Sept. 2 /16

2:47pm Some bagel place on Commercial

Scene: Beautiful wet day, moments of glaring sun, moments of gloom



I am a kraken;

I would have been an octopus, but I’ve

Ordered the scale to

Climb a little higher! like a belay

Urging on a youth entranced by


Long spindling tentacles:

  1. Suctioning a cell phone “Can you meet for 7:30?”
  2. Bringing dark roast coffee to my lips
  3. Writing a quizzical sentence in my cute bird journal
  4. Thinking of the next thing to do
  5. Is that mole on my back I glimpsed this morning cancerous?
  6. Just write an award winning short story, just do it
  7. What is left in my closet that still fits?
  8. How do I change my domain so my mother can’t read my fucked up poetry?

If human’s were krakens,

ADD wouldn’t exist.



She’s a published writer. I didn’t know

Before I moved in, but there was something

About her bookshelf I felt familiarity in.

Bitch magazine compilations and a few other

Spines I’ve recollected from the past.

Sometimes I think,

When you die, you get a second life to

Re-read everything you ever read here on earth.

It made me read a lot as a kid.



Slept in my bed until one in the afternoon. This is

My productive writing morning, so-to-speak.

Health concerns sit on my chest like folk-lore


I wonder if I have this or that, close my eyes,

If I have anything, it is evident; diagnosed hypochondria;

flared up, like the nostrils of an agitated thoroughbred.

I sunk into a world, that felt like underwater,

Where I went to my first day of school, to discover

I was a day early.



3:56 pm

I’m not exactly strolling along here. On coffee

#2. I just caved and bought a Californian bagel,

fuck I am too poor and too overweight for this shit

But I

Started my new blog, thank god,

Now I can be my dirty, disgusting, self.



If you wanna see someone freak out

Just go to the value village on Hastings,

Lady just about had a melt down tryin’

To organize the wait line for trying

On over-used cotton knits, pilly texture


Move over this way!

Whipping the crack of authority.

Move this cart! It’s in my workspace!

Line-up cracked the same smiles young pupils do

When their teacher over-reacts to bobby the


You, go in here!

Condoms, two, unused,

Greet me, like two turds in a public restroom.

Can you get bed bugs from this place? I wonder

as I pull a sweater over my head, it messes up

my hair like a nugee from uncle Ted.

I exit the room, awkwardly smiling,

The next poor bastard’ll probably

Think I left those blemishes in there.

 Where is your stuff? She shrieks it. Doesn’t

Say it. I wonder if she’s going to have a stroke.

Jesus, lady! Testing the limits to the madness. I

just came here for some cheap clothes, not to get

yelled at by Auntie Beast Bitch.

Line-up simultaneously smirks, we are in this


I grab the clothes out,

Thanks hunny.

She uses the pet name

As if it smoothes it all over.

The whole walk home, I wonder if she has kids that still talk to her.






a day away

i went on the bus
Just to see if I could get out of the city
without a friend
showing up in my back alley
with their 4×4

An hour later
i was in the village of
Deep Cove and
stepped out of the
box of plexi glass
that kept out rain
and kept all our breath in
with windows hot with
lung water

i only brought
Bukowski’s auto biography
and a note pad
with my favourite
quadri coloured pen
(the same type my mother used
as an emergency room nurse
back in the 90’s)

no one knew where i was
i could die, and it would have
taken some time to find me
as i left no clues
but if someone did know, it would
have been like
i wasn’t really gone

i sat next to an
author who was writing
a book, i could just tell,
and I fantasized about what
she was writing and how
her hair was messy,
soiled from
protecting a laptop
over preservation of style,
and how that must mean she
had some eccentricities, not akin to
the town, so perhaps, what
she wrote was actually good
and maybe i should take note

posh, beautiful people
who probably had big problems
now with all their money
waltzed in with asymmetrical
blonde frames of hair
and their rainy day
clothes would be my treasures

after sitting for hours
listening to the french barista
have trouble pronouncing his h’s
and flirt with the house wives
i left to walk the beach
and smell the sea water mixing
with the rainy air
and the houses all poured their
delicious wood burning
aroma’s into the villa
like when you open a fresh
bag of coffee and get that
first whiff

i whiffed, trying to catch
the scent, over and over
but the senses dull easy
if you use them too much
on one thing

im thinking about going
back tomorrow,
another cloudy day
where i’ll try to forget i have
a life, that i don’t particularly
care for at the moment
in the city.

but I’m not sure
if i’d feel any more free
i’m not sure there
would be an effect
as the second round
is never like the first time
with memories already
painted in as adventure,
and next time is just
another regimen, as senseless
as brushing your teeth.

Structured Cruelty

The ghost of empty bottles decorate my room,
friendly when they ask something of you,

A car drives by,
the house across my window is muted in the
black blue dusk, wringing out the
sun from the sky,

soft thrum, like mothers,
hmm-hmm-hmm-ing their babes,

we all had someone, sometime.

the paradox of loneliness, walls
divide, windows to see out —but
not enough.

a plane cuts the sky in two, and
purrs for something that isn’t here,
but there.

I think of my parents in Jamaica, and
wonder if that week of escape is enough,
to make up for life lost,
trying to get to where they are.

Mother Solanas

At twenty-two I was acquainted with
Valerie Solanas.

On the felt green sofa of the
top story house,
green, a forced naivety,
my toes curled under thighs
curiosity of the pages —

Manifesto, much like Marx,
wore fallopian tubes as crown
casting obtrusive flowers down.

Lucky to be a slave, (at least the
life remained), I became
Maniacal at the jest, the heavy contrast
to our current west.

Viv, veiled with sighs,
her body reclined in romantic despair
brown swirls as starry nights
cast over the edge was her hair.

A Victorian sister, I read to her
excerpts from ‘Society for Cutting Up Men’
Wonderfully amoral,
But to hit back, the other cheek,
Felt within reason.

At twenty-nine I searched:
‘Who shot Andy Warhol?’

Seeking the comfort of violence,
with man as enemy.
Now our power,
And our glory,
where Y is a ‘walking abortion’.

satire, it is not
to those made bitter by
the society they wrought.


I’m hungry and it’s ten thirty one, but
my diet says not to eat past ten and
maybe weariness is the reason–except
coffee disguises closed eyes as open
and I’ve sat passing the time, reading
my archaeology online, waiting
for him.

But he never came,
and I —
–think I am relieved–but no ;


I’m just,

and I knew it would happen.


I fear I no longer know how to write,

Vestiges escape me,

Vernacular craft lays mute upon lips,

Oracular moon leaves me besieged so that

I might never find expression, whilst

Spirit glows within, that bones still rattle,

Clicking, cracking, stretching awake in morning

Dew and haze-lit floorboards past musty windows

With lunar presence a ghost in blue rune, she watches

Me, misery, numb it, the opium seeds, which steal

Moments, time, and the pain, needed, to succeed.