Holding My Breath
April 30 2008


I swim, most days
up and down a lane
drifting in and out of thought,
in a fluorescent goose-bump pool
that stinks of chlorine
and old standing water.
Like some mutant fish, goggle-eyed
I peer out at soft pale bodies
thrashing up and down, on either side.
And kids, doing cannonballs.
And fancy divers, practicing.

The lifeguards look bored,
pacing, chattering.
And tinny music plays,
reminding me of skating rinks
under swaying strings of light
— couples circling hand-in-hand
to Elvis songs
and old hit parades.
The PA echoes inaudibly
off hard cinderblock walls.
And the diving board goes “sproiiing ...”
then a few dying flutters,
like some smart-alecky schoolboy
blubbering his lips in the back row.

But underwater, there is total silence
as I stop and drift.
I prefer it like this
— miserly bubbles
dribbling-out, through pursed lips;
my heartbeat
reflexively slowing;
and my thoughts
growing louder and louder inside,
barely confined
to my eggshell skull,
this thin layer of bone.
Where I depend upon the weight of water
keeping me whole.

After the Tone …
April 28 2008


The message machine blinks
dancing its cheerful jig,
making me feel I’m home
in a world in which I am needed.
I picture a beaming child
bouncing and clapping for more.

A cursory glance, walking past.
After all, there’s ice cream going soft,
and coffee cups to wash,
and a sofa cushion
in need of straightening.

At my desk, I organize pencils
— tapping them even,
a picket fence of sharpened tips.
And I fiddle with an empty page
looking away,
my back to that little red light
fluttering like an anxious heart beat
in need of resuscitation.

At the fridge, wide open
I peer in, unfocused
— suspicious milk,
half-eaten take-out,
and tupperware, unlabelled.
Behind me, the machine signals insistently,
like a single-minded insect
buzzing deep inside one ear.

I know who called.
I know what she wants me to hear.
And I stubbornly believe that if I never listen
this message doesn’t exist
— a game of telephone tag
in which she is forever “it”.

After dark, the little red light seems brighter
suffusing the room with its ghostly glow,
flickering relentlessly.
So in my restless sleep
this tireless machine
goes on and on,
berating me.

Struck Blind
April 25 2008


If they told me I’d be struck blind
on this day, a year from now,
would I gorge myself on light
drink-in every sight and every colour
until I overflowed?
Until my skin glowed
and my eyes beamed
and my ears flashed
pure white thunder-bolts?
Would I stare into the sun
'til it made my eyes smoke,
and ghost through moon-lit nights
memorizing shadows?

Or would I draw the shades
and wear long sleeves and tinted glasses,
hiding-out
in dark interiors?
Until my skin turned mushroom white
and my sight inexorably wasted?
Would I renounce vision, when I had a choice,
instead of waiting for it to be taken?

I’ll play piano by feel,
only black keys and minor chords.
And I will seduce you
with perfumed notes, in Braille.
And I will learn to make love with the lights off.
My world will shrink to this handful of streets
I know by heart,
but they will expand to contain it all.
Because I will hear everything,
a tear drop
a butterfly rustling its wings.
And I will breathe deep,
an authority on rot
a connoisseur of odour.
And I will leave fingerprints
exploring every surface,
like a fine instrument of touch.
Closed to sight, I will open up;
a raw neuron
exposed.

A Warm Dry Climate
April 24 2008


It’s the dailiness of things
that grinds you under
— eat ...sleep ...cook ...clean;
rinse, and repeat.

And it’s the dailiness
that gives you succour,
escaping into routine
— your body on autopilot,
while your mind idles away in a darkened garage
with the door sealed shut,
happily euthanized.

I like things orderly, predictable;
my fridge organized by best-before dates,
and thoughts of some asteroid
on a bee-line for earth
gratefully submerged in a sink full of dishes.
Change makes my palms sweat.
And calamity, every sphincter clench.
And catastrophe is worth the rent
of my dream palace of illusion,
stuffing it in
mercifully oblivious.

