Friday, August 26, 2011

I’ve been yelling,

trying to get your attention

but

your new phone whispers

text messages

So, I’ve reconstructed my communications

“you’re beautiful”

“touch me”

“I love you”

because there’s only a chance you’ll hear them

Sunday, May 02, 2010

fuck your good and bad hair days
I have good and bad body days

I’ve been told this is all in my head
but it isn’t

I see myself change daily
my skin roams freely
my fingers lengthen
my thighs become thicker
body moving,
muscles turning,
curves curling
my clothes constantly hang differently
and some days my breast look amazing

on those days
I’ll wait that little bit extra in the morning to find my bra
so I can act all surprised when you come back
to the bedroom

but this blush isn’t just from the wine
I’m erratic, neurotic and impulsive
an innocent alcoholic
one party away from an intervention

or maybe I’m caught up in a white knight/ damsel complex
where I create my own distress

does saying this out loud take the mystery away?

because I want to buy up all the real estate on your lower lip
take down the for sale sign and put up my name and address
I’ll trace the excesses of your expressions by licking your laugh lines
you’re bones are made of banana bread
and other stuff that I rescue from my freezer
I’ll write a letter of your name on each of my fingers
and think about what I can do with that hand

maybe trace that hand over your changing body
finding fault lines
that rock me against your dusty shores
you’re new to me every time we meet
and I half expect to find your freckles in different places
I want to go on an expedition with your nomadic belly button
to find the lost treasures hidden behind your knee caps

because you, you’re kind of mythical
someone I can’t quite believe in
you make me want to get drunk and take my clothes off
you make me want to order in always
so we can make out on my couch
and play crib
and set things on fire
you make me want to quit my job
and learn to fly airplanes
so when you look up at the sky I’ll distract you from the stars
let’s find where the wild things went and not go there
because I like it here with you

you’ve got this thing about you

that makes me release extra endorphins or something
something I explain away with poorly understood science
and poorly understood ideas of love

but I like it that way
living like I’m standing on a water bed
perpetually off balance

and ready to fall on my knees in surrender
at any moment

Friday, April 24, 2009

posty posey (re)vision

hello to the lovely few that read this. I've posted a lot of poems that I've been working on (there are a lot of repeats I know!) and am looking for any feedback you can give me. I'm hoping to make this a chapbook but I still feel like many of these might need revision. Oh and because I am somewhat computer illiterate many of these don't have some of the spacing that they would have had I the know how.

a new view

garbage in
g rb g out

looking for changing ways to find things

recent self renovations
have prompted a few walls to fall

a permanent “wet paint -
do not touch” sign
’s
been hanging round

my neck
scenery isn’t static
my beams aren’t beaming
foundation’s cracked

bitch tried to eat my sandwich

yeah
bitch’s got no class

snapping jaws
hackles up
circle round
too drunk/stupid

brought only in
to hear
her
and
how much time
you two spend together
give it up

fading back going long longer
female solidarity always seems
to break down
when pretty tall blonds
with athletic builds come along

but the worst was
the worst was
when we were all at Denny’s
leaning over (still cuddling oh so close to him)

that bitch tried to eat my sandwich

C Heights

mother’s maiden name crescent
is a lasting legacy
sheltered stability

do I tell the other poets I grew up in the burbs?
that it wasn’t that bad?

neither woodsy nor winter athletic
I prefer weather indoors

the north the north
they write
understanding tree rings

mine were long roads
in parents' mini vans
thinking we knew something
didn’t know down and out
or even up from down
or our ass from a hole in the ground

but I think maybe now
I have intimacy
with this city
knowing
I’m na├»ve

Miss Organized Religion

ebb and flow
spirituality
looking for signs
to signify a
higher power

wonder why
my mind’s song
is the first one
when I turn on
on the radio

wonder why
lights dance in
the corners
of my eyes
in church

not pushing for
anything but
letting a water
sign current
flow

don’t tell anyone

I wish for stream of consciousness
and publishable pieces of shit

fish hook

not too worried about it
used to you catch and release
fisherman types
my mouth scars prove it
keep moving along
I’m looking for one
who wont throw me
back


not too
worried
about it
used
to you
catch and release
fisherman types
my mouth
scars
prove it
keep
moving
along
I’m looking for
one
who wont
throw me
back


not too

worried

about it

used

to you
catch and release
fisherman types
my mouth

scars

prove it


keep

moving
along
I’m looking for one
who wont
throw me

back


worried

used

scars

keep

back

for abby

she’s getting better
at using public restrooms

she knows she shouldn’t
mix painkillers and beer
but it feels poetic

when she comes home
she always gropes
to find the door handle
in the darkness

doesn’t know when to
quit and go back

there are too many
unanswered questions
but maybe she’s just happy

little brown bird
won’t go home with men
she just meets
because the mornings after are
the most startling
taken in by an updraft
never finding a place to set down

long term planning
only something she thought about
philosophically

when she was young she
scraped her knee after
taking a jump
off a swing
still doesn’t approve
of dismantling playgrounds

