Child's Pose

Crying in a cuddle with a potion and a puddle
stuck in a cog, a motorboat in a bog
a legless frog, nonsense fog

croak at joke, die from scurvy at the colony of
Roanoake. it's a vitamin sea

mow the lawn with dental floss,
butter your toast with the challahcost
motion to ladybugs to
eat at the moss
grass, crayfish mink and dogs
water falls in ball bearings and it's
dimpled lake, remove the makeup from
your face

i'm still amid my sweatpant symphony
who knew my muscles would ache at 30?
best to tap your toes
don't ask what the weatherman knows

is there a way out of this knot - can't afford 80/h for a
conscience cot

stretch that belly, nelly
loosen the back, jack
hot bath, warm hug, stay clear of the chug, the drugs
sit, make love to an Ikea rug
pray above, give yourself a shove, tough love
'it's tough love because it's love' and it's
sunshine every sunday; look around, see it - I still
guarantee it


How upset are you?

I am profoundly upset.

In a 'once every two years' kind of way.

A literally gut-wrenching kind of upset. My back hurts thinking about it.

I want to grab a sledgehammer and smash something to pieces.

What I most want to smash to pieces is the instant-replay machine in my mind.


Shit. That didn't work.

Let's think things through: I've got that fight-or-flight response. If your brain thinks it's real, your body will react. I've got to neutralize the bear in my head. Then the pain will stop. The bear, you see, is never as real or big as you think.



Let's try swearing.

Fake fuckin bear - makes me short of breath - shadows instead of bars
take that, largely fictitious scourge

Phew, good to get that off my chest.

Eventually, see, it gets better.


Oh. Wait. Shit. Gradually diminishing aftershocks of regret. All. Too. gradual.

What's a ^#&^#&#^&#^ stupid caveman to do?

If anyone wants me, I'm in my cave, sulking.


(And if you've seen my bear - don't dress up in furry clothes. Shame on me if I accidentally sledgehammer you over the head.)


modern alienation yada yada

I was 8 years old when I realized I had a Commodore 64 in my noggin. Slightly slower than Rain Man, but with slightly higher social skills - I could do calculations in my head faster than anyone I know. I still can. It's my one talent, and unfortunately it's been made completely obsolete. For a while I felt special. But then the 286s came out. Hey I'm stuck with my brain; I can't just do a neuro-processing-upgrade, get a faster chip. I'd have to rewrite my core software instead, cater to the market.

What's 723 X 12?

hmm. 8676

315 / 12


See? You don't believe me. Proves nothing.

The burden of calculation has been lifted. Automobiles made exercise obsolete. Wristwatches put astronomers out of work.

I should have been born 100 years ago - I could have been successful working in a bank. Someone once said to me "you should have been born a hundred years from now." But I disagree, I have traded brains so often, trying to keep my software relevant, I feel I am older than an old stone. Oh to level the playing field. Is this why soccer is so popular? The Luddites have their day.

Don't get me started on Google. Soon all I'll have going for me is my pretty face. Invest heavily in Botox.


The Song I'm Writing

There’s this piano tune I’ve had in my head the past two years. It doesn’t have a name yet, but I’ve been playing it in five-minute bursts since before this blog was born. It’s all arpeggios, staccatos and blues notes; Fmajor, very simple chord structure. Lots of B-flats, major-sevenths - I wish I had a composer’s vocabulary to describe the sound. I'm a pretty lousy pianist, but mostly self-taught. I go to the YMCA every few days and sit for a few minutes and I ‘compose’ before getting up to do my workout. The piano there is all I have access to downtown in the summer. It sits at the bottom of a stairwell and every couple minutes some musclehead walks by from the main gym to the conditioning room and probably wonders what I’m doing making fairy-piano-music when this is a place for sweating etc and why don't I get an iPod…. To be interrupted doesn’t bother me though; the acoustics are great in that stairwell and mostly I get to be alone, though I admit it’s nice when someone notices and appreciates the recital. Anyway the tune itself is happy, flirtatious, yet shy. I don’t know enough jazz to say it’s all that original, but it feels genuine. It’s filled with mistakes (my pitch is bad; I play by trial-and-error) and I play it different every time, but always it comes back to the same theme. The left-hand does a simple alternating descent by semitones across octaves usually starting from B-flat and the right-hand does variations on a cyclical four-fingered flick across F, sometimes C. It only takes hold of me when I’m physically in front of a piano, but when I’m playing it it’s like the piano was only built for this one song. It’s like wind chimes or a conversation between birds, and I can't stop working on it. It’s half-jazz, half-blues, and in five or ten years I think I’ll have enough for a movie score. So if ever you’re passing by my stairwell in the West End Y - I’m in grey sweat pants and a blue t-shirt, standing at the weathered brown Yahama. Look out, John Williams.