The days grow longer now
and sleep does not come easy.
Spring showers turn quickly to snow
then back again,
making me feel unsettled
in-between.
I think I’d prefer a warm dry climate,
somewhere near the equator
where the sun rises and sets at the same time every day
— dishes drying by the sink;
low-hanging fruit, all season;
and no umbrellas, or garages, needed.

Intoxication
April 22 2008


In the dark
under cover
your breathing accompanies me.
The rustle of air.
The regularity
I find so reassuring.
And the molecules we share
distilled from deep within our blood.

In the art of smell
we are infants
— messing about with finger-paints,
barely mastering the primary colours,
the names and shades escaping us.
But when we touch
I breathe you in
— your skin
your sex
your soft warm flesh.
My sins are gluttony and lust
and like an addict shooting-up
I cannot rest.
And even when you’ve left
your scent is indelible,
monopolizing all my senses
suffusing memory.

How I see you like the first time
— back-lit by sunlight
your hair a halo of fire.
How I strain to hear you sing
when you think no one is listening.
How I long to hold you close
exploring through your clothes,
stroking you
in places only I can know.
And when I taste you with my lips
how I love to breathe you in,
my tongue ravenous
my appetite insatiable.

How we fill each other up;
yet still
cannot get enough.

It’s Hard Digging in Winter
April 21 2008


It’s hard digging in winter,
especially when the wind scours the surface bare.
Where the frost penetrates deeper,
and it’s slow going
the full 6 feet.
Or frozen bodies
in anonymous black shrouds,
stacked like seasoned wood, above ground,
waiting for spring.

Down south, it’s different.
In a paupers’ plot in New Orleans
you hit water at 2 feet
— grave-diggers in gumboots,
sloshing around
knee-deep.
So the dead are buried
much closer to the rest of us.
And like small boats
caskets are lowered into water,
their passengers gently rocked
into eternal sleep.
I can just picture it
— eyes closed, arms crossed
and a ghostly smile,
as the recently departed
go sailing-off.

I want to end like this
— in fertile soil close to the sun,
instead of lifeless clay
6 feet under.
Where a tree may grow before my gravestone
feeding on decomposing flesh.
Or scavengers will come, and dig me up,
howling in the dead of night,
releasing me
from rest.

To some, an indignity to a human corpse;
but to me, my version of the afterlife.
Close enough to the surface
that when it thaws
the hot spring sun will warm my pile of bones.
Or in a shallow grave
in a pine box,
rocking me gently home.

The Sound of the Sea in a Seashell
April 17 2008


The sound of the sea in a seashell
a thousand miles from the coast.
Which I still want to believe:
that the essence of things
is incorruptible.
And that we are marked
by landscape,
by the angle of the sun,
by the muffled sound of a heartbeat
floating in darkness.

My ears hot with blood
its salt the same as the sea
washing over me
like it beats against the shore
— my headlands and coves,
my fine sand, my rocky coast,
and the irregular line of foam
as the tide recedes.

I head out
feeling my way with my feet
gradually descending,
as the surge of the surf
tugs my body deeper,
then releases me.
When the bottom drops away
and I float free —
like water poured into water;
the way fine white salt
instantly dissolves.

Which is when I panic
and claw myself back to the surface
— the cold spray
the breaking waves,
hungry to breathe.
And the sharp ocean air,
burning with salt
and the queasy smell
of rot.

Sea shells remind me of this.
And in perfect silence,
when I listen to myself.

A Stranger Smiles
April 16 2008


Good advice
— eye contact
and a solid handshake.
Or two hands, better still,
enclosing his in a firm solicitous grip
as you smile
and lean-in closer.
Politicians and salesmen are good at this
— pressing the flesh,
closing the deal,
making you a believer, too.

