Thursday, January 17, 2013
Bodies Are Changing
lines stretch, screech, blur, scar;
bodies are aging.
Bodies once raging,
lightning bolt collision;
bodies are changing.
Time victims, subtle phasing,
frantic dropped stitches swollen;
bodies are aging.
Bodies roving, exploring, ranging,
weakened by miles, pleasure, exploits;
bodies are changing.
Stiffened, creaky exit staging,
bodies are aging.
You and I entwined, free falling,
hold tight wind, strip us.
Bodies are changing.
Bodies are aging.
Labels: 2013, love junk, nova scotia, Poetry
Sunday, November 18, 2012
Ocean Drum
Labels: 2012, nova scotia, philosophy, Poetry
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
holy whole wholesome
Letting time loose
Taking it off my shoulders
Labels: 2012, nova scotia, philosophy, Poetry
Monday, February 13, 2012
Monday
Friday, February 03, 2012
9. French for the F-word
They were hauled into the office and plunked into cushy brownish-orange chairs that provided no comfort. The cold eyes of Secretary Alice White froze them.
They sat and thought of doom. It was called the principal’s office but everyone knew it was owned and ruled by Vice-Principal Morris. The principal, whatever his name was, was a figurehead at best. In the silence of Mrs. White’s frosty stare they took deep breaths, smelled the new carpet, tried not to look at each other, listened to the clock’s second hand tick and tick.
The American kid muttered something strange. "Lamb-are-eh."
He was in the middle. They glanced at him, nothing moving but their eyes.
"What?" Pierre whispered.
"Lamb-are-eh," he said. "It's French for...the f-word."
Pierre snickered and Danh cackled, a high-pitch staccato wail.
Mrs. White snapped her head up. "Shhhh!"
They looked down at the grey carpet, inhaled its chemical smell. "You talk French?" Danh whispered.
"Nope."
"Lamb-are-eh." Pierre rolled the syllables over his tongue. His maman was Acadian but he never learned her language. It thrilled him to know she’d hate him saying this particular word.
"Boys!" Vice-Principal Morris barked them out of their solidarity. He was a red-headed giant with a grizzly face and a gap-toothed beaver smile. He jerked his thumb and led them into his personal office with the placard reading 'Morris'. He pointed at two chairs across from his desk. Pierre walked past the chairs and stood with arms folded over his belly.
Danh took the seat closest to Pierre and Gerry took the other.
"Well boys," Mr. Morris began. "Mrs. Charles tells me you all had a little scuffle in the schoolyard."
He picked at his teeth with the nail on his pinkie. When the pinkie was retracted Pierre couldn’t see anything on it or the teeth.
"She tells me there were some expletives put into play, by which I mean some references to adults-only activities were made by you boys, and perhaps some of you described going number two in certain vulgar terms."
He went back to the teeth again.
"Furthermore, as I can see by your clothes, blood was drawn over the matter. It must have been quite serious. Care to tell me about it?"
Silence, other than Mr. Morris' wall clock ticking. It sounded identical to the one in the main office, equally relentless. Pierre didn’t dare turn to see if it was the same. He smelled the fumes of another new carpet. Mr. Morris' eyes were on him now, and only him.
"Pierre?" Mr. Morris said. His eyes were blue under his bright red afro, like some kind of sadistic heathen pirate on the Indian Ocean. "Pierre?"
Labels: 2012, Fiction, love junk, nova scotia
Friday, January 27, 2012
9. Crowd Control
Before Pierre could count two he heard and felt Gerry’s forehead break his nose. Pierre dropped to the ground.
"Fuck you, fatty!" Gerry yelled, kicking Pierre in the gut.
Pierre felt nothing but the crowd around them getting closer, laughing louder. He could smell the mud off the boys’ boots at the periphery of his sight. He knew the girls would be at the back, peering over shoulders pretending to be disgusted. He winced and looked down, noticed Gerry was wearing shiny black rubber boots. What a loser. Pierre caught and yanked Gerry’s foot as he tried to kick him again. He climbed on top and sat on Gerry's chest, pounded his face.
His own pain was sinking in now and he felt blood rolling from his nose over his lips. His head was ringing. That was fine. He had to win the crowd back. That was the main thing.
"Up - yours - with - a - rubber - hose," Pierre grunted, one word for each time he punched. The crowd was laughing with him now. Every punch got harder.
Gerry was kneeing Pierre's back but it didn’t hurt. Pierre wailed on him harder. It was easy to connect; Gerry didn’t protect his face and he kept his eyes closed.
"Say uncle," Pierre said.
Gerry opened his eyes. There was blood all over his face and a drop of it rolled into his eyes. He didn’t blink. "Hockey sucks," he panted.
