The Essence of Winter

I am Winter, scripting dryness,
smearing a white silence
upon life.

That right now,
a million violins are grinding
air into tiny chips of music,
stings me -

I cover what I cannot undo:
my poetry is a shroud
upon this chaos.

Maybe I've Succumbed

What is it that always deals me the past?
I look back, thinking it’s a choice I make.
And yet in moments like these, aghast, 
I feel the choice is a trap, a snake.

Light comes, though is perpetually late
in telling me the truth that I have sought.
What all it brings me in a laden plate 
is the mirth of Time, a murky plot.

What use is knowing what’s forever lost!
The night sky - a story, a lie, the past.
I look; am I merely not the frost
that settles for an ever - melting part?

The leash of time has had me but numbed -
maybe my death is past, maybe I’ve succumbed.

I've Run Out of Irony

I’ve run out of irony.
I’ve run into the tyranny
of existence.

Stopped short
at the nothing that 
pervades my lungs -

I see every reckless passage
that unfolds before me.
I must walk,

I must help it fill
with my breath
until

there’s none
and I am done
being or not being.

There Isn't Enough of You

There isn’t enough of you in the mould.
Not that I still bank on the liquid gold -
it is only that I notice a power
reducing our eternity to an hour,
long like the lines that spell my sorrows,
long like your lines that tell tomorrows.
When you’re right here, I do not see enough -
enough of you, and it gets really tough
to watch more and more of you getting sold.
There isn’t enough of you in the mould.

The edges of the leaves I keep in books
shrink into syllables, these little crooks -
every song that I have been beading
into our story is only weeding
out the necessity for meaning -
and the urgency of all feeling
that I contain, that I confess to you.
I’ve now known that no music is true -
pain isn’t sung, hurt remains untold.
There isn’t enough of you in the mould.

Skull

I do not know if I am within
an insipid hollowness.
Or whether it is I
who contain the frosty skull.

I hear water flow -
blatantly congruous
to the congress of all
that is living.

But all I see is the
inevitable skull,
shorn of its connects,
and colours.

It can never look at me.
And I -
I always choose
to look at it.

Apostrophe

I purge the apostrophe
and shrink into neatness
the curl
that is my gravity.

Curtailed thus,
I find my toes flout at the limit;
there’s a wetness somewhere,
I tell myself.

Suddenly, words reveal plurals
and I slip into the interminable -
dash after dot blur
the poem.

About the Truth

About the truth, it has always been -
about the long road to all feeling.
Is not it what I have asked for, kneeling?
Is not it what has but made me sin?

Rowing my breath down the nothingness,
riding the dwindling presence of it, 
I’ve hunted the truth in every bit.
Scavenger, stooge, scribe, and poetess!

And my own truth that I long to be treasured!
Memories, that now spell differently!
Truth, labyrinthine. Truth, that gently 
reaches you, a snowflake, small, yet measured.

And at times, the truth is only a myth -
lost in its echoes, I die, a wordsmith.

The Illusion of a Horizon

What has vision won for me -
a crisis of blurring shapes?

I witness my tracing what grows
as it goes.

At times, I yearn
to tear these waves off the shore -

wear upon my shivering fingers
these shorn limits.

And then I see my fingers:

they lead me to
lines, lines, lines.

Everything that I am
is the illusion of a horizon.

Futility

I found myself staring
at the death
that hadn't stung our room enough -

a bed pronounced the shock
of the soulless body -
the futility of the shock
of the final claim ...

and I stared
at the wall beyond it.

My mind fled awhile,
invented time -

time to word
an obituary,
time to sheet the silenced
note -

time to tidy
every tiny memory of ours
that boated within me.

In this trying I forgot
that I would soon forget
what I was trying to correct.

When I have only Asking to Offer

When I have only asking to offer -
return, a God who listens to my pleas.
As I reveal this heart, a cracked coffer,
seize it all with your arms, give it your knees.

When questions hook my breath, unchain it -
when memories kite me and I soar
upon the nothing, find me and claim it -
claim the barren ground, claim the empty core.

Face my eyes, walk them towards the corner
where I worship you in newer hymns,
where I, all my infinity garner -
lead me where the world and its light, dims.

Walk me to any receding corner 
when I’ve nothing but asking to offer.

An Inheritance

I’m the daughter who
inherits questions -
I own strings that vibrate
to echoes.

My feet belong to an unswept porch -
my hands aren’t wanting
though they only keep 
a rusted blade
with a broken edge.

I hoard hollow squares
and shapes that recede -
there’s also a key
that curls into a lock -
a lock that guards memories

I might create.

A Free Orphan

That you blessed me with a loss
and that you freed me
of my rights -

that I must chew these flames
and not let the ashes
define me -

that I smoke the silence
and a damp lamp
works to warm me -

that I am nothing
to anyone
anymore.

Blindfold

Vision, a blindfold -
choking the soul,
keeping it from seeing
beyond the being,
the being.

Each sense towers,
a black height
that belittles.

I tread on an uneven silence -
my feet give in to pores
that pursue
pain.

I look away -
and deep into
the shape of letters
I find 
an unsettling language -

I’m lost to the definite.

Ashes Rise

Your ashes had looked like the choke 
you had contained, father.

We gave the silver away -
away to the noble ripples
that wore not you,
but your slipping
away.

I know that the
ashes rise
from the recesses of the river -

my heaving chest
is heavy with music.

The Burden

I wish I could
look through the curtain;
let go of what was
so certain.
Now that I am
hurting;
now that there is
the burden
of loss,
I wish I could
stop being the person

I always was.

Nothing is Unfair

Sitting in my chair,
thinking
nothing is unfair,
after all.