Victim of Doubt

(making peace with angst at the Golden Wheat bakery)


She doesn’t know me at all, wish I was tall.
think of her dress, don't place weight on a failure to impress.
Her lips don’t move in lockstep with reason, just a little too curious about self-destruction.
No real me, just addiction to irony, epitome of liberty. Constrained to this hunk of meat, can’t taste ether, or see in ultraviolet either.
I don’t smoke, who needs to - surrounded by so many jokes?
Every drawn out conversation could be summed up in a picture. Better to torture each other than produce art.
A paradox pun. A skinhead on the run.
Why choose, my instincts shine in reaction. Fit myself into every puzzle.
“I am not your rolling wheels; I am the highway.”
Broke his own body, God forgave me because I asked. My father’s house, I will live in my father’s house.
Every pain a reminder that the ticker will run out.
Hang your head at your failure to love.
Remember tomorrow. Forget yesterday. Think about the present means getting locked in a mirror, lasts forever by extinguishing time and your soul stopped in the headlights. Only love can distract us.
Narcissus - fatally fascinated with his own existence. I guess he didn’t love himself enough.
Nothing new here. Old truths are best. Old clothes don’t impress, but I welcome every comfortable wrinkle.
Keep forcing myself to talk, hope one day my keyboard will make a sound.
You can’t plan for an epiphany. Waiting, waiting, waiting.
Pass me the salt. That is love.
This poem is an insurance policy against future disappointment. Wisdom is an insurance policy - or maybe it's preventative maintenance. There is no more profound loss than an unexpected loss. When we leave our bike unlocked there is no blaming the thief.
Act in a rational manner? Impossible with so little information. All life is an incomplete experiment at how to be happy – if only I knew everything, I would plant my garden right and everyone would eat the fruit. Let’s play. The dice were loaded from the beginning. I’m the last to leave the table, stuck my whole life paying the bill for Original Sin. Garnish my salary or I’ll wash dishes in the kitchen forever. Look at the bright side though – fig leaves are in style and the apples were delicious.


I resurrected my girl!

She lay in cryogenic freeze since her death last March. You may recall I performed the saddest of eulogies.

This afternoon, however, I took her from her basement slumber and performed massive surgery. After $38.46 and four trips to two different shops for parts, she lives! With a new aluminum rear wheel, overhauled brakes and fresh cables, a lubed up chain, air in her tires, and a shiny yellow bell.

Peaches returns. She is mighty as ever. Alongside Mario (her worthy successor) she owns the roadway once more. Door prizers be warned!

You Who Open The Doors

(fun in the big city)

your attempts on my life
will not be met with silence

tomorrow I ride with a bucket of pirahnas, and
give your head a soak

metal on fingers is not pleasant
me eating your rear-view mirror is wrong

cabbies on College, lo, your brainpower is lacking
instruct thy passengers to scan well upon egress!

had my fill of motorized ambush
haven't yet pedalled a dozen blocks

Dundas and Spadina - yikes
Chinatown will be my graveyard

I prefer blindness to stupidity
blindfolk at least can hear my horn

I swear at you, I feel better
- can outrage penetrate your plush sedan?

my helmet's not meant to dent your chrome;
I'm hopped on adrenaline and will mess up your face.


