through my wares
pulling open bags
ripping box tops wide
what did you hope
i was so busy
nothing got damaged
heels kicked up,
on the carpet,
right at home
in my house.
often, not always.
sometimes, not never.
quiet, not silent.
wise, not weathered.
careful, not cautious.
sharp, not clever.
offering, not ordering.
for now, and forever.
what brings you to level?
like two feet feeling firm
on terra firma?
at 49, I see the longform
in the agonizingly short days of
poetic teenage stanzas.
and remain amazed how
angst and adolescence made
it beyond our imagination that
adults could ever have
existed in this space.
just before you called
i found a journal filled
with still life held still with
masking tape and highlighter
faded postits and bent corners
curled around events that seemed
at the time
like they were shaping and shaking
remember that Cure concert
we attended at ontario place,
or was it at the exhibition
when we smoked a joint and missed
the opening act? remember? -you plead.
flashing lights and midnight go bus rides fall
into place beside
moments of weed and time travel.
all are friendly folk,
so i smile and say- we didn't even notice
that the concert was only 10 minutes long.
or that the next day,
waking in your backyard, our clothes smelled
like lake ontario.
school wouldn't matter that day.
we did not stop talking about the
concert we didn't see and
couldn't help but to compare
it to the Depeche Mode concert
from the year before.
did we even see that one? you joked.
Who's hair is cooler Martin Gore
or Robert Smith's? - i replied.
neither's could possibly reach
any higher or randomer level of excellence.
and honestly, we both wanted to
look like Morrisey anyways.
we were both posers in this poem
but thought we had tongues of
when we get old we will keep
going to concerts. - we thundered.
when we get old we will still
when we get old, we will not forgot how
we got there.
or how it ends.
we used to call each other often.
without much effort
the tired ash of our
previous lives sparked
back into flame easily.
though each time the kindling
resisted just a little more.
looking back is safer than looking forward
forward means to step out into
unknown depth and breadth. -i now thought.
like that time we probably maybe likely
in lake ontario, punched carp, and woke up
on dry land on lounge chairs beside
after the diagnosis, fires never burned
there seemed like there was so much less
space to feel the light feels
like breezes on your damp neck
or bird calls at 5AM.
we had been parted longer than together and
life asked us both to grow up.
we tried puffing up saying 'whatever'.
flash forward and a pandemic
has me looking back at these moments that look
back on moments that stare me down
and tell me to 'sit', 'stop',
'pick up the phone'.