Write when you have the bones.
Right when you have the bones.
Write when you have the bones.
Right when you have the bones.
Sweet Memory
then and now
As venous as a leaf
As cavernous as a lonely heart
In churlish dream,
ragged clouds of storm,
bruised and tumorous.
Have I lived enough,
done enough,
loved enough?
Must I take the knife?
It’s a long shot, but here goes…
A friend of mine, who is disabled and on a fixed income, is desperate to find safe and affordable accommodation in South-Central Ontario.
She has been renting a room for going on two years, but the landlord is an abusive and dangerous drunk. I fear for her safety.
All that’s needed is a room with access to a bathroom and perhaps a kitchenette. What rent she can afford would be guaranteed by government agency.
If anyone can help, or can direct me to someone who can, please do.
Thank you!
At water’s edge
I plied the sand
for vacant shells
and stones to skip,
so flat.
There,
there was a tree
that had given up,
acute in its angle,
embarrassed at the nakedness of its bleached roots.
Close by,
an eyeless carcass grinned,
in the throes of its last hysterics.
This blind alley
The horde of the golden calf
carries its standard on high
Lemmings thinking they are lions
while the meek and considered
are too quiet
too long
Condemned to repeat
lessons unlearned
A diving moth
caught in venetian rays,
like a bedside meteor.
In soreness of spirit,
I chew on thoughts of old romancers,
closet dancers.
I look up rugs and pads.
Imagine measurements
and the weight of heavy things.
A spoonful of white dwarf.
An anchor.
To be here, and not to fly.
2:43 a.m. and I get up to pee. There’s only the night light, knee height. I shuffle arthritic, steady the wall, when a white thing bumps my eye like a drifting balloon. In a hissed whisper, “bitch” it says, imploding its albumen, stifling my breath. I don’t have to pee any more.
Give me your hand, Love,
in these cold rooms of doldrum.
Give me your hand, Love.