Drunken Garbage Man

(inspired by actual events)

I'm the drunken garbage man

piles and piles
teetering on my trolley
The truck stops here
at the bottom of the food chain
don't give a rat's ass, I
mix recycling with the trash
rolling my wagon 'round city hall
clear benches with the stench
plastic bags, metal box, diarrhea diapers and
(probably) trace amounts of smallpox; now my
hands are sticky with slime and sugar from
someone's half-chewed cherry lollipop

Here's a stack of crumpled tins
unearthed remains of onion rings
a little gold mine: a tenth-filled
whiskey skin - who drunk the other nine?
doesn't matter, I'm thirsty and it's mine

I'm the garbage man and
Crazy Lou keeps asking me the time
excuse to strike up conversation
- he's so lonely and he's never late
Old Lou, he'll ask what's
under the trash but
I won't tell about my little stash
and don't ever ask what's under the grate

Makeout kiddies make me smirk
Skater Boy is a pain
and there's a skinny punk writer I'd
like to shove
he sits on top of Receptacle 9
and pretends to fall in love

I wore gloves but they
slowed me down
I wore noseplugs but only after work I realized
how bad was the smell
I wore black shoes cuz they didn't scuff
but smudge is least of my worries; you
should see some of this radioactive stuff

I don't know why they hired me,
no one will ever fire me
unionized, boy
sure don't take much brain
but someone's got to haul the trash
and it won't be you
and i guess it's me
though it's hot and sweaty, and my supervisor Freddy
doesn't even know my name
I'm paid $25.50 an hour
but brother it's not enough
when you deal in shit you dream in diamonds and
heaven's not enough


My next *scoff* 'book' of poems

...will be called 'Hope is a Piano'. Title comes from Aug 17/05 poem, the first post I wrote following my momentary (but harrowing) 'birthday retirement' (see June 30/05 and July4/05) from all things cupcake last year.

Scheduled *release* of this noumenously eclectic cornucopia (in PDF form) will be August 17, 2006 here on FIAC, the one-year anniversary of my resurrection. So click the appropriate link when it is published, bask in the cupcakey fakeries and bakeries, and above all continue to be a part of online history!

Best part is, I am nowhere near the 90 poems I would need to complete HIAP, so expect a lot of crazy new stuff in the next five weeks.

Shazam Shazak Shazoom.

I'm Back and I'm Moving

My new long-term goal: become a billionaire.

Yes, correct, a thousand million.

I give me 35 years to hit deca-digits. For this year, I'll be happy with another 5 figures. But not for long.

If you see me before I reach my target, please remember - don't murder or dismember me. I've got a long way to go.


Smell The Roses

(a real ridiculous doozy. handwritten in the hour between rainbows)


Smell The Roses

In the pouring rain
in the Monday morning rush
we talked for an hour in my head
I was that guy
cycling on the sidewalk with an
open umbrella
though I was soaked
to the bone already so
- why dry out in vain?
dignity, it
slows me down I

but I
don't get pleasure from
solving these mysteries
cant dwell on dying or the rain
- prefer endless epiphanies, exiting
every cul-de-sac through secret garden escapes

I left out pieces
on purpose and perforce,
it's what I
always do,
I'm not lazy nor can't not leave untwisted thoughts for you but
I'm giving you credit, the wonder you are
in five years' time when
it finally makes sense I
won't gloat at how you
figured it out but will be
with an uncondescending kiss on the
lips that
was yours all along, and
that - that kiss -
is something I will have
immensely missed.