I always looked away,
felt illuminated in the naked gaze
of others.
And reluctant to offer my hand;
bony, unmanly
with its clammy palm
— a damp insubstantial handshake.

But it’s never too late
to discover the power of engagement
— a tentative smile
a determined gaze,
man-to-man
even total strangers.
And beautiful women, too;
who, to my surprise
will nod
or smile
or even beam
right back at me.

I wonder if she thinks we’re acquainted
but can’t quite place me.
Or imagines me some happy simpleton,
with the simple trust that is so contagious.
Or perhaps, in her beauty, all she feels is isolation,
intimidating men
inciting women’s envy.
And because beauty may be all they can see
or care for,
she fears that in a few short years
she will become transparent.
When there may be no hand to hold
and none proffered,
nor any arms
enclosing her.

Does she think all this
looking into my eyes,
returning a stranger’s smile?

City of Light
April 11 2008


I have never been to Paris.
I do not know if it rises up, unexpectedly
from low stone buildings
crowded onto narrow cobbled streets.
Or stands, on its own
at the far end of an open field of green.
There are more ancient monuments
and grander ones, as well,
in boosterish new world cities
like Chicago, or Shanghai
that swagger with sudden wealth.
But they just remind me of rich old men in Ferraris
which still have that new car smell.

But this is unmistakable,
an elegant confection of light
that seems airborne, almost dainty
on its graceful sweeping legs.
All deception, of course,
the art of concealing its art.
Because up close, slowly ascending through its geometric form
the tower is a great brutal lattice
of massive iron struts
and bolts as big as Volkswagens.
It stands, immoveable
a triumph of 19th century technology,
whose Victorian engineers
believed in building forever.

And useless, too
— going nowhere,
wide-open to air.
An act of sheer exuberance;
or, perhaps, man’s hubris,
flaunting his cleverness and wealth.

Paris in spring,
as if I’d actually seen it.
And how odd that this weightless whimsy
this icon of the city of light
is all cast-iron bolts and beams,
unadorned and massive.
Although even this may be part of its power
— the attraction of permanence and weight
in this wireless borderless place.

A Person of Interest
April 14 2008


When the investigation commenced
there was little material evidence.
But as in most things,
it comes down to motivation
and opportunity
and dumb coincidence.
Not to mention former lovers and friends,
who drift apart
and intersect
and wander off again.

He was declared a person of interest
and told not to leave town.
They might as well have proclaimed him guilty
right there and then.
“Huh!”, all of us said
“a person of interest” — I’ll bet!

Yet isn’t this what we all aspire to,
to fascinate, to keep things fresh?
To make an impression
to catch her attention
and pull her in?
Or celebrity, at best
— even if it is
just 15 minutes of fame.

But in a case like this
there are no stray hairs,
no bodily fluids,
no finger-prints.
No hard proof, and nothing left,
except he came
and then he went
— a momentary ripple,
a stone dropped in a clear smooth pool.

And a sworn eye-witness
who either looked the other way in that exact instant,
or soon lost interest,
or cannot recollect.
Which is often how it ends
— an open file and a cold case;
then merciful forgetfulness.

Inside Dog
April 14 2008


An indoor cat has been de-clawed.
It would be cruel to let her go,
slinking-out like a sleek black whisper
through a crack in the door.
Her world is an aquarium,
propped for hours on the ledge
like an upside-down question mark,
stalking something on the other side of the glass.
Or staring intently at TV
— wildebeest stampedes,
duck calls.
She’s still graceful, if soft,
leaping down onto polished floors
with a barely audible thud.
An empress in a small apartment
demurely licking her paws.

A dog strains at his leash
tongue flapping, tail slapping furiously,
so you'd swear he’s about to throttle himself.
Then explodes like a wound-up spring
when freed,
a mad dash and manic circles
barking.
Such excitement
like a wilful mischievous child,
his nose deep in something ripe.
You call out to him
— Sam or Maggie or Max —
growing steadily sterner.
And he furtively glances back
his tail moving nervously
— a canine brain
practicing its clever deception.

