Two Cats

on teaching

2006-10-02T14:10:00.000-07:00

When all eyes are upon you, you stutter and hope the mammals will make sense of the words. I have no thought there. The students are mindless and want me to ignite their minds and send sentences to their pens. It is easy for me to do their work for them, only to undo the frustration of “Miss, how do you spell ‘environment’?” Heavens. What are they insinuating? Perhaps that I am a pilgrim with a wretched heart; avert to conversation and daily gay talks. Well, I am a heavy cow, perched near the toilet bowl while they feather about with frazzled wings, making a slowbuzzing noise that resonates through my head.

lawrencetown

2006-09-17T09:45:00.000-07:00

How to Catch and Cook a Goose

2006-09-02T20:29:00.000-07:00

Step 1: Shoot it out of the sky one brisk September day with an early 80's model shotgun.

Step 2: Send your untrained non-retrieving dog to fetch it.

Step 3: Do not act surpirsed or annoyed when you have to go and fetch it yourself.

Step 4: Bring it back to your first location, sit it in front of you and stare at it for a good while.

Step 5: Ask someone else to pluck its feathers. Again, do not act suprised when no one will do this task.

Step 6: Chuck it in a huge pot with boiling water and cook for four hours.

Step 7: Cut and serve with mint sauce. When even the dog won't eat it, don't be surprised.

row, row, row

2006-08-27T07:46:00.000-07:00

Packing

2006-08-13T16:46:00.000-07:00

Packing my bags and the bags under my eyes:
Packing them full of breakables wrapped in newspaper and smelling of moth balls.
Like a sad hag amidst a goblet of acid, it winds me up; onto the plane with the broken wing. My bag is checked below in the swirling air-conditioned dungeons. It was stolen from my clutches in pre-boarding by some navy suited kleptomaniac woman with pearly whites and ballet-bunned hair. I am so raw strapped and seat belted in aboard this pervasive cross-Atlantic flight. I’m quiet with hate; the hate brewing in my sides, in my eyes. The faceless bodies occupying the seats nearby are without heartbeats. I can hear their ears pop as the plane takes off the runway. My carry-on is a sick cat and she is hacking furballs while the laptop suited man peers to my lap in a crime-filled stare.

They’ve asked me to store sicky kitty below my feet-yet I will do no such thing! I eyeball the suited man and tell him that every woman is a whore wrapped in skin and that he should be so lucky. I have a coat of fur. His shield is up now and his armour melts as he becomes Dracula the blood sucking bat before my very eyes.

the goose is on fire

2006-08-09T20:19:00.000-07:00

Dragonflies and succulent breaths. Rowing in the duck pond and trying to wipe the slime from Rusty’s whimpering face. O, his tortured left leg! O, the smell of the duck pond and the feces and the snow in winter. The geese crossing by the pond and why do I always write about ducks?

The poor goose that was slaughtered by the moving truck. I wonder what happened to him. O, hope that he died in his sleep. He was a big goose-people kept saying that we should keep him and cook him up for dinner. Thanksgiving dinner. Maybe with some mint sauce. Throw him in the deep freeze until October. Cook him up on the outdoor fire. BBQ’d goose. How pleasant.

Banjo sucking bumblebee speak to me in the elevator while you spin about the halos of your victims. Hover about, madman, with a sinister sound and obtuse gaze. Definitely sting me- I’m all alone in these steel walls, desperately aware of the undertones of malaise feelings in such a small space.

Devils and rabbit feet and worn out gold medals. O, here are the footsteps of my youth; the traumatic days at the lake; the frozen hypothermia ridden skull left lying in the Novemberly chilled lake. The questionable supervision we received and how long it took them to drag me to the water’s surface from under the canoe. I was up the lake at the time, panicky and tippy. My eyes burned in the wind trying to navigate the direction in which I was supposed to go. North, east and west were the same. I guess I chose to go east, and I’ve been going east ever since. South is too hot, too unimaginable, too frothing while North is miserable with dying polar bears drowning with their paws raised to the sky. West has the Rockies and the lure of the pacific and the grizzly bears and the cougars, all of whom can eat me. The East has miserable surfing and chaotically drunken waves. People piss themselves to sleep just for kicks and eat yellow snow only to convulse from anti-freeze. And I love it.

