Monday, May 31, 2010

You were our Mother and Father
when we had Neither

Thank you for the meals,
they chant,
Thank you for the meals

You prayed, dear Jesus,
kindly make them mine

Thank you for the meals,
they cry,
Thank you for the meals

You dressed us in lace,
and we embraced Grace

Thank you for the meals,
they wail,
Thank you for the meals

You shed blood
on our cold, bodiless beds

Thank you for the meals,
they wrote,
Thank you for the meals

We orphans leave you,
to come back and deceive you

Saturday, May 29, 2010

Day 3.

Day 3 of my caffeine-free week, that is.
It is without a doubt,
one of the most difficult
things I have ever
I say this in all seriousness.
My caffeine addiction
was almost to the point of
It started around the same
time as my insomnia,
around a year ago,
as a part of a vicious
no sleep-beat tiredness cycle.
To discuss the exact amount
(litres of drink/milligrams of caffeine)
is much too
embarrassing for me to utter.
Oh my,
non-stop migraines, nausea,
anxiety, the list goes on.

Worse than cigarettes.
I kid you not.


Crossing the Water

Black lake, black boat, two black, cut-paper people.
Where do the black trees go that drink here?
Their shadows must cover Canada.

A little light is filtering from the water flowers.
Their leaves do not wish us to hurry:
They are round and flat and full of dark advice.

Cold worlds shake from the oar.
The spirit of blackness is in us, it is in the fishes.
A snag is lifting a valedictory, pale hand;

Stars open among the lilies.
Are you not blinded by such expressionless sirens?
This is the silence of astounded souls.

by Sylvia Plath

Monday, May 24, 2010


My one and only love.
How I've missed you so!

Gleaming puddles,
raindrops tap-dancing
on umbrellas,
cold, crisp sheets
and of course,
the baking.

I used
this recipe
for a
banana date loaf
which was oh-so heavenly
that I quickly decided to
make another but alas,
no more bananas!
So I added instead
300 grams of
cooked buttercup squash
and it too
came out mighty fine.

I gobbled down
countless slices
with a glass of milk,
watching the flames flicker
in the fireplace.

The hasty
of both loaves
is ample evidence
of their scrumptiousness.

Friday, May 21, 2010


Your deed
half finished

Dreams of

Your birth
lacks answers

Look up,
face midnight

Your vision
is taken

Friday, May 14, 2010



random fact #1
I love stick-on tattoos.

The tackier
the better

Thursday, May 6, 2010

The light glows

on my right.

A stranger,

a darker


Grasping the cruelty

of a hate-filled dawn,

I have befriended No-thing.

Her knowing smile,


Guessing games

ringing truth,

ringing true.

Dead and dusty corners

of Sanity,

sharing so few.

What to hold on to

when Night calls on you.

a blunt Hello.

The light is unmoving

my left is cold.

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

I, who felt the horrors of mirrors
Not only in front of the impenetrable crystal
Where there ends and begins, uninhabitable,
An impossible space of reflections,

But of gazing even on water that mimics
The other blue in its depth of sky,
That at times gleams back the illusory flight
Of the inverted bird, or that ripples,

And in front of the silent surface
Of subtle ebony whose polish shows
Like a repeating dream the white
Of something marble or something rose,

Today at the tip of so many and perplexing
Wandering years under the varying moon,
I ask myself what whim of fate
Made me so fearful of a glancing mirror.

Mirrors in metal, and the masked
Mirror of mahogany that in its mist
Of a red twilight hazes
The face that is gazed on as it gazes,

I see them as infinite, elemental
Executors of an ancient pact,
To multiply the world like the act
Of begetting. Sleepless. Bringing doom.

They prolong this hollow, unstable world
In their dizzying spider’s-web;
Sometimes in the afternoon they are blurred
By the breath of a man who is not dead.

The crystal spies on us. If within the four
Walls of a bedroom a mirror stares,
I’m no longer alone. There is someone there.
In the dawn reflections mutely stage a show.

Everything happens and nothing is recorded
In these rooms of the looking glass,
Where, magicked into rabbis, we
Now read the books from right to left.

Claudius, king of an afternoon, a dreaming king,
Did not feel it a dream until that day
When an actor shewed the world his crime
In a tableau, silently in mime.

It is a strange dream, and to have mirrors
Where the commonplace, worn-out repertory
Of every day may include the illusory
Profound globe that reflections scheme.

God (I keep thinking) has taken pains
To design that ungraspable architecture
Reared by every dawn from the gleam
Of a mirror, by darkness from a dream.

God has created nighttime, which he arms
With dreams, and mirrors, to make clear
To man he is a reflection and a mere
Vanity. Therefore these alarms.

From Dreamtigers by Jorge Luis Borges

Saturday, May 1, 2010

sit up,
the peacock stares
at you

you stare,
the Moon

her presence

the level
of your head,

a floating sickness,


no more