton, fleece, wool
balaclava, or scarf ;
bank robbers and desperados
at large.

I like moving through the world this way,
building up layers
of protection,
muffled and buffered and cotton-balled.
The soft armour
that soaks up bumps,
makes me anonymous.
The pneumatic bubble
that covers up
the softer core,
blunts
the sudden fall
the sharpened tongue.

Except for the eyes
peering out
exposed,
tearing-up
in the bitter wind
the snow-blind brightness.

We acknowledge each other
passing by
with a nod, a grunt,
never sure
which one’s which;
hands jammed
deep in our pockets,
hunched against the cold.

Even at absolute zero
enough layers
and I could keep myself warm.
It’s the heat
I find murderous —
only so much
you can throw-off, strip down, expose,
until you’re bare-ass naked
and everybody knows.

Cold Front
Dec 28 2009


The plough came early
most of the world asleep,
high-beams bleaching the pristine surface,
hazard light blinking
like a Martian lander,
electric blue.

The shiny steel blade
breaks the deep cold stillness,
carves a wave of snow
peeling smoothly off
in its wake.
It rumbles
over asphalt,
clatters
over frozen gravel,
groans and scrapes
over hard concrete roads.
And the diesels, thrumming
belching smoke.

We hear it, half awake
through triple-pane glass
bolted doors,
the ghostly light invading our bedrooms
swivelling swiftly past.

The midnight world
of muffled whiteness
wind-sculpted curves,
ditches filled
fenced buried
roads and fields blurred,
is now neat, geometric
— order conferred.
The grid emerges
between steep snowbanks
and scoured streets
scarred by sand,
that will turn into wet grey slush
come rush hour.

At 4 am, my footprints were all that marred
the untouched surface
perfectly preserved,
like the fossilized tracks
of a long extinct animal,
pacing restlessly, aimlessly
unable to sleep,
caught
in a maelstrom of thought,
quashed
by the weight of feeling.

But the snowplough came, and went
obliterating every evidence
of my existence, then,
between the end of the storm
and the lighter grey
of morning.

Cocoon
Dec 21 2009


The shortest day,
a few seconds less
than yesterday,
according to meticulous astronomical observation.
The sun, setting in the afternoon
unnoticed.
So low, it pours on the windows
horizontal,
illuminating neglected corners;
as if to compensate
for so brief a stay.

From here, lengthening imperceptibly
until 6 months hence,
when the day will seem endless
the heat oppressive
and light
penetrates everything.

But for now, an excuse to eat
to sleep
to dream
through the long luxurious night.
To throw another log on the stove
until the iron box glows;
the flame greedy for fuel,
hypnotizing us
to feed it.

Embers, by morning
grumbling awake in the cold.
Still dark outside,
so I roll over
return to the warm cocoon of covers
and sleep,
at least until first light.

Neatness
Dec 13 2009


It’s a nervous tic, I suppose
picking away at things.
A loose corner, a thread.
A broken nail
you worry at
with your teeth, your hand
your teeth again.
How you unerringly find the crack
pick away at it, distractedly
until you feel it give,
gone too far to fix.

You prefer an even surface,
smoothing over things,
endings trimmed and clipped.
Neat
and uncontested.
Not so much neurotic, or obsessed
as convention
what’s expected
better left unsaid.

Trouble is
things smart small
get bigger
and you can’t go back.
So you’re embarrassed by your ugly hands —
nails chewed to the quick,
even the skin, nibbled at.

You pull at threads
and feel things unravel.
You pick at chips
until your vessel cracks.

Unsightly scabs
you dig at, pull-off, scratch,
and never give a chance
to heal.