Pickling fluid and stillborn kittens still developing their vocal chords. Capsized and rocketing in a burlap sack all the way down to the pond with Gramps. He would drown them the day after their arrival from their mother’s womb after his morning coffee. O, the coffee! O, the death! Prisoners of war.

Fifty zillion candles and men in crap stained robes again-I waltz out to the altar with the big book. So strange to worship a book in public and the fading mystery behind it. The sinners cry out and the priest flashes his gold necklace around. This is the difference between the holy ghost and the holy spirit.

reality bites

2006-08-04T15:17:00.000-07:00

during this particular day at the beach, rusty decided to go apeshit and began 'jump-biting' brian.

MEXIE (number one of the two cats)

2006-08-04T15:14:00.000-07:00

delirious

2006-08-04T09:54:00.000-07:00

i'm on vacation....whootwhoot!

HENRIETTA!

2006-08-04T09:52:00.000-07:00

In all her glory!

the wiccan moon

2006-02-18T12:12:00.000-08:00

the wiccan moon and its waxing face

the dropping temperature and the frozen limbs of trees

i mock the wind in A minor

i have flustered wings with holes and fine feathers

gold mornings and wooden chairs facing screen doors

i'd have jumped off the barn
onto the asphalt
into a string quartet

Gaston, Bring Me The Weed

2005-08-27T20:58:00.000-07:00

Gaston, Bring Me the Weed

Was that some sort of a sick crushing joke:

“Gaston, feed me the weed for I have grown weary-
My icebergs are tingling and I have no thought for sleep-
Fashion me up a root beer float with vanilla ice cream”-

The rain and fog had been steady for months-
I’d given up on the sun, on rainbows, on the moon, the Milky Way, Mars-
I tied myself to a chair facing east-
Thought a lot about teeth falling out-

Gaston untied me at 10:42-
Necessitated my face with a cloth and some water-
All I could bear was to howl like a wolf-
Calling the wild, howling for my pack-

The pack showed up with only the leader-
Who’d taken the form of ‘Phoenix’, the cross-eyed cat-
Phoenix laid out on his back for a scratching-
Forgetting the rest of his sneezing and hacking

While tubbing, I let it all go-
Let it flush from my body, the pale yellow pulse-
Filled up wine glasses even, even bottled a few-
Gaston and I toasted and cheered long into the night-

I awoke in panic, awoke in a frenzy-
“Gaston, bring me the weed for I have grown weary!”

road kill

2005-07-27T21:00:00.000-07:00

road kill

every inhaled punctured breath
I get to where I’m going
and chickens get left in
the rush and panic

cruising the yellowbrickroad

and the pope is gone
a shakedown on the Serengeti
countries laying the smackdown on terrorized icebergs
tippytoeing down the congo velvets
howling at Huck and his river rats

I feel richer just pretending to know you.

seek out and destroy
this nine-year hiatus
surfacing to light my brains a-fire
since no one sees the rage
endured on the smashed faces of fake poster kids
taking me to the Westside, the flipside,
all my crippled sides
to stop in the road
to see the feathers
in a way I couldn’t see before

foundations are uprooted elephant trunks
realizing I’m younger than ever before

Poorman's Lobster

2005-04-13T06:23:00.000-07:00

Horseflies and such:

Pieces of driftwood are stashed in horizontal hiding spots
Weathered beach glass feathered seagulls
Generations of drunken sunken U-boats and submarines
They drank too much shine:
Were eaten by Moby Dick's cousin
Whom later was mauled by sharks
Sharks who were caught in the derby
Weighed, measured and chopped to bits.

