52nd Street

She walks down the street, smiling, oddly happy.  Her legs are long and her hair is short.  She's not thin, but she isn't fat- there's nothing particularly noticible about her, though she is impeccably dressed.  In wedge heels and black shorts, a striped shirt and a large brown leather purse, she looks young- but fashionably so.  She walks down the street, nodding at passers-by and smiling at mothers pushing wailing infants in cutesy prams.  Occasionally she stoops down in front of dog walkers, looking upwards and requesting to pet their dogs.  They always say yes.  She's charming and she's mysterious- aluring in every way.  She's the picture-perfect image of the enlightened twenty-first century woman.
We move through different districts, passing homeless men and mangy dogs.  She continues walking, her shoulders back and her gaze cast forward.  She fascinates the world.  We pass train stations and strip malls.  She smiles at commuters and children on their way to school.  A cellphone begins to ring, and she draws it from her purse, quickly settling into a discussion about two mutual friends of the caller and hers who happen to be 'seeing each other.'  As she talks I realize just how much I hate that phrase and the utter mundanity it conveys; the confusion presented by the notion that two people only begin to 'see each other' once they start dating.  As I turn away from this lady I will never meet, I sigh, realizing that I lost interest in this woman long before discovering that someone so mysterious could be so saddly stereotypical.  I realize as I return to the train station where I first saw her that I lost all interest when she failed to notice the man begging for coins on the corner of 52nd street.

All in Favour of a Gay French Moon

I'm not going to lie, my sense of humour is bad. I can tell jokes that will make people laugh for days, but I always seem to have the misfortune of telling them to the wrong people at the wrong point in time. I'm the one joking about zombies canines to the grieving owner. I'm the person who jokes about necrophilia at a morgue. I laugh at stories of mice in restaurants told by waiters, and inevitably rattle one off about falling from the top of the CN tower while in the presence of an acrophobian. My timing is infamously bad.
Don't get me wrong. I love a good joke. And I'm in favour of a gay french moon. It just turns out that the lady to whom I told the joke about french gender naming being ridiculous is a lesbian francophile.

Empty

A copy of the Bell Jar, unread, sits on her bedside table
and copies of old newspapers pile up in the hall
time ticks and water drips
she sits unmoving by the stairs
staring at the ceiling and the sky outside her box.
dust moves slowly
dancing out the window
and she stares at the clouds.
Drinking from an empty glass
and writing with an inkless pen
the world spins up to kiss the sky goodnight.
the moon looks down, solemn and lonesome
at a city barely living barely sleeping
and the woman in her box
sings a song until the morning
of emptiness and heartbreak after dusk.
There's a song for when you're going out
and another for when you come back in
the mocking bird preens before the mirror
standing on the rocking chair
sipping light tequila
flipping through For Esme With Love and Squalor.
An old man on the corner
looks up towards the window
and the songstress combs her hair with saddened eyes
the world will always wonder and she will ever laugh
and the song will go on singing for itself.

Midnight at Hustle Zoo

A hop and a skip and a stone's throw away
sits the table of the drinking men
their fat cigars glow red in the lamplight
another notch on their belts
another win for the pot
another night at the casino drinking beer.
Dancing girls in skimpy spangly dresses
in pinch-toe shoes and painted faces
they smile and wink and wave
another dollar for the bank
another penny for the pauper
another night at the casino feeling false.
Neon lights flash flagrant colours
declaring for the world
the money to be had if only they play
another game just the one
another gamble- just a chance
another night at the casino hunting coins.
Slot machines click and the singer bows again
sighing realizing her life is fake
wishing she was somewhere else
another wistful dream wasted
another wish tattered and torn
another night at the casino dying slow.
The man behind the bar
is swaying to the muzak
wondering at the way the people move
another clock chime strikes midnight
another night will soon be dawn
another night at the casino hustle zoo.

Everyone has their shit story

even if you don't think it's true.
Something bad happens in everyone's life
at least once.
maybe twice.
everyone has their shit story
and I promise that this is good news
because you're never alone, no matter how bad it gets
because someone else
has had it worse
than you.
everyone has their shit story
and you'd better not ever no never forget it
because their day could be as bad as yours
and you have
no right
to be rude.
everyone has their shit story
it doesn't matter where they live
or what colour their skin is
or if their rich or poor.
everybody has their own shit story
and that's not anything
to turn your nose up at
so listen
and watch
and learn some respect
because the world doesn't revolve around you.
even if you have a shit story that's all your very own.

A poem for Frank

I'm not sure if I fell in love with you because your name was Frank
or if I fell in love with the name Frank because it was your name.
Perhaps if I could ask you
just why it is you love yourself so much
I'd know.
I'm not sure why I fell in love with you. I don't think it was your name.
But I can't imagine what it was. Likely I was simply enamoured
with your confidence
I never considered that you might just
be prideful.
I'm not sure how I feel about you anymore. I used to be angry.
But I saw you today and I felt nothing but sad.
because I feel like we missed out
on something that could have been
incredible.
I'm not sure if I was even in love. Or if I just thought you were beautiful.
I'm hoping that it wasn't either, because both seemed far too fleeting.
Don't worry about me
I'll be fine, in fact
I worry
about you.




(you heartless cow)