There is no such thing as an inside dog.
All whimpering whiny puppy eyes,
even a cat person would break
under the pressure,
and let him run wild.

Imperfection
April 8 2008


A wrong turn
heading east on the westbound expressway.
Or bad sex,
especially next to her in bed
in dawn’s relentless light.
Or inappropriate friends
your mother warned you against,
cutting class
smoking dope in the high school parking lot.
However the mess begins
it inevitably ends
— perhaps with benign forgetfulness;
or, more likely, regret.

But imperfection is what makes us tick,
the broken code, the sticky bits
of DNA
— the tiny mistakes
that evolution plays with.
And reptilian brains
hiding-out
in the thick bony base of the human skull,
brain-washing us
into believing we are rational beings
acting out of pure free will.

Me, I’m content with imperfection.
Unlike the Hitler Youth
who thought they might be perfect
— in goose-stepping German
square-jawed Aryans
praising themselves.
Or the Church
which imagines we are perfectible
if we’d only open-up to His love,
renouncing all earthly pleasures
assuming our burden of guilt.
Or self-help books
which insist we’re already good enough,
if we’d only believe in ourselves.

So I’m either the sharp edge of natural selection
or its dregs
— a failed experiment
a biological dead-end.
Who, nevertheless, has learned
to make nifty U-turns,
and promise to call her tomorrow,
and be loyal to his friends.
Even if mothers, as always, know best.

Every Opening Day
April 6 2008


Every opening day
even my team’s tied for first,
which is enough to make it perfect.
And when some slippery politician’s
ceremonial first pitch
dribbles half-way to the plate
it can only get better,
a full house of fans
hooting their derision.
There is still snow here,
but the diamond sparkles
— green grass luminous under artificial light,
and the bunting that drapes the stands
dizzy with primary colours.

They may be grown men,
balding under baseball caps
getting fat around the middle,
with trophy wives
who have too much time on their hands,
and triple A
just a phone call away.
But with high fives and manly hugs
trash-talking each other,
they’re excited little leaguers
— clowning 'round the dug-out,
expertly spitting sunflower seeds,
and muttering at umpires under their breath
digging-in for the crucial pitch.

This is a game
of cherished ritual and unwritten code,
played for as long as it takes ‘til it’s over
on a field that never ends.
And no matter when
opening day is always the first day of spring
— the day new life begins.

Keeping Track of Clotheslines
April 4 2008


I’m keeping track of clotheslines.

In winter sunshine
freeze-dried jeans, twisting in the breeze,
as stiff as cardboard cut-outs.
And his well-worn long-johns
snuggling-up to her bright red thong,
among other unmentionables.
Next week, they’ll be gone,
and I picture dishes dashed against the wall,
and a little red roadster
screeching up the street at 3 am.
Two doors over
a row of bras, double D
and the lady waving merrily,
clothespins clamped in her lips
in a shameless buck-toothed grin.

Laundry day in a houseful of kids
— tiny T shirts,
and towel after towel.
And cute little socks
all pointing one way,
like teeny tip-toes, sneaking-off to play,
laughing and shushing each other.
While the man of the house is given pride of place,
first on, last off
furthest away;
sturdy work pants and clean plaid tops
puffing-up with air,
as if giddy
from such unaccustomed freedom.

Here, the clothesline whirrrrs out on its well-oiled wheel;
empty, mostly.
Underwear, with holes, I can’t bring myself to part with.
And fuzzy socks.
And the uniform of T shirts and jeans.
Occasionally, sheets
billowing in the breeze like sails on a tall-masted schooner,
cracking when the wind whips-up.
I imagine the whole thing lifting-off
soaring high over suburbia,
like Tibetan prayer flags
or a gaudy snag of kites.
And me, clinging to the end of the clothesline,
hanging-on for life.