Sadly, Pierre was going to have to kill this kid. "OK," he said, pulling his fist back.
Labels: 2012, Fiction, love junk, nova scotia
Thursday, January 26, 2012
32. Best Friends
"Tell me again about these guys."
Jamaica’s voice was soft, like a small sharp needle pushed ever-so-gently into the neck. He’d explained it before.
Outside he could hear the increasing pitch of a 767 engine as it went airborne. He patted down his cargo shorts until he found the Maalox pills. The crinkle of the plastic wrap was reassuring. He popped one.
"They're my best friends," he said.
"I thought Travis and Pete were your best friends."
He squinted water from his eyes and gagged a little on the Maalox. She was looking at him so he shook his head. "Nope." He burped softly. "Not even close."
"If these guys, neither of whom I have ever met, are your best friends, why you so nervous?"
"Pierre!"
He snapped his head sideways and peered back. It was Gerry. What were the odds of that? His flight must have come in early.
-
Labels: 2012, Fiction, love junk, nova scotia
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Hear me Oh Lord in my longing
The unquenchable why of this living is mistaken.
We wail for the family lost eons ago
when this land was nutritious candy.
Now God kneels outside our iron bars
seeking hope in humanity's extinction
or survival.
He has created and is horrified.
We have revolted, and evolved -
met our Maker, apologized
for traceless political love affairs,
and demanded a map back to Eden.
[this is a rewrite of one I posted a while back]
Labels: 2011, non-fiction, nova scotia, Poetry
Friday, December 09, 2011
07-08
twice felt roots ensnare my skin
and known my remains would fly
with Grandpa and his sisters
and the ocean would take its share -
the grey darkening, solidifying, sinking
But only once has death given roses
You said to me, "I want this same fate
with you and your ancestors."
Labels: 2011, non-fiction, nova scotia, Poetry
Wednesday, November 02, 2011
Finale
Play the song.
Too hip for then
now too far.
Attack every angle,
your last kill.
Don’t mind the lens.
Just give me
one last shot of you
dancing before you die.
You ahead,
giant feet flying
farther away,
quickened by the thrill of
anticipated horizons.
Still you move,
still you whoop,
just out of range.
Make room,
shove close.
A duty and joy.
Zoom in:
one last shot of you
dancing before you die.
Labels: 2011, Fiction, nova scotia, Poetry
Tuesday, November 01, 2011
You Did Us Profound
You did us profound
you wobbly walker.
Your visible symbols say,
"why do you have that cage?
Why does that cage got blood?"
The mean-saying lady says
her reasons are good.
You nod like you do when Big People
dodge questions.
Mom and Dad do that too
when you wonder on origins
through taboo paths to temptations.
Labels: 2011, non-fiction, nova scotia, Poetry
Wednesday, September 07, 2011
The Documenting
to see human things from outside -
his guard against impending sensory attacks,
like men wearing only balaclavas
ripping burkas from dangling corpses
in a theatre of oppression.
From the right he hears dark-robed shaggy faces chant:
“Wear it! Wear it! Wear it!”
And the Nike-swooshed hoodies on the left shout:
“Show your tits! Show your tits!”
In the balcony he cuts himself, sucks the blood,
macros his forearm’s red bubble,
whispers, “God is Great; Capitalism’s workings Mysterious.”
He’s faceless as the men on stage
in snatching the soul of the stoning.
Labels: 2011, nova scotia, Poetry, politics
Thursday, June 09, 2011
Sitting Pool
Salamander sits in a sitting pool,
eyes bulging through the water,
trying to get some shade and being cool,
while the day keeps heating getting hotter.
Fly flies by makes waves in the air,
salamander's snack causes fodder
'cause swimming nearby with streaks in his hair,
is a pudgy little cute littler otter.
Snapping of the tongue, salamander's undone,
his snack becomes snack for the otter.
Another day at the pond
and life goes on
not for all but for some,
in the riffles and the runs,
of the sitting pool in the water.
Labels: 1998, nova scotia, philosophy, Poetry
Monday, May 16, 2011
Miia
and you a woman who will make me try
and i try i try i try i try and i try
to be a man for a miia when we lie
late at night side by side but in between there's a baby cry
and he the apple and the pear in his parents' eyes
oh miia oh miia i hope you see you a woman you a woman to me
you the woman you the woman you the woman for me
when we dance when we dance in the living room
and we step then glide in a small circle
and we kiss and we touch and we no longer there
we dance all across a small city
and we dance and we touch across a small province
and i call and i say your name miia and you hear it all across
the big country
miia lover miia warrior when i in your eyes
you a ama when you in my eyes when you laugh or you sweep
or you sigh or you sing you my aphrodite and miia slave for you
miia fighter for you miia spy for you miia scribe for you
'cause me
miia man o when i in your eye miia man o who make you sigh
and even if the baby cry
and we soothe him long just to get him lie
and now we both tired
miia gonna dance with you all across this small world
going in circles with you it all i really wanna do
is be a man for you 'cause miia miia miia man for you and
you a you a you a
woman for me
Labels: 2010, love junk, nova scotia, Poetry
Thursday, December 02, 2010
Anger part 3
Then UGH! - UGH! - UGH! from the bathroom. And I’d stare at my father waiting for him to solve the problem somehow. The man solved problems for a living. He was some kind of PR monkey with the government. I was sure his chewing routine was just a delay tactic, or a meditative thing that would help him find a solution.