Poor man’s Lobster

He awakes buried in liquid:

It was a cascade of the poor man’s lobster
hobbled up in his shack
purple-mouthed waves floating beneath the traps
jaw-locked with snapping steamed claws and dead black eyes staring

It is a small shack he retreats to-
drafty and cold; troublesome in the winter
a one-level house with pink door, pink walls, pink furniture, pink chimney and pink wood stove
the stairs were pink as well, but there weren’t any—

A sucker for animals, the lobster was beyond him
somewhat of a martian
He had trouble distinguishing between what a loyal pet was
and what was garbage in the sea
and boiled them without thought to mathematical probability
then near died with remorse double over by the pink stove.

More Mexican

2005-02-01T20:05:00.000-08:00

The Mexican never haunts or hollows:
Roaming bones and hallucinations, what she chases of rabid pregnant horned up cats is a shadow. Antitoxic passes: she scratches at the door.
Gallileo never saw it coming. Cousteau could have closed his eyes.
Griped and governed, tortured as the trombone, she is the Greymalkin, striking night til the twelfth hour. Grievances welcome, the Mexican comes floundering down the steps as Lady MacBeth in fast forward on steriods and full of rage. Sleepwalking with a random schedule.

Mlle. Mexican, where is your sombrero? Where is your mother? Your brothers and sisters? All is lost. You have become a mixed marriage of lashing tongues. The mockingbird caged and whined. Palatable chirps. Patronized wings. Pale now.

The Mexican: where is your golden retriever? He hast retreated-swam to the sea never to swim back to your shoreline. And that dogcage will now be your residence. So secular in motion you defect into ultra-retarded sleep.

The Bird Without Flight

2005-02-01T19:45:00.000-08:00

Living amongst wolves here in the streets of Toronto; a life fabricated as a poser for indie groups and knitting groups. My parents flew off to Florida last week for a vacation, yet without hesitation will end up aboard an ocean raft with a course set for Cuba and Castro and his green pools.

The bird with a broken wing who hasn't flown in quite some time. It's not that she's not ready for take-off-it's just that she has nowhere to go. She missed the flight south for winter's break and now is stuck chirping inside until the spring when she might be set free.

The once was a man I knew with rockets in his feet. The streetcar ran him over in a rush. Said it was an electrical breakdown of some kind. They chucked his carcass by some trees in the park down the street for the dogs to play with. The dogs then contracted a strange sickness and died with charcoal tongues; some of them with strange scales over their eyes.

A week later, I saw an older man hobnocking down the street, cane in hand with a boxing glove on his free hand. Told me that I could find the god I was looking for in a green plant in the Chinese Man's store. He then threw down his cane and took some change from his pocket and offered me every cent. I didn't take it, but in hindsight it wouldn't have been stealing. It would have been more like taking candy from a baby. The old chap showed me his left hook and a burly upper cut and was on his hobbling way.

I sought out the Chinese fellow. He was a happy man with an admiration of the English language, yet the mastery of it left something to be desired. He had a selection of green plants to choose from. A few aloe plants, some small trees that needed outdoor love, and some tulip bulbs. I chose one of the little trees and paid him the $3.50 and he was happy to receive it. Normally, I would have chose to peck down my own small tree, but there were none to be found on the concrete outside. The urban planners definitely urbanized.

I awoke the next day to find myself walking up Indian Road towards the nearest subway stop. Not usually a fan of spending time in the moving tomb, I embarked on an eastward journey to chase the sunrise before it got too far above my head and before I would have to strain my neck back just to glance at the sun. Trying to be a mouse, I took my seat and realized that there would be no visions of sunrises underground at this time. A glue-sniffing Native aprroached me and told me of his plans to kill me and that it would be much like the killings in the movie 'Kill Bill'. I didn't have a response-I was a petrified bird, be he was incessant in his rantings of murder and made me inwardly nervous. He then proceeded to give me the middle finger, all while yelling a vicious 'Fuck You!'. He departed from the subway car shortly thereafter, yet not before banging on the winow pane close to my head. I pulled my wings into my coat and sat on my feet like a perched hen.

Seven Haikus While Literally Scared of Flying on Valium

2005-02-01T19:39:00.000-08:00

This plane broke one wing
Wings and machines are not birds
Birds fly off windshields

The coffee is spilt
On my knee not in my mouth
Blame the styrofoam

Who knew the river
When it humped ferret rainbows
Its fury killed rats

Rest wilted one rest
The gentle Mexican sleeps
A cat to be packed.

