Fraught

Soaked in partisan 

Slaps lungs tangled up with heart beats

Lost to stubbled life

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Don

In her sleeves drowned
bees drift in freeze dried hair
Someday fear will come
she will not die when it’s fair

When words fester 
chaos can be counted on
to show up dressed as grief
Curled into sleepless nights

under your sleeping bagged eyes
uncomfortably restricted thoughts
tossed dreams against your lashes

As she begins to absorb your passion
clarity and strength
emboldened in hilarity 
honoured to carry you
under her eyes
sleep well
wise friend.

Pot Bound

My outgrown tangled roots
are bound for a bigger pot
always

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”

Alice

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

real

Oh Alice

Fringe

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

Anyhow 

Make your Memories!

Memories are manufactured
With a lens and a stage

life
captured to reflect perfection 
where red eyed mistakes are

cleared
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

Sacrificed 
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