Thrill-Seeker
Feb 26 2009


The road runs due north.
Some engineer placed a ruler on a map.
Bulldozers, pushing over trees,
rocks, blasted.

Streetlights
have given way to black.
Snow-banks are higher here.
The broken white line
blinks by in the high-beams,
hypnotically keeping pace.

I feel your hand
distracting me —
my knee,
the inside of my thigh
creeping higher.
You, looking straight ahead —
a mischievous smile,
eyes
bright with danger.
I focus on the wheel,
mindful of black ice
sudden curves.
I feel your warm dry fingers
underneath,
and you can feel my heat, my pulse
racing.

I am grateful for predictable roads,
centre-bare
perfectly straight.
While you can’t wait
for blind curves, heart-stopping hills,
that send butterflies
fluttering-up to our throats.

Vivisection
Feb 24 2009


I take the train.
The hidden city, flickering by.
Backyards, clotheslines,
red-brick factories
seen from behind.
This is the back room
rarely entered.
The city undressed,
not trying to impress
anyone.

This right-of-way was once a mighty artery
into the city’s heart.
Now the track is rusting
the road-bed, clogged with brush.
And the train groans and sways
clattering by,
offering me a glimpse
into the city’s soft under-belly —
like the heated words
that are heard
through cheap rooming-house walls,
the pasty bodies
that turn away
from morning light.

Passing through farmland, the prairies
the train at night,
I will write long passages
whole paragraphs
leisurely words.
But here, I write sentence fragments
as story-after-story flashes by.

A dog, barking, on its chain.
A man, in his under-shirt, fist raised.
And pink lingerie, out to dry,
flapping lustily
as the breeze freshens.

Political Theatre
Feb 18 2009


In the House of Parliament
the Ministers of the Crown
and Her Majesty’s Loyal Opposition
face off across an aisle
2 sword-lengths wide.

The Speaker
in his long black robe
occupies a throne.
There is a Sergeant-at-Arms
who wears a funny hat
and carries a Mace —
the preposterous rod
he will use to subdue
recalcitrant law-makers.
Members stand
on points of order,
declaim
for the benefit of hometown votes,
and feign outrage at waste
and government pork.
There are catcalls,
the pounding of fists,
indignant snorts.

Students watch wide-eyed
from public galleries,
confined to whispers.
They would rather see a free-for-all
a brawl
a swordfight,
but settle
for the honourable gentlemen
shouting insults —
sharpening their wits
from a harmless distance,
the length of 2 swords.

The ceremonial Mace, carried by the Sergeant-at-Arms in the House of Commons. His counterpart in the Senate is known as the Usher of the Black Rod.

There was a news item this week about 2 satellites colliding in space. Apparently, NASA is keeping track of about 13,000 different objects up there; but there are many tens of thousands more dangerous bits that are too small to follow. Of course, this collision has created a whole new cloud of space junk, consisting of who knows how many tens of thousands of little bits. The frightening thing is that lots of decommissioned satellites, with residual fuel, will eventually corrode and self-destruct. The prospects of this are daunting, to say the least. We are very good at lobbing stuff up into orbit; but apparently, nobody thought much about -- or took responsibility for -- getting it all back down. Typical human behaviour, is all I can say! /Brian


Low Earth Orbit
Feb 15 2009


Thousands of pieces of junk
are circling planet earth.

Dark satellites
like ghost ships,
drifting in endless orbits.
Discarded boosters
tumbling through space.
And high-tech wrenches
fumbled away
by astronauts.
We have littered the planet
so there’s no place left to walk;
and now, like a dirty haze
our garbage surrounds the earth.

Even flecks of paint
moving faster than bullets,
colliding with the power of hand-grenades.
So tiny specs, at lethal speed
have formed an impenetrable shield,
pinning us down
here, on the surface,
where escape
will soon become impossible.

Billions, giving birth,
in the hot polluted soup
of planet earth,
now conveniently quarantined
from the universe.
Where we squint through telescopes,
peering out
longingly;
astonished to see
such untouched beauty.

Last Words
Feb 13 2009


When my uncle died
he had a chance to express his thanks.
He regretted nothing, he said,
it was a full life.
He was content to give up the fight,
was no longer afraid.

I measure myself against
my own hypothetical deathbed.
Will I, too, be content,
or full of resentment
of private laments?
I suspect
it’s the things undone I’ll most regret,
not anything I did —
all the forks in the road
not taken
paved with gold,
the dead-ends and roundabouts
conveniently missed.
Although if, as they say, character is destiny,
then even with the wisdom of age
I could go back
do it all again
and nothing much would change.
And I don’t need to grow any older
to know
that youth is wasted on the young,
when time is so cheap
we squander it —
drifting aimlessly;
or too impatient
to be all grown-up.

