Pot Bound

My outgrown tangled roots
are bound for a bigger pot

Tradition states my choice…
and it’s two sizes too small
as they say
so the moment I’d settled
my roots had already grown out
left most untidily tangled

To be frank, I’m tired
after two times too many plantings
my leaves droop as I fight for space
against myself, to be sure

but I’m frighted of a too big pot
one in which I might get lost
what if the edge is far away?
so I can’t find it
to sit decisive-like and say
“I’m clearly too big for this pot
I must make myself smaller”



My heart has a double beat
occasional and reckless
I call her Alice
She’s normal, they say
until she starts to sing

I’m not ready to listen
but she stays with me
until I cough her back to sleep
scared of what she’ll tell me

she’ll say;
what I know of truth isn’t
what i interpret in others isn’t
or what I believe of myself isn’t


Oh Alice


I live in the fringe

Of the people in my town

Who shriek brown eyed girl

Squirm awkwardly (to me,

But what the fuck do I know)

To an acoustic Paradise City

While humans with dicks assess

Your sobriety without a glisten of 

Distrust you’ve never had to fight 

It off

the look, the smirk, the rub, 

The accused accuse and are backed

By humans with eyelashes

who relish 

In it somehow

They know when it’s not real, but

I play it safe and hate all of you

For what you might not do to me


As I Wash dishes with my Cat

As I wash dishes
I watch my cat
chase spring bees
with her chattering eyes

Petroleum focused wonderings
to chase away the soap

what I mean when I
think gas is I’m confused
(a little angry also)

and what I mean when I
think confused
is somewhat
willfully bubbled from
backlit information
shot at me from
the gun in my hands

I don’t want to know gas
is 88.5 in the city and
100kms to the west it’s 105.9

I want to think it has
to be that way
the cost of a life under cover
in some idea of paradise
or just some one’s home town
to escape after school is over.

Some laugh strategic
the greedy game of life
is owned by the few who invented
Fox news and celebrity idols
who shout, point and giggle that
change is impossible the world
is too horrible

I hate washing dishes
that cat hates the bees
she’ll never catch
but it’s just a screen between
what she wants and her
forced reality

Literary rebel (on attending my second poetry reading)

In the back row
Literary rebel without a fuck
To stream

the right look act
like I fit in like I belong to this misfit

is this what being a part of this world means?? 

I don’t get it 
I don’t belong here
Like you said 
At the beginning 
On your show

With smart words meant to evoke false emotion fake laughter trolling for jokes it makes me angry 


Make your Memories!

Memories are manufactured
With a lens and a stage

captured to reflect perfection 
where red eyed mistakes are

where the baby is always asleep
in a boot or a shell or dressed in cute things
because it’s obvious small miracles don’t make memories like baby bumblebees do

Marriages aren’t memories until
the fated humans are bathed in sacred light filtered through black and white

their day for memories with
plasticized smiles left to hang on reality’s  wall while strangers search for love in plastic eyes and the human they’ve created begs for attention with please-tell -me -no cries.

First Draft….

I’m more like my dad
who’s more like his mom
who grew up in Florence, Cape Breton
Where it’s never inconvenient
to show up for a visit
where family means even my friend
was freely given a cousins hand

My Gran’s dad
was a rum runner
a silent rebel
with a jokers twinkle
he gave local families food and cigarettes
Princess mines wouldn’t pay the loyal life
all he could offer was a laugh, a smoke
and a drink to aide a miner’s strife

He was always ready for a good time
that’s just like my dad
and just like me