Throw raccoons in fires
Watch small claws frenzied and free
Their paws with sharp claws.

Surfing on dragons
Ice cold tongue humping long boards
The dragons will drown.

Witchie-poo and Subways

2005-01-29T21:27:00.000-08:00

Waking up from depressed sleep feeling frightened and too alive,
I thought about swings and underdogs to calm.
And the coal mine and the blue tiled house and the prickly grass by the sewer
And playing witchiepoo by the crab tree after church on Sundays.

The sleep is in my blood,
Genetic traits passed through my father's line
Involving sleeping much later than the birds and staying up past the owls.

Painted the living room of the Toronto pad a true blueberry blue
From an awful pukish orange color.
All of this in hope of an eventual transformation into a smurf.

The subway is lonesome here.
Not violent, but there are the suicide jumpers that launch their minds out for a train to splat.
Up to ten jumpers a day, all with mobile bodies but frosty minds.
As the tube approaches, their last thoughts fall into the tracks.
Then we all board the thing like a moving coffin, paranoid as hell
that the lid is going to close and be nailed shut. We find a seat,
even if we have to bump an old lady out of the way, and listen to the 'ding-ding-dong' then watch the door close and meet and smile as if we have just boarded a flight for Mars.
We look side to side, trying to figure out which one of the other passengers is capable of killing, then we look to the floor in hope that we haven't gathered a wayward glance.

And we're off to the races as the tomb rattles and moves and some robotic Maratian comes over the speaker and announces the next stop.
If we get off at a stop in the downtown core, we will receive a coupon for a walk upstair out of the purgatory terminal and into the concrete jungle, where we will find lots of monkeys, but where we will be transformed into the monkey's uncle.

Sailors

2005-01-27T14:53:00.000-08:00

Recreating tippytoed sailors with perched hats and venom whiskers coated in stale draft. Chanting war songs loud into the night, leaving laughs throughout the room and mutating with each passing bathroom jaunt. He who dawns the uniform is usually impaled, left wheezing on the ships' deck with rapid breaths and dead cod-eyes. The crew will throw his body starboard and watch briefly as the waves envelope it and churn it down, taking a big bite and leaving nothing but scraps for the seagulls. The sailor's poker playing janitor friends looks on, possibly saying a prayer to the deceased in his thoughts, but never showing a tear. Tears are not for sailors, as they easily mix with the sea water and go too unnoticed and unabridged.

Rusty, the sailor's dog, looks on not in despair, but with a false sense of security. His next meal is not insured, but Rusty thinks his sailor will return-and this trust continues for some days until one evening his ribs are starting to show and he lingers to the kitchen to munch up some scraps left behind, and eventually finds a new companion in Juan, the line cook.

1

2005-01-27T14:51:00.000-08:00

Like swords and bears and fur on blankets and sore spots and sore sides and the color pink and where is the floor?

Birthing

2005-01-27T14:40:00.000-08:00

Oh, to be a kid again! To witness my mother birthing out my sister and the doctor sticking the placenta in a plastic bag, only to raise it up and show it to us like a Grade 8 Sceince Fair Project.

'Wow, look guys! Betcha didn't think it was this big!'

Down goes my cousin, banging her teeth off the steel stool on the way down. Off fo the nurses like hungry wolves to assist with wet cloths and concered eyebrows. My elder brother is peaked-looking now and backing himself into the corner, a boxer knowing his time to throw in the towel.

I catch a glimpse of my mother.

Suddenly it's a stage play with backdrops wheeling out of the sky and sunbeams pouring through the stained glass window. Or Bethlehem, without the Wise Men bearing gifts or the donkeys sitting around.

My father is snipping the umbilical cord and ticking the jaundice newborn in the most untimely of fashions. My mother looks drowned in sweat.

And I want a piece of candy. But instead, I'm escorted to the waiting room to watch a rerun of Carol Burnett.