But it was Mother who found the solution. I really don’t know how - maybe Jesus found her - but one day I got sent home from my private junior high school early for beating both Sissy Jannah’s eyes black and saw a two-foot Jesus-on-crucifix on the piano. Above it was Jesus in profile, turning the other cheek I presume and looking serene.
Mother ran from the kitchen in a flour-covered apron and hugged me. I stiffened my body and hung my arms straight at my sides. "Whatever it is I forgive you," she said.
Since then she’s been on a mission, volunteering at the food bank, raising money for the church, even letting Christian refugees stay in our basement. She doesn’t cry anymore.
So, I’d love to find that Jesus of hers, or have him find me. And I look too. I spend 23 hours a day in this cell and all I do is look for Jesus. I've looked at every brick. I’ve looked under my bed and under my mattress, and under my roomie’s mattress and bed when she was getting her hour in the yard. All I do is sleep and look for Jesus. Before I sleep I pray he’ll come find me, because I don’t see him anywhere, and I don’t dream anymore either.
Labels: 2010, Fiction, nova scotia, short story
Monday, November 29, 2010
Anger part 2
But the whole world’s a heartache and most people seem to have smiles chiseled into their faces, so none of that, nor all those UN statistics or crime-page newspapers explain my anger, do they?
It just feels good to let it out sometimes, and when I was little I guess it got me what I wanted. It was easier to give the kid a treat than hear her scream. Mother couldn't stand to see me suffer even a little bit. She still can't, and that’s why she won't visit. She sends me letters that read like Jehovah's Witness pamphlets. The word 'Jesus' appears so frequently I started counting. Her last letter, a four-pager, had 46 'Jesus'es, and 16 'pray's.
And I try. I’m not just humouring her either. I remember how she was before Jesus. She cried all the time. Never in front of people. She'd excuse herself from the dinner table and go to the bathroom and let rip these heaving, gutteral sobs in stucatto bursts. It sounded kind of like Eddie Murphy's laugh.
Father completely ignored it. He'd cut into his steak or pork or whatever and pop a little piece into his mouth and chew like his teeth were on fire. He probably counted his chews - 50 or a hundred times or whatever. He'd swallow with an exaggerated gulp and yell, "Honey! This is delicious. Truly extraordinary!"
Labels: 2010, Fiction, nova scotia, short story
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Anger
Something very new I'm working on:
I thought my anger would place me well in this angry world. But like two magnetic norths the world and I could never quite come together. I swung at it and swung at it and never caught anything but air, landed on my face as often as kept my feet.
Dr. Hattie is always at me about where the anger comes from, and I just tell her, "Inside." She calls bullshit and I know it is, but it feels that way at the time, like a car wreck inside of me, an exploding Hollywood car wreck only you never see it coming from the outside. Inside there’s a buildup, two different drivers at a party having a few too many. But fuck me if I know how it all got started. Dr. Hattie might as well ask me how the big bang got started.
"Inside," I say again, and she calls bullshit again. "Outside then," I say, but she just frowns at me. I frown back. Outside is the God’s honest truth. I don’t want to giver her my sob story. It's a cop out isn’t it? Or maybe that’s what she wants. I can tell her about Dad’s drinking, Mum’s born again high-handed bullshit preaching after years of openly cheating on her husband and letting daycares and schools raise me. Would I be this angry if children's aid social workers had taken me away?
Labels: 2010, Fiction, nova scotia, short story
Wednesday, September 01, 2010
My Big Day Downtown
Labels: 2010, non-fiction, nova scotia, politics
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Amanda Mongeon Reads from Drive-by Saviours
Labels: 2010, Fiction, nova scotia, publishing, subway novel
Friday, May 21, 2010
Spiral
my adjustment counselor was pissed.
Wasn't that just like me?
On account of my oppositional complex.
I just had to stop for that quick hit
in the drive-thru alley with the junkies.
But if Daddy hadn't screwed up my order
I wouldn't have had to shoot up twice.
I'd sleep on a feather mattress
instead of this old gym-mat.
Labels: 2010, Fiction, nova scotia, Poetry