for the first time
she decided to get changed
at the gym in
the general area
didn’t feel the eyes
of others over her limbs
but couldn’t stop staring
to see if she recognized
other shapely figures

for cloe

she’s tired of going to church
watching things dance
at the corners of her eyes

she knows she shouldn’t do it
it’s a recurring theme in her life

she always falls for men
who have coloured hair
an anomaly in a northern climate

sometimes she finds prizes
in 12-grain cereal

waiting too late
she keeps going back to
particular places that
meant something
at some point

like the parking lot
she fooled around in
while a concert was getting out
in the building across the street
streams of people walking by
only partially covered
mind taken away from the act at hand
in hand
looking through the crowd for
people who could identify her

for Jude

named after the patron saint of lost causes
she always follows through
especially when it’s not in her best interest

cars follow her home
until they turn off
five streets before hers

feeling constricted
by her home situation
she stops wearing underwear

drops herself off
at points that couldn’t connect to
previous destinations
never brings a map or directions

hands of a wanderer
picking up discarded plays
that could re-enact the act of being
on the road

For Lenny

don’t take it the wrong way

its good

slightly abashed she’ll remind you
that she’s nothing you’ve heard of before

fetal position curls
tumble across her forehead
she spells it HOPe
say’s “fuck all y’all”
isn’t southern

social boundaries don’t come around
ask her to play
create cages

her potential lies in wait to
destroy
well-made weakness

next time watch while
you move your hands
where they fall across her

having had a hand at this
she’ll pull at the strings and
edit it all

for poetry

read this and take it
in.

for the fist time:
proactive poetry
rhythm and rhyme wants you.

caress and a kiss.
take a quick breath.
forget
that this is a bad idea.

keep saying out loud

“wow, poetry, you’re a good kisser.”

you shouldn’t be surprised.

found poem

little lamb
whose fleece
not white as snow
too many big bad wolves

break neck speed
constant state of
controlled panic
leaving you tired

alone, lonely,
for a long time
chronically single
once, one ounce
better
make it a baker’s dozen

found poem

speak louder than words


might as well write if I can’t sleep
(with you)


I have a typewriter in my basement
in case there’s an apocalypse


yeah it hurt but it made me feel like a rockstar

hazel mud

grip dash
breath catch / release

rain slick with a chance for more
showers / in this beat up old truck with
you / mix tape set to repeat / telling
you we can’t go on / it’s much more
than we can handle

but your hands on the wheel
I’ll trust
small town
know-how
of back roads and benders

grip
catch

just a little bit

I want to take you on a driving tour of my life
limited to a suburb it wouldn’t take long
winding roads would curve around a childhood
of hide and go seek and mission impossible
as I listen to your voice on my stereo
I forget that you haven’t traveled here yet

your words have wound around me
shift from first to second, third
back down again to take a corner
imaging the lines could be
should be?
written for me

winters bend roads
warping concrete
creating contours in
the body of prince george

our different gods with a
difference of opinion on how
a child should be raised
soft fuzzy bunny of my childhood compared
to the spikes and glass shards of yours

I’ll curl around you
a mother cat cuddling her kitten
create cow licks in you hair
my steady breathing
rhythmic heartbeat
will lull you to sleep

peek oil

sexual frustration is
driving down the price of oil
a new kind of kinetic energy

I’m not saving myself
for you

I’m saving myself.

taking matters into
my own hands

so to speak

People Walk Downtown

Prince George

snow thickens sidewalks

feet press down as if in sand

Victoria Street is January’s beach

walk when it’s warm enough

bring self conscious smiles

find place

poop

there
I said it out loud

reflected

take pride in mediocrity
because two months of acting like an angel
just means they
have to start making up the rumours

no competition for affection
this cigarette is burning a hole in my pocket

if you’re not buying
I’ll start selling
at a reduced rate

tomorrow

taste buds will rise up
to tell me what should have been said
tasted
ripe fruit from your bitter tongue
wont be enough

this celibacy means something

your new lover’s pillow reminds me
to put pen to paper again

speaking of love tokens

I want to send you an icicle
down to your southern home
but it would just
be a soggy box
by the time it got to you

the kindness of strangers

(It was funny when I realized
my own innocence)

not saying you’re a
big bad wolf
or anything
but I know enough to know
you’re a wolf
all the same
I’m a little lamb

you see
under a lucky star
I have a guardian angel
with rabbit’s feet
and four leaf clovers
stuck in her teeth
she’s always been able
to get me outta shit
I get myself into

never learn my lesson
so it’s harder to see sheep’s clothing

what large teeth you have
my dear

treading lightly lately

treading lightly lately
my womb
is a can of pasta sauce
still and heavy
hold the can in two hands
feel weight
roll the dry label
back and forth

treading lightly lately
my womb
is an empty cheerio box
purse lips
inhale/blow out
knock over

treading lightly lately
my womb
is a one-bedroom apartment
with a little man
constantly painting
putting up wallpaper
rearranging the furniture

