Archive for May, 2011


a morning in toronto


anymore


as each dream and potential withers
while the resentment for my company surfaces
impatience mixed with boredom mixed with loneliness mixed with ego and lack of

my laughable fort of pillows rise
each a warm body kissing and
holding each curve

corners torn with my teeth
pressed with salt and oil
the release of sleep and lucid dreaming

i don’t even love you anymore

ankles


she takes my exclamations as confirmations
when really i’m shocked at her bitterness
calling out pretty sloots and the yacht club girls
tossing her beautiful hair

carrying a bundle of measuring sticks
slipping in small lies
she charms snakes and demons
who curl up her skinny legs

i’m just there to hold her hand
a social crutch, teetering on shoes
trying to suck in my belly
staring at her beautiful hair

my own bitterness holds my mouth
keeps my eyes slanted down up out
as their eyes follow her and i’m
squeezing her hand

just lazy


Waking up takes hours. Nestling into my fort of pillows and feeling the warm linen threads catch on my toes. The sun catches all the whites of my room, inviting me to open my eyes. I smash my face, flat into my pillow, breathing in the stale oils. Last night’s intentions of breakfast and coordinated outfits dissipate with each snooze.

The curtains absorb the sunlight and sounds of the other women tinkering with their drawers and hair dryers. Seven and a half pounds of fluff prances around on my back, digging her nose into my armpits and crawling into the warm space between the sheets.

After rearranging my bed-head, I leave for work wearing summer on the bottom, Christmas on top. Lunch will be a half pound of guacamole. Maybe I’ll pick up chips over lunch break.

Once, my church had a special event for women. They flew in a fashion designer who held signups for a reality television style makeover at the end of her first talk. My sisters and cousins pushed me into the huge lineup that wrapped around the TV set. She asked me what my main struggle was:

“I’m 23, but I look like I’m 33.”

“That’s a new one.”

She ended up picking two ladies transported by time machines from decades past, and costumed them in hair dyes and contact lenses. Her message for the night:

“There’s no such thing as an ugly woman. Just a lazy one.”

Aw, shit.

sham


Finding the strength and fibre to fill
My gaping heart that stings from the wind
Consciousness sparking and spurring
Magnetic surges for the positive to my negative

Teeth hitting cement and cracked split
My mouth is falling apart
Falling to the wind
Thin and salty strokes across my chin

Eyes obedient and steady
But my face flushes drunk betrayal
Speech even and predictable
But my fingers knot in my pockets

I break free propelled by force
To an easy space to an easy crowd
Eyes on the walls look past me
Eyes behind me burn my neck

Weight across my shoulders pulls me close
Suddenly the wind howls through my chest
Disjointed hopes scream across
Your eyes and mine