(it's a whirlpool
flowing in a circle with different levels to skip
a cotton-candy spinning machine
sugar and magnets make it
crystallize so
sweetly on the tongue)

Monday evening and still
the city calm after 24 years of fire,
washed out in downpour, extinguishment
to desire no more, except the
satisfaction of a
clean slate

I'm preparing each day;
some days napping but
some days I'm painting the walls
twenty thousand and twenty-two shades of blue
- just for you

I lost my title along the way
smelling roses, tracking butterflies
stomach fears chasing rabbits down a hole
is this Wonderland?
It's not every day I feel so

sometimes the joy is palpable, bright red with
orange streamers, shuttling through dusk in a
shiny blue Venusian carapace
- indestructible to
frowns and whispers

I can't do this in a vacuum
I'll stick everything in
formaldehyde if I must, if
words can't live free in your heart, I'll
tie em down on paper
like every educated
caveman, hunting my
mammoth in mammoth-cliques with a big drunken stick, oh
to flame once high, twice,
thrice before burning out!

I see no end to the rain, but I
see you're impatient so
don't wait up -
I've got the whole field to enjoy. And
tomorrow the desert blooms, technicolour
kaleidoscope and the smell of morning mist
seducing the
Sahara and
the cracked dead earth weeps
colours as double-rainbows encircle the


email I never sent you on my birthday

the truth (emotional, not objective. hard on the stomach but it sets you free?)i guess i come on too strongi should never have told you that i like you so much. it's given you a big head.and i know this is none of my business but -i can't kiss you any more if you're sleeping around.but you're right, it's actually very much my business. but what i mean i have no right to wish you wouldn't mess around, which is another no-brainer. or maybe i do have a right, not an objective one but certainly an emotional one.i guess that is my fear, that i'm just another notch on your scorecard, a one-dimensional idiot in one of your stories. maybe some guys could deal with that buti can't, ie can't still want to be intimate with you even when i know you are having 'personal time' with others. it's not that I believe in monogamy so much asi deserve better. or maybe i don't deserve better, buti would eventually want you as my girlfriend - this much i have come to understand about me and my developing feelings for you, feelings you are trying to stamp out in their infant stages, perhaps because i'm simply not that attractive (um, no) perhaps b/c you don't want to hurt me because i'm 'nice'. and you don't trust yourself not to hurt me, because you seem to have a lot of baggage which you don't hesitate to bring up in order to scare me. hey, nothing helps a neurosis like spreading it around. everyone has a past, i can live with that. i can deal with baggage. but what i can't live with- you are sending out so many signals that youdon't want to or can't be with me, at the same time you lean in to kiss me. now i enjoy kissing you immensely but i'm reading the signals loud and clear.i know i deserved to have my mind fucked with afterthe way i dealt with the m____ thingmaybe you felt like second fiddle, which i feel truly awful about, but ireally i thought i was doing the proper thing by telling you i couldn't go out with youbecause she was there first, which is really the only reason, ie that she and i had more ofa history which when i read it over actually sounds gutless and even more horrible. but that is so in the past, an immature relationship with absolutely no intimacy - and i'm trying i'm trying to move forward.you keep bringing up her name whenever i tell you that'i like you too much', which makes it basically impossible to move forward,as though for some reason youdon't believe that i like you, like you as in like you for you, not just because you are hot or pretty or it's what i need to say to get you to sleep with me. trust me i don't want to sleep with someone who isn't madly attracted to me or who has doubts as to whether i'm worth it. i am realizing now i should back off. that's what you want. you suspect that i'm not worth it.some things i guess i shouldn't tell, or ask. but you say that you like the truth, well here it isi really do like you, am seriously attracted to yo, mind and body, and perhaps yes i'm looking for a little soul.i wish you could believe that; you choose not to, or you just like to play games i'm not sure, or perhaps i suspect this worst of all - that you don't trust yourself not to screw it up if we were serious so you'll sabotage it from the getgo and hey that's why you keep telling me how you're moving out of town within the year. ok i get it that's a pretty obvious hint. but part of me suspects it's an attempt at fooling me into thinking it could never work but really you're fooling yourself to believe it will never work because you realize to your dismay i am a goddamn good catch and oh the irony now you've got me on the hook - there for the taking - but you're afraid to get tossed overboard yourself, lose control and so you're trying to throw me back before your life gets jarred from its newfound comfort zone. well on a superficial level i can understand you value comfort and but really that's just cruel and for someone who hates fishing it's damn hypocritical to let me danglei'm sorry. really not in the habit of being this conceited. unforgivable really.- I still think we can be incredible.(no pressure)

Marilyn and John Share a Bottle of Wine

...a conversation between two people who won't admit they're in love

(printed in Queen's Journal, October 2001)

John: So what are we drinking this time?

