Some More Micropoetry

as if my opinions
are of any importance ...
I shut the window
on a cold
autumn night

Presence 66(March 2020)


cruise ship —
the singer returns to the bar
for company


bottle rockets #42(Feb. 2020)

Some of My Recent Tanka in Presence

some boys
swing jumping
onto a discarded mattress ...
the empty pool
behind the fence


Presence 63 (March 2019)



burnt-out streetlights
and the absence ...
I step aside
to a group
cursing the moon


Presence 64(July 2019)



how do we know
we are not already dead ...
autumn leaves
that reappear
after the snowmelt

Presence 65(November 2019)

Burn

Her suicide plan didn’t go through again
Her eyes met mine in the kitchen

Her smile warming the room and the food
Her hand covered in ink spider webs
she drew in Emergency

She is scared here too
She doesn’t know anyone
and she can’t eat anything
with charcoal left in her stomach —
if I lit her on fire
she would burn all night


Originally Published:
CV2 Volume 30 Issue 3
(Winter 2008)

Pleading His Case

A bottle from the corner,
he returns to TV screen

Old hurt, bad call
many years travelling,

but he just wanted to dribble
like the pros

Still, he wonders why
they complain so much

He cheers for cheerleaders
and overtime

He remembers his gravel court
pounded down

and the night he hung up
the old rim in the garage


Originally Published:
Poetry is Dead Issue 2
(summer/autumn 2010)

Stand Close

Originally Published:
theEEEL(online)
September 29th, 2012




All that winter my apartment was a rocking boat. I decided to slip notes underneath the doors of my disputing neighbours. I let them all know, anonymously, whose sides I was on.  My choices were random, but I felt like taking some sort of an action.  Later that night I answered loud knocking on my door.  A big man with tattoos up his neck and a shaved head stood next to a slender young woman with frizzy hair and gentle blue eyes.

“Why did you take his side?” she asked, shaking her head in disgust.
I shrugged.
“Come over for a beer,” he said.

We sat down in their dark, smoky apartment.  A video game left on pause was our fireplace.  The beer was nonexistent.  She began first.

“He’s always going out with his buddies at night, spending too much money.  He sold the car — it was my car!  The only time he’s around here is when his children from his last marriage come over or when he’s jamming with his buddies.  Urine on the toilet seat — everyday!”

“You know, I’m not really a counsellor,” I said.

“Urine on the toilet seat!  That’s as good as it gets.  I’m a wise man.”

“I don’t really like the late night jam sessions either,” I said.

“I’ve never had a noise complaint,” he said, defensively.

“I complained to the caretaker but gave up,” I said.

“Why don’t you just knock on my door?” he asked with an ironic smile.

“Paranoia,” I said.

“I’ve seen him talking to people who aren’t there — he’s crazy,” she said.

“Why do you want my help then?” I asked.

“We need someone with a distorted view of reality to help us with our relationship,”she said, rolling her eyes.

“What about my side?” he asked.  “I work all day and have certain relationship privileges.”

“That’s it?” I asked.

“Yep,” he said.

“You got to cut out the late night jam sessions ... you should spend time with your wife instead.  Oh yeah, and stand close — it’s farther than you think!”
Silence.

I returned to my apartment.  It wasn’t long until something crashed against my wall and they resumed their fight.  I decided to leave.  I trudged through the snow to a nearby theatre.  I bought my ticket and waited.  I hadn’t had the presence of mind to bring a book so I stared into nothingness like a criminal.  Someone kept kicking the back of my seat through the stupid movie and I couldn’t convince myself that it was just because of the cramped seats.