: CANDLES

Cunt-wielding girls will do
Almost anything to share their little secrets with the rest of the world, but
Nimble men with small nipples and soft bellies just shout words and they're in.
Do not come near my childhood bed,
Leonard Cohen, this one's for you.
Eat dick. Sincerely,
Some women.

: the ROM

Dear family,
We are packing up and moving
to Museum, for a lifetime of learning
ossifies into
        The amber
        The molar
        The fine-toothed comb.
They've all been burrowed in the bat cave
Since 1996
and their fingerprints are still
on the fish tanks, though the fish are dead.
Are you having trouble believing
          believe!
such unreality in all things marvelous?
          74 million years!
Fossils are concepts
           to grasp
           to trust
You must un-remove yourself to be
moved.

: ode to Montreal

it's four years of walking home
it's when the sky splits and the light turns green
it's no stranger than spring surprising us yearly
it's the spontaneous monotony of school, gym, shop, cook, work, work, drink, sleep, work, fuck, spend and savor the interaction -
it's action!
it's a matter of exposure, all of it.
it's four years of never learning French, of gaining and losing, of laundry and hangovers.
it's rationalizing, rationing, rashness.
it's haecceity, the thingyness of the thing, it's eye contact and brush strokes
it's so funny to me
it's backyards and balconies and bathroom chats and belligerence
it's prime and messy, rough and rude, free and limited
it's jaywalking and speed walking and sweet talking
it's event making and dance partying and so much brunch
it's a hunch that four years well spent will be missed in the best way -
thank you for being a city i can call
home.

go without

he's the kind of big who's unaware of how strong he is:
bone crushing intensity and then we're limp bodies on hotel bed sheets
night lasts for an eternal instant when
the entire universe condenses into your grip on the small of my back

let us depend on the pulse:
press push pull pant and pry
mouths from necks from ears
and lock in the look that says less than each of us wants to believe
silent fantasies that scream for freedom in another world, somewhere.

from the swollen membranes of brains
and from fingers that freely feign understanding
something isn't right if i can only write at the artificial tap
fresh form flows from fingers that firmly push a pen
but the trusty lefty smudge will always slant my words
closer toward that dream i had to tell the world about