Marilyn: It’s a Merlot. I think that means it’s French or something

John: I think you’re wrong--aren’t there Chilean Merlots? The last time I went to Chile I heard some guy raving about his province's wine. He was a very patriotic drunk. “Errazuriz. Irresistible, it is”...swig it if you’re a pig for bliss. [raises glass]. It’s almost Hallowe’en. A toast then. To evil...

M: ‘To evil’… [clinks glass, sips, swallows, pauses] You liar. You’ve never been to Chile. You’ve never even been to Chilifest. What do you know about fine dining?

J: Enough to know half a bottle of this wine will make me horny.

M: Keep yourself zipped--mouth and fly, please.

J: [pauses, sips] Nothing like a little Merlot to cleanse the palette, clear the air, and wipe away the inhibitions. In vino veritas. Check that. I ought to say In vino, ‘chance-for-ass’.

M: You better stop right there, stallion.

J: [pauses, blinks, laughs] God forgive me. I’m already drunk, aren’t I?

M: Yes you are. Behave yourself. I’m a respectable dame, not one of your Mac-Corry floozies.

J: “Floozies”?… Why, how dare you impugn the reputation of those fine ladies of the Daddy-Mac! They study hard, and, dammit, they play hard.

M: [laughing] I’m serious. Behave. I’m whipping out the yellow card--I don’t care if you are an Italian superstar.

J: Oh, c’mon! It’s just a bottle of wine between friends. We’re friends, right? You’re overestimating my depravity, Marilyn. Don’t tell me Todd is gonna get jealous if I slip a little Shiraz into your goblet...

M: [sips from glass] Shuh-riz?

J: No, Shir-az. It’s for ‘strong, direct, men’. That’s what the wine list says.

M: You, John, are neither strong nor direct. Why would you need an entire bottle of wine to seduce me, if you consider yourself such a man-beast?

J: [laughing] Ohhh, “man-beast”! I like that one. That’s what they used to call me in grade six: Johnny Man-Beast. [pauses, raises glass, sips] Does the wine get you going?

M: No comment. I’m not going to encourage you.

J: But we both enjoy wine! God, Marilyn, we have so much in common--you, me, and the human race. Let’s stop kidding ourselves, and start having babies! C’mon, put your glass down. [makes sweeping movement with his hand] Why wait? This table will do nicely.

M: [blushes, laughs] There it is—the depravity! …As reliable as death and taxis. [laughs] I mean death and taxes.

J:[under his breath] Now who’s getting drunk?

M: I think I am. A clear case of John-induced depravity.

J: Depravity? What depravity?

M: Your depravity.

J: I’m the good Catholic boy, remember? God, Marilyn, for someone of your heathenish background, you sure do blush easily. Don’t you ever have any fun, Ms. Trudy Prude-y?

M: Me, a ‘Trudy Prude-y’? As if. Todd snaps his fingers and I come a-runnin’. No need for vino, Gino. Just a big hunka burnin’ Latino. That’s what gets me going. [barks like a dog]

J: That, my dear, is gross. And you, my dear, are loaded. And now I’m blushing… you probably shouldn't be telling how easy you are.

M: I’m not easy. I’m just hot for my Latino boyfriend! [laughs, clearly drunk].

J: Todd? He’s Latino? You gotta be kidding.

M: [laughing] No, not kidding.