No prayer
is in vain;
music and the strain,
when they contain
the feeling,
relieve air
of all the weight it carries.

One's despair,
when it does not
reach another heart,
teaches one to bare
it all
to God;
to bear a God,
if there wasn't one, before.

Swiveling, in a chair,
I swell my nothings,
into meanings
that comfort.

There, there, there...

Anthem for the Alien

Stuff me into your heads, an anomaly.
I will never ever live like your ‘normally’.

Boo-hoo to the eyes that have overlooked
the burning truth; the lies over-cooked.

If hate is all you know; if you live by fear -
count me out of your herd; I’m not here.

I refuse to run around your illusion -
I refuse to hum to your confusion.

How plastic are you! How lost to a bout!
Rubbing the lamp won’t let the genie out.

My breath, as long as it is,
will never be caught into the ‘kiss’.

Stuff me into your heads, an anomaly.
I will never ever live like your ‘normally’.

Escapades

I’ve learned to punctuate 
the ‘sentence’
with escapades -

my lashes, that always bar
the view,
have been tamed into
housing an image:
his lips, moving
to the music.

They serve,
a sheet of music 
when they cannot
be windows to anything.

I punctuate 
life
with escapades -

remembering that I mustn’t remember
all the tokens I’ve been handed.

At the Funeral

We had all been wet
when you entered,
cold and wanting,
weary of the dampness.

We had noticed 
your stealth;
we had resigned to the
lateness of your arrival.

Knowing you were dismissed,
you still had crawled
into the labyrinth where
we huddled close together,
rejecting the loss
that had been thrust upon us.

You’d been the last one
to be served the loss -
clumsily, you’d picked each crumb
of what hadn’t looked real.

You’d shivered
to unspoken judgements;
you’d clung to a short breath -
nothing could warm you enough 
to help you survive
the death.

And He Talks

And he talks
until coffee lasts.

Eliot’s spoon 
animating his white fingers,
he paints her a shore
that has at its core
the need to swallow.

The cheque. The tip.
Her lip
too dry by now.

Quiet, there’s no lust for more;
she watches
a violin spill beneath his chin -

Her lip
too dry by now.

They bow.

What You Never Had

Sometimes, you miss what you never had -
silence that you could breathe in,
love in a bag around your waist;
you, walking on a bridge 
and the rain seething
at the visible breath of memories
you never made.

Empty, you thank the sun -
sinking, you clutch a wave,
thinking it is frozen 
just like all the things in your head.

Sometimes, you miss what you never had -
words, certain
like the burden
of all the taking in the world.
You miss being thanked
like you miss being warned.
You miss arms; you miss hands,
as you bank on your
infertile being.

All the things in your head -
you think if you’re as futile as a clock
that contains.

Your fingers wear long lines.

And you miss
being written about.

About Nothing

There’s nothing left to count.
There’s nothing left to save.
That you’re not here,
I now have nothing at stake.

Take, whatever you like, world -
what I prized is forever gone.
All grace is in the grave.
There’s nothing left to save.

What wait, what walking,
what will wanting do?
There is nothing I crave.
I now have nothing at stake.

What I prized is forever gone.
My fears have all come to pass.
Nothing left to brave.
Nothing that I crave.

Nothing left to count.
Nothing left to save.

Coarse Buttons Two

"Tender buttons", I tried. 
He grimaced -
“I must tell you friendly in your ear,
sell when you can,
you are not for all markets.”

"A rose, is a rose, is a rose, is a rose -
wilt it will; throw in some prose."

"Fat cow! Prompts a gut."

"Confused nut - rhyme it must.

Purple the pig, time the earnest -
loop the squarish sunset."

Goat! Toad! Looney bamboo!
I will do - I will do - I will do - I will do -
what I can do, what I can do,
what I can do."

"Nickel. Farthing. Dime.
Peanut the fucking rhyme."

"Villain!"

"See you again!"

I Don't Look it Any More

I know I don’t look it any more.
My steps aren’t as light 
and my eyes aren’t as orgasmic.
Something within me
has befriended autumn;
something that I exude
is dryness.

I only look at people dancing -
and tapping of feet 
nauseates me.
People, when they get closer,
appear to me 
so distant.
I know I don’t look it any more.

I’m tired of trying to remember -
I’m weary of having to create
memories.
Why does every city I go to
offer me souvenirs?
I’m tired of the load of pictures
that are thrust upon me
when I sleep.

I am tired of pretending 
that I am sleeping.

You're Rowing the Boat

You’re rowing the boat
I am sleeping in.
Where are you taking me,
unaware?

I wake up to the murky waters
and you lull me into death
again.

As you bead my heartbeats
into an intricate web,
you point
to the stars and ask me 
to be inspired.

You weave me an endless
spiral of dreams to wear -
why must I accept it
as love?

Where are you taking me?
Why are you taking me
there?

Every hint at awareness
weakens my desire to wake up -
you weave me a spiral
and I watch you
from behind the shutters
of my eyes.

I've Lost

Who rode time that night -
who knows what was fleeting
away -
who'd tell that the heaving darkness
was my heart
beating?

Strings did survive knots
and blood beat its clots -
vibrations fell and settled -
the universe in sleep
at last?

But I've lost what I've lost.

And I've lost.

Drowned into the Shallows

You have drowned me into the shallows -
and the ironies aren't bait to my mind -
I'm lost to thoughts but never out of love;
I poem it all and burn only Time.

That I loved you is what consolation?
That you know it does not have me secure.
Yet there is truly nothing better than
living by the death that you've brought me.

More of the illusions, I ask, do I
need a fiercer knife? Or a lighter...
to rekindle me, a cigarette
you had smoked but one full winter!

Living by the death that you’ve brought me...
That you know it does not have me secure.