treading lightly lately

weight

inversely proportional
size
socially acceptable
neuroses

start running

you should watch me play parcheesi

my passive aggressive nature
means I only play games I win

not sure I’ve won you yet
so you’re not gonna play me

Wednesday, November 26, 2008

treading lightly lately

treading lightly lately
my womb is a can of tomato sauce
still and heavy

I want to hold the can in my two hands
feel the weight
roll the dry label between them
back and forth


treading lightly
my womb is an empty cheerio box

I purse my lips
inhale
blow out
and knock it over


treading lightly
my womb is a tiny one-bedroom house

with a little man inside
constantly painting, putting up wallpaper
taking it down again
rearranging the furniture


treading lightly lately

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

reflected

take pride in mediocrity
because two months of acting like an angel
just means they have to start making up the rumours

no competition for affection
this cigarette is burning a hole in my pocket

you’re not buying
so I started selling at a reduced rate


tomorrow

taste buds will rise up
to tell me what should have been said
tasted
this celibacy means something

your new lover’s pillow reminds me
to put pen to paper again

ripe fruit from your bitter tongue
wont be enough

if its all for you

read this and take it
in.

for the fist time:
proactive poetry
rhythm and rhyme wants you.

caress and a kiss.
take a quick breath.
forget
that this is a bad idea.

keep saying out loud

“wow, poetry, you’re a good kisser.”

and if you’re surprised
you shouldn’t be.

don’t tell anyone

I don’t floss

I write all my assignments the night before

I have a secret love of handle bar mustaches

I kissed my best friend. He was startled.

I couldn’t actually fight her – no matter what I might say when intoxicated

I stopped eating

I didn’t quit smoking

I never read the labels when I do the laundry

I only fart when I’m alone

I was a bitch in grade four

I shouldn’t have slept with him, but you know what? It was really good.

I shouldn’t have slept with her, but you know what? It was really good.

don’t tell anyone

I wish for stream of consciousness
and publishable pieces of shit

weight

your size and
how neurotic you are socially allowed to be
are inversely proportional

I had to start running

write till you’re sober

People Walk Downtown

people walk downtown Prince George
snow thickens the sidewalks
feet press down as if in sand
Victoria Street is January’s beach

walk when it’s warm enough
quiet solitude amongst the other denizens
brings about self conscious smile
of overly analytical musings
finding place amongst crowd
I feel the ownership of

hometown

For Lenny

don’t take it the wrong way

its good


tell her she’s a good kisser

slightly abashed she’ll remind you
that she’s nothing you’ve heard of before

curled into the fetal position
her hair tumbles from her forehead
thin selfish
she spells it HOPe
say’s “fuck all y’all”
isn’t southern

social boundaries don’t come around
knock at her door - ask her to play
she creates her own cages

her potential lies in wait to
destroy

well-made weakness

next time watch while
you move your hands
where they fall across her

having had a hand at this
she’ll pull at the strings and
edit it all

bitch tried to eat my sandwich

bitch tried to eat my sandwich

yeah
bitch’s got no class

snapping her jaws
hackles up
I tried to make my way in
circle around
I was too drunk / too stupid to give up

melting when I saw you
not just figuratively
I forgot all pre-rehearsed conversations
of mirth and merit

brought only in
to hear
her
and
how much you two spend time together
I’ll just have to forget it all
you’re too pretty

fading back going long longer
female solidarity always seems
to break down
when pretty tall blonds
with athletic builds come along

flattened me
pancake thin

but the worst was
the worst was
when we were all at Denny’s
leaning over (still cuddling oh so close to him)

that bitch tried to eat my sandwich

a new view

a new view

garbage in
g rb g out

looking for changing ways to find things
recent self renovations
have prompted a few walls to fall
paint and a little bit of spackle worked wonders

but

even better scenery isn’t static
should have thought of that before I fell head first into excess

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

overheard

yeah it hurt but it made me feel like a rock star

i’m in the mood for a mercy killing

let’s do it
let’s kill the hope

we can start a fire in the yard
throw in feelings
phone calls
things i “accidentally” forgot at your house

how bout some JD
really make it spark
it was always the easiest way
into your bed


i’m in the mood for a mercy killing
because along with the headache and hangover

you always dump me in the morning

but cuddle up close the next time we watch a movie

its just too bad that you’re so cute
your voice is so soft
and that i like to trace the line of your freckled back
every time you turn away from me and go to sleep

heather larson is

pretty sure you're not supposed to bring your mom along on a one night stand. even if you are with the band.

Saturday, January 26, 2008

a house named vegas

fuck me cheek bones
carpe diem

lines from other pommes i didn’t write
are written on the walls
what to do with jam hands
and sticky fingers?
how bout

we drink whiskey
instead of tea
take off our tops
paint a found canvas
that we hang
permanently in the living room

as a warning to everyone of what can happen in vegas

where we’re killing brain cells
while growing dendrites

i’ll have to move to the basement
so i can use

gravity to promote

abstinence against the excess