J: No way--I thought for sure that I had the market cornered on Marilyn’s hot-blooded dark-eyed Romance-language love interests. What’s his last name?

M: Get this—it’s Poncedeleone. It’s his great-great-grandfather’s name… Todd Poncedeleone. Can you beat it? He’s one-sixteenth Paraguayan—but I am sure I’ve told you that about Todd before.

J: It’s possible, I suppose. I must have got him confused with all your other fractionally-Paraguayan friends named Ponce de Leon. [grins]

M: Shut up, idiot. [throws crumpled napkin in his direction. It misses by a foot] At least I can remember things about your life that you tell me. [raising her voice] Like how you have to eat the outside crusts of all your sandwhiches before you move on to the middle part of the bread--What did you call it, John? A ‘nervous childhood habit’? Let’s hope that’s the only nervous childhood habit you have left…

J: Lay off my childhood. Are you implying I still wet the bed?

M: [pauses, leans forward] Do you?

J: You’ll find out tomorrow morning, won’t you? Wink wink, nudge nudge.

[they both laugh] Oh my, that’s just gross. [pauses, looks around] But that reminds me, where are the washrooms in this place?

M: In the back, by the round thingy in the corner.

J: [sees the ‘round thingy’ in the corner, gets up] Excuse me, dear. I have to pee. [leaves for washroom]

[At the table, Marilyn tries to straighten out her curly dark hair. She stares at the wine glasses with one eye closed, feeling a definite buzz. As John returns to the table, she smiles at him and refills both glass with the Merlot. John sits down, they clink glasses; he takes a moderate sip]

M: So you broke the seal, eh?

J: Broke the seal? Heck, I practically clubbed it to death and sold the fur to the Dutch Overseas Trading Company! [grins in self-satisfaction]

M: You’re a sick bastard, John.


J: Would you ever go out with me, Marilyn?

M: I could probably marry you, John. But I would never want to be your girlfriend.

J: What’s that supposed to mean? I thought I was the one who spoke in riddles.

M: Is it really a riddle?

J: Is that the question?

M: You just got your answer.

J: Marry me? You sound like you’re ninety-five percent serious about that.

M: Nope. Off by three.

J: Ninety-two?

M: Guess again. Ninety-eight.

[they both pause]

J: Off by two per cent. Dammit. I was almost perfect.

M: And why are you so worried about being perfect?

J: Why do I want to be perfect? Isn’t it obvious? Why would anyone like anyone, unless they were perfect?

M: Perfection is boring.

J: You are not boring, that’s for certain.

M: And you certainly are not perfect.

J: I know, I know. Say it again. [grins stupidly] It’s just so hard to believe

M: [serious] You’re not perfect, John.

J: Ok, don’t rub it in.

M: You aren’t perfect, and I think it bothers you.

J: Are you being serious?

M: One hundred per cent

J: I wish you wouldn’t be. I’m trying to get you drunk.

M: I wish you had more faith in yourself. I’m trying to help you.

J: Is this still about me forgetting Todd Poncedeleone’s last name? You have to forgive me, please. I have a horrible memory for the life details of individuals whom I utterly despise. So what if I forgot Todd’s genealogical heritage. It’s a mistake, I admit… but one I am completely content with.

M: [completely serious] Christ, John, will you please stop carrying on like a jackass? And why do you always have to bring up Todd every time you try to get me drunk? It’s a horrible way to ruin a girl’s evening.

J: But at least it's a surefire way to keep myself outta trouble.

M: What?

J: You know, by talking about your boyfriend all the time. It keeps everyone on the right side of the fence.

M: Why safe? What happened to depravity?

J: Christ, Marilyn, do you honestly think I would let you cheat on your boyfriend? I am just joking.

M: How serious are you about that?

J: You want a percentage?

M: Sure, why not. Give me a number.

J: Go to hell, Marilyn. I’m not reducing our relationship to arithmetic.

M: This mock seduction of yours could get out of hand, John. The wine doesn’t help.

