Forget about those feeling that existed in the past.
I think we both knew from the start
That we could never let them last.
Forget about the countless times that sparks flew from our eyes
And all the times you beat me at our game,
No matter how hard I tried.
Forget about that time we lay together on your bed
And the time we stayed out until four,
As I dug deep inside your head.
Forget about those sideways glances, hoping nobody would see,
And the times that we would sit so close,
You pressing up against me.
Forget about the gifts we gave, the time and money spent;
The time I traveled for just a week,
Yet you seemed so sad I went.
Forget about the breakfasts we ate: the bacon, eggs and toast.
Forget about all these things, please,
Because she needs you and I don’t.

Inspiration in my cereal bowl,
Cheerios swimming in milk
Inspiration in my paisley scarf,
woven tightly of silk
Inspiration found glistening in
the gemstone of my ring
Inspiration can be found
in nearly everything

I sit eating the moon; mozzarella, not swiss. The rings of Saturn glow vibrantly to my right; circular iron rods left too long in flames. I look forward, squinting to see the milky way, gleaming, glittering, like shards from a broken mirror. I inhale a lungful of galactic air; “where to next: Venus or Mars?”

Quickly colours gathered

sinking into the edges of my mind.

In florescent colours it splattered,

then in deep blue outlined.

.

Purple pulled itself into glass

reflecting remembrance into form;

while red furiously runs past

yellow moves into a swarm.

.

As my mind colours sprint and instigate

multihued with a pen I begin to create.

With your words salt water

the more I drink increases my need,

swallowing the ocean, to fulfill my greed.

As touch drags me further

.

drowning, smothered in the sea.

Swimming for a break out,

up down east in deep dark blue.

.

I’ve lost my barring and misplaced me.

Yet filed with water, not by doubt

I drink, let sink, into you.

The thing is, the whole time I thought about doing it, I was thinking about how it would affect you.  It somehow didn’t stop me though.  You’ll never get it but that’s okay. It’s hard to tell when it’s over because the itch still remains where it was just moments ago.  The resemblance is uncanny.

Roadside Tour

I didn’t even care when you told me, and that’s the absolute truth.   You’d be gone, you said, for eight whole weeks.  Singing and touring, and travelling on a bus.  It wasn’t hard to convince you that I would miss you, you believe everything I say.  When you’re gone though, I’ll form my own band.

Songs and Sounds

Our summer of soul begins,

our deepest secrets buried in the seed of the Black Locust tree.

My wild love, unknown to the changing winds,

the roots, the stems, the leaves, left only for us to see.

.

Take the signs of morning, make of them what you will,

the sunrise is your favourite, you said it on a Sunday.

From your words, a sense of silk makes its way to the hill,

a swim to the moon, a dream in your hair, so many shaded of grey.

.

An awakening saved for the keeper of keys,

it was the first thing I looked for, resembling a curl of smoke.

An unconscious uttering that conquers, that feeds,

undiscovered, obscure, misunderstood by common folk.

.

Not three words, but three letters instead,

I don’t even mind that you’re in my head.

Preface: My glosa is of the song Jay Walking Backwards by The Number Twelve Looks Like You. The lyrics are written about a homeless man that was hit by a car in a busy city. I chose this song because I admire their lyricist’s attitude for writing lyrics about witnessing that event rather than just dismissing it like everyone else must have. The song speaks of human rights, and the homeless man’s right to life, and his right to be remembered.

I workshopped my glosa and was told that the imagery created in the students’ minds was potent, but the transition from the first stanza into the second was jagged and gave an unclear meaning.

I decided not to change anything about it because I felt that the poem worked well divided into sections, each about a separate part of the incident. The first the city itself, the second the people’s interaction with the city, and the third the actual accident and its aftermath.

My Glosa:

Did you know that pedestrians always have the right of way?

Their lives came together as they danced in the street,

It’s really unexpected how some people meet.

.

The city expands and contracts as it breathes,

Lazily indulging cacophonies like these.

The people down fluvial one-ways drift,

To the waterfall of morning, while ignoring its cliff.

These streets form a dissonant symphony, so loud,

Become a face of the mass as you squirm in the crowd.

The cars and the faces lit by merciless neon gleam,

Stay focused on the river, keep drinking from the stream.

Twenty-second incidents take you to the birth of day,

Did you know that pedestrians always have the right of way?

.

Encounters come and are forgotten inside this neon vein,

We’ve all got the same mission, the same incoherent campaign.

The cabbies all have headphones and watch you as you gawk,

The river is entrancing while you’re dancing on the sidewalk.

Forget those poor gutter souls, left out by life’s current,

Ignore them as they tug your pant-leg, desperate for a cent.

It’s that ignorance that makes a city, that makes it breathe so well,

But when such an accident makes us cry, you really just can’t tell.

So none of us, moving or not, really care while we compete,

Their lives came together as they danced in the street.

.

That poor old vagrant who lost a draw of chance,

Felt loved and warm, for just a second, at the ending of his dance.

And for a few moments, like him, they were static,

Laughter died, and night became so climactic.

The verbose sense of friction in a dream without feeling,

Was so real for a second; so really unappealing.

For death was among them as the old man danced with the car,

No one could ignore him as he hit the ground that hard.

And while the current of this river pulls us to sad defeat,

It’s really unexpected how some people meet.

If I had a name like Owldrop Corkscrew

I would not shave my armpits,

And plant babies in deep holes.

My skin would sag tremendously,

I’d have the tiniest, sharpest, loveliest teeth.

My home would be covered in molding tarts and old breads.

I would hang pink curtains, practice meditation by the drainpipes.

I would only wear overalls, of varying colours and textures.

With a name like Owldrop Corkscrew, I would be filthy.

I would be beautiful

If I had a horse for every time you

Always were, I would be

Stampeded.

Horses running into my house,

To knock over candles.

Spook me when I find a

Fuzz covered caramel of

A pony in my

Kitchen, sniffing the rutabagas.

Circling me like upset buzzards.

The fastest four legged’s

Become my eggplant

Stallion-print wallpaper.

And the old mare

Neighs into my sock drawer!

If I had a horse for every time

I thought of you, well

I would have horses everywhere.