Henrietta Returns Home

2005-01-26T21:47:00.000-08:00

What a long kitten day. Stolen from your bed in the wee hours of the morning, only to be swept to your feet in a mad buzz and sent off to the polish Animal Clinic. You were without recognition, without acknowledgement, and without a nametag.

The string-haired receptionist took you out from you red cage before you could glance goodbye or think of your sleeping sister.

Down the corridor and into the steel stairwell with the clingclang of metal steps, into fluorescent lit wasping light, with mocking meowing cats kept caged to the side on a stage to witness the event.

Jalepeno-fed dogs were barking and biting fleas, but you were strong; squirming but attempting braveness among the pale-faced white-coated doctors. (You thought quickly of your bed by the window-the way the sun hit you mid-afternoon).

Their cuts were quick and unprecise. You opened your groggy third lids to a urine soaked towel next to 'Princess', who was apparently in for detox of all things. The pangs of hunger stirred you to your feet and it was then when you made your resolutions. 'No more eating Q-tips, no more greedy clawing, no more bullying'.

The Mexican

2005-01-26T13:34:00.000-08:00

Mlle. Mexican, who drafted that bounty on your head? You are not the one in heat, humping the floor with your sausagedly-swollen uterus. No, yours was removed some fortnights before, ripped out by a madman who stuck a shank in your side.

But yet, you are still the wanted. Your tortoiseshell body and pear hips that shingle and swindle in the moonlight with eyes fully dialated. Those sad eyes that long for quicker days and longer nights of solitude.

Mlle. Mexican, it was you with your dainty paws who tiptoed lovingly upon my chest in mid-nightmare. You who jumped to my side when you noticed my face on the brink. It was you nursing me back to health with the patient batting of your eyelashes.

Now, the bounty is out. They want your cold ears in a vice and the bounty hunter is not spayed. Now your glances have frosted and your eyes gone darty and apprehensive of shadows.

Oh, Mlle., if only we could turn back the clock! Back to your early days, your kitten days, when warmth was desired and you burrowed so innocently around my parched knees. If only I could rectify your childhood companion. Big Chelsea would read you lovely tales of the seashore and lounge away your days with you, listening to French radio and songs of Acadian passage.

But the hunted you are, Mlle., and we must move forward in this dark time. Please look out the window and see the storm when you can. Say hello to the blizzard as it invades all you have. Watch your raccoon friends shimmy and freeze frame in the roof shingles. Know you are not lost in your sorrow and hide and talk softly in your hideout.

Toronto Fall

2004-11-26T22:27:00.000-08:00

Old churches are lately transformed one evening
On downtown streets into sacreligious lofts for the greedy yuppies and their poochie-parlored pets. Churches are falling down in albino domino fury, blessing their bricks as they perish. Streetcar shudders-massage therapy for the demobilized brainiacs. The wild pug-faced dogs on College St rectify their small Italian mafia amidst pavement crusted over pavement.

And pigeons are ugly birds-they fly with decapitated wings robustly yet sloth-like over grey perched skies. They have eaten all of the perogies and have tranformed themselves into fat magicians.

'That's what we want! More pug dogs!', cries the giddy old lady with a Doberman by her side, ears erectile and heart beating out of its body. She walks through questionable archways with connotations near where the lovesick subway rolls. She walks to meet the other elderlies; the pegged-up old women with tongues crisscrossing sideways and who are muffled up in motorized wheelchairs and chinking their canes together like wine glasses at the New Year's toast.

All this while, pumpified Snoop Dogg Civics rage down the road heading east (to the part of town where the projects are and where clouds dump their debris).

So, sing us a song, sweet suited man, caught harrassing the elderlies. Tell stories of war and pistol-whip young faces with your shaking hand to bury their attentions. Tell the stories of your youth- how your skin came to wrinkle; whyyour smile is full of wit and conundrums while you chain smoke and heave deep breaths. Tell them the one about your bread rations or the fellowship of your brothers, or perhaps how you spent so many daylight hours cooped underground in a mine. Or the tale of your black-tie affairs and the women dressed as fairies who blew you kisses from a distance.