J: That’s pretty ominous. But who’s mocking who? You’re constantly trying to make a fool out of me. I’m not as stupid as I look, Marilyn.

M: Exactly. I‘m always a little afraid of you, John. Despite your drunken ramblings, I’ve always felt that you know exactly what you’re doing.

J: [genuinely surprised] Hey, if I knew what I was doing, would I waste my time hanging out with a girl who’s already taken? [pauses] Huh?… [ exasperated] Listen. Do you think I could ever respect you again if I made you do something you would regret?

M: That’s a dangerous thing to say. I won’t even touch it.

J: You’ve been teasing me since day one.

M: You love it. And I would have no respect for you if you never did anything about it.

J: That’s a dangerous thing to say. It might make me want to touch you.

M: Hands off, John. We’re in public.

J: Relax, I’m no animal.

M: Just a man-beast, right? [smiles]

J: [ignoring her, takes another sip of wine] I would marry you too. But I could never date you. Why date any one person? It’s such an arbitrary thing to do.

M: I don’t know what that word means.

J: ‘Arbitrary’. It’s a good word. I like it.

M: If it’s such a good word, then why don’t you date it?

J: [firing back] If I can date a word, then why won’t you marry Todd?

M: That’s a stupid comeback, and a stupid question. The answer is that I always know what Todd’s thinking. I need somebody who keeps me on my toes.

J: Todd is kind of a lummox, isn’t he?

M: Leave him alone. I’m going to break up with him someday.

J: Stop teasing me, Marilyn.

M: Don’t kid yourself, John. It has nothing to do with you. [pause] Will you ever get married?

J: Married. Oh yeah. I’ll get married so often, I’ll die with rice marks on my face*. [they laugh]

[he pauses, sighs] Nothing ruins a romantic evening so easily as talk about love or marriage.

M: That’s a cheesy cliched thing to say—it’s gonna give me gas.

J: Cheese makes you gassy? Oh, that’s right. You’re lactose-intolerant... I had forgotten you were a lactard.

M: Yes indeed, I am a lactard. I’m impressed that you remembered.

J: [looks over to the round thingy in the corner, thinking it might be a clock] What’s the time? [looks at the bottle of Merlot, now empty] What happened to the wine?

M: Are you still talking about wine? “Errazuriz. Irresistible, it is.”

J: We’re not talking about wine. I thought you were whining about cheese. [grins]

M: Stop being clever, John.

J: You wanna get out of here?

M: Yes, let’s get out of here.

J: Waitress, cheque please! .

[waitress comes over with blil. John pays it.] Wine’s on me. No arguments.

M: No argument here.

J: Let’s take this outside.

M: Good suggestion.

[they stand up. Marilyn takes last look at the table ]

M: You’ve got good taste in wine, John, but I would never want to be your waitress.

J: Why’s that? Wouldn’t I keep you on your toes?

M: No no no. It’s nothing to do with that

J: What is it then?

M: [smiles, pauses, whispers in his ear] You’re a lousy goddamn tipper. Plus, you know... you kinda smell.

J: Go to hell, Marilyn.

M: Hee hee…there’s my boy. Let’s get a cab …

[exeunt restaurant]

(when I was 22 I knew everything.)

*line inspired by Tom Waits, Nighthawks at the Diner


Avenue and Bloor

I had another nightmare
- I called 9-1-1
to save your life
could have done more
grabbed your broken body and
screamed murder at the traffic
you ambushed from behind rolling
end over end under metal and rubber

you exploding all over the walk
leaky red fountain from the knees
adrenaline holds you up, together
everything points in the wrong direction

everything ok?
you’re gonna be ok
sir – please, tell me your name
he can't remember his own name
head injuries and internal bleeding

I didn’t see it
could have happened to me; it happens
guess I know I
live in the big city

ambulance arrives in minutes
but he just kept screaming
“I’m not doing so good”
yeah yeah yeah goddammit you
run over by a truck.