Except it will be a patch of ice
as the bus barrels past;
or an artery, seizing-up
walking to the corner store.
No loved ones gathered ‘round,
no hands held,
no final words.
Just strangers, hovering,
someone clumsily
feeling for a pulse,
wondering
who the old guy is.

At Sea
Feb 10 2009


When the service is over
the invitations and notes
console you, of course;
but you’d rather decline.
And the black suit and tie
are swiftly put to one side
on a plain wire hanger
— sure you’ll need them again
in the fullness of time.

You run out of vases,
improvising numbly
with mismatched jugs and decanters.
Until the stagnant water
has almost gone dry,
and transparent glass
turned green with slime.
But wilted flowers are easy,
you simply toss them aside
dripping all the way out the door.

It’s her closet that’s hard —
the clothes she touched
she wore and loved,
which you can’t yet bear to open.
Out of sight, out of mind.

But the hardest part
is standing at the door
staring at the bed you shared,
nicely made
neatly tucked,
which it hardly ever was.
Because you know
you’ll never sleep in it again.

It holds her scent,
the mattress remembers her shape.
And anyway
how could you sleep
in all that space?
Lying in the middle
like a man at sea
— an open lifeboat
with no way home.

You’ll sell it, eventually
you promise
tossing and turning on the couch,
the ghostly glow of the clock
turning you green.
Must be the flowers
you sniff,
when your eyes won’t stop.

An Act of Faith
Feb 9 2009


There was more snow, that winter.
But the house in the pictures hasn’t changed;
the road ploughed, the shadows crisp,
the flag stiff
in a brisk west wind.
It’s the tiny trees I find surprising,
barely straggling
above the drifts.

I remember this sapling
planting it,
thinking
how this tree would still be standing
long after I’m gone.
And how small it was,
how long ‘til its shade
would even be noticed.
Because I am an impatient man,
like you
seduced
by instant gratification.

So it was an act of faith
on that warm spring day
on my knees beside the house,
digging into moist brown soil
that smelled of rich decay;
down to hard-packed earth,
where the cool tendrils of winter
persisted.

Every spring, its tight green buds unfurl.
And every fall, I rake them up
into crisp brown piles.
I lean against its trunk
feel the bark's roughness
and imagine strangers, coming.
Who will wonder about the man who lived here, once;
who planted trees
who pruned and fussed
and grew them up
into giants.

Nothing In
Feb 7 2009


Looking from the inside,
the world seems flat
some light is lost
all sound
muffled.

Clear glass
tinkles like wind-chimes
squeaks when wet
crashes to the floor
and shatters.

And when it’s dark outside
you see yourself, looking back,
trapped
in this house of mirrors,
for all the world to see.

I have lived so long
my face
pressed-up against it,
the fog of my breath
all the evidence I’ve left
behind.

The coolness is a relief
against my cheek
as I lean hard into it,
surprised at its strength.
My skin is hot and flushed
smudging the cool clear reflection.
My eyes are shut,
letting nothing out
nothing in.
And all I hear
is the dull rhythmic thud
of a fist.

Handyman
Feb 4 2009


I felt like a small featherless bird
shaking hands;
thin-skinned, hollow-boned,
his big warm paw
enclosing mine.
This man
who can fix anything,
build from the ground up.

The fingers are thick.
The palms hugely callused,
prints worn down.
And the good dirt
that won’t wash off.
He learns by watching.
He believes
he can do it as well as the next guy,
or will, next time.
His muscle memory guides him
and his patience keeps him trying.

Idle hands are the devil’s plaything,
but he is not theologically inclined.
He builds for no one’s glory,
admiring his handiwork
with quiet pride.
And when his hands are eventually stilled
he will leave something of substance
behind.

A tight sound building.
A sturdy fence,
settling, as the land subsides.
And a garden, turning to weed,
that will sprout, as stubborn as him
next spring.

Corner Grocery
Feb 3 2009


Whole chickens
goose-bumped, plucked,
stubby wings tucked
against pale fatty flesh.
And two plump breasts
all puffed-up,
to tempt the peckish passer-by
entice the gluttonous.

And fish on ice
glassy-eyed
scales losing their lustre,
their powerfully muscled sides
yielding
to a razor-thin knife
— gutted, sliced, and fried.

And vegetables
I do not recognize
under Chinese signs,
among strangled ducks and pickled eggs,
and ginger, in the shape of men,
and the strident tones of Mandarin
that fill the air,
sharp and pinched
like an emphatically jabbing finger.

The shopkeeper hustles me in
with his proud pigeon English,
where pungent smells envelop me
and men smoke unrepentantly,
waving tight spirals of smoke
as they speak,
intently puffing.
He beams
with tar-stained teeth,
2 gold ones
gleaming;
streaks of blood
not quite bleached from his apron.