191. Marius à Javert

hours & minutes

après minuit,

your call

dings

several times in my

barely lit

apartment

smiling in spite of myself –

I check and answer

other messages,

stalling before I answer yours

yet –

out of fear, and

excitement

the purple & white

square

glows sunset amidst

notifications

I check the little litany of

messages

once,

twice,

thrice -

still in

queenly

defiance

your photos

illuminate my screen

once more –

I imagine us together

by that twilit

lake, your

dark eyes smiling

into

mine

the first

touch of your

tender yet

strong

hand

hours –

minutes –

past midnight

I am ablaze and

afire with

pangs of new love?

infatuation?

or is it precisely

the mystery

that keeps us –

me –

enthralled?

is it simply

friendship you want?

my own crazed

heart spinning

imaginations and

prophetic

fantasies?

I think of at the love

my partner

and I

share

finally, a

deep and

trusting bond

safe and perhaps

not so

intoxicating

isn’t all love

a thrill at first?

perhaps I only seek

these virtual

sparks

which will always

dissipate

I muse on

love and

faith

in the darkness,

on options

and time seems

such a feeble

foe

to

intensity

buzz

buzz

goes my

phone in the

dark

beckoning,

taunting

innocent

conversation,

I tell

myself

April 24, 2020

Montréal, QC

190. To the pregnant woman

To the pregnant woman that
missed the
Grand River Transit
bus 7B to Fairview
Park:

I didn't realize you
just missed the
bus I just
left:

by the time I
realized, you were
running after it,
desperate:
did the driver not
realize either?

your dark skin
glistening in the
hot summer air,
late for an interview
or from one?

I wanted to offer a
ride, I thought as I
already started back to my
apartment, and you
were already walking
to the next
stop.

Stay put, I want to
say - the next bus
will be
by in a few
minutes - (I
check this later,
for my own
conscience)

I want to tell you
this,
too -

but I was tired and
sweaty and
wanted to
get home
myself -

selfish or just
a missed
opportunity, I
wondered, and
still
do;
with a
twinge of
regret and guilt
as I write this,
hoping.

August 21, 2018
Waterloo, ON

176. Toronto Half-Life

sketches of a relationship between _______

I – јабука

Beauty is a liquid gold –

The sun is

on you or –

you

are

the sun!

Gilt, your

silver hairs

glisten, caught like

rare riches

in a sea of ebony – every

marble Hercules

and god

incarnated.

my fingers burn

at the

paper

cup;

tongue burns

at the

apple

brew

I have nowhere

but to

melt,

gold glistening

everywhere,

You

Alone

shine

with its

molten glow - !

II - ноћ

breath crystallized in

the crisp, late

night:

ears still ring

with chords and

trills and

fioratura - mine,

at least –

Light meets

window;

glass meets

the

eyes:

Feet crunch on the

carpet;

soft as the

grudging

snow:

keys -

checks for

company –

it’s dark out the

window, but

lights poke the

tender

sky;

I am seeing,

seeing:

couch, table,

television;

there’s a

hallway,

and there are

rooms:

there is a

computer and a

swivelly chair and

a mattress with

a wolf blanket,

it’s mildly juvenile,

but

adorable –

embarrassed, expectant –

I’m not sure how I

should respond –

he has prickly pins

blacking out at

me

I ask to kiss him

he blinks,

bewildered, surprised

as we meet

eyes

again

like an animal,

a toddler, seeing for the

first time:

this adorable

mountain of a

man

I am moving,

shifting already

The lips linger on

me, until it

forms in speech:

in that moment

your petulant eyes

implore me to stay

and yet the

briefness, chasteness

of those hushed and

starry-eyed, unhurried moments

haunts

me

warmed me

in that still slowly blossoming spring

snow did not cover

the barefaced

sidewalk

we walked in

silence, the

lamplights smiling

two figures

splotching their

pristine

path –

III - јутро

From 21 stories high,

they form a

metropolitan fugue

below:

a sea of swishing

Doppler effects,

a griddle of frying

vehicles –

The tender spring sun

pours onto my

curious skin:

light pours on

everything –

the buildings, the

people, the

roads:

still amongst the

weekend traffic,

breakfast

sounds from the other

room:

frying, cutting,

tinkling,

splashing –

footsteps plod toward:

they slow as they reach me

and with your eyes,

glancing over an

already tried and

familiar

view,

mine –

fervent, young

join years,

and we walk together,

sun over everything –

the cups, the plates, the

cutlery,

as we smile,

and

eat.

IV - плажа

Blaring from the

studded sea:

yachts aflame with

spinning bodies,

booming pop;

it is a scene from

Michael’s Marble Shop gone

wrong: rejects

happly tanning in the

breeze

photo-strown,

his perfect specimen

lies before

me

he smiles,

not of joy, not of

mirth –

of self-

satisfaction

seagulls squawk the

brazen azure

canopy,

the fizzing beer

laughs below;

photos kiss my

dewy skin –

magnetized:

I cannot

look away

from –

you are opening your

perfect, perfect

mouth –

a word

forms – !

V - Зелен

My mind in

yours:

Hand,

smooth as marble and

warm as the

hearth;

black prickles kiss my

tender

skin –

in the darkness,

the dull

thudding of the

green-and-white

rustles through the

night

we aren’t alone,

but very well as may be:

our muted whispers

dissolve into contented silence, listening

to our few neighbours,

their

moonlit chatter

evaporating

in favour of our

bliss in shared tenderness,

two hands

in harmony, in

unison.

I lean towards you:

I am loved,

safe.

VI - сив

Air thick with

pungent, stifling

gas;

pigeons lick

splattered oil spots

on splotchy asphalt

sometimes sun

glistens on the

buildings

nearby

sometimes we are

grateful the rain exists

outside the

terminal

boundary;

so many hours of

lungs

filling with

cubes of noxious

fumes; time spent so

mundane, so

ornery –

in a time before

and

after, it’s

strange to

be here

alone –

yet the air is

still thick

and the

pigeons lick

splattered

oil

spots;

and time treads

on, lungs

fill and

empty;

buses fill and

fill.

VII - терминал

You are

thirty million feet

away:

I try not

to touch

you

cold, calm,

and unchanged,

oxygen and

napkins lie

between us,

only –

May-time

light between is now an

autumnal grey:

and windows

eavesdrop

with corporate

glints in

tinted

eyes

When we are here again,

I turn without a

word.

I am so angry, so

proud.

I see you

saunter away through the dashboard

as usual,

lonesome and

unafraid -

it is the Last Time

we will huddle in the

fumes of the

terminal.

I yearn for

the sun-scented

oxygen of

our

shared summer,

and the quiet of your

hand in mine

in the

gentle darkness:

It has been long

since my eyes smiled

into yours so

tenderly;

these are now eyes

which know

these gold-gilt dreams

spin further backward, backward,

as I spin forward,

remembering,

in spite of

me.

168. Cattle through the Peepholes

circles:
blinking eyes
beyond,
eyelashes long and
golden, dusty;
flies
interspersed

still yet
moving,
inches become
miles,
through alchemy
to kilo-
metres

skin beneath
metal,
air beneath
exhaust fumes:
and in the driver’s seat
the unthinking
be-jeaned,
be-plaid-shirted
blue collar
robot

driving,
surviving,

one eye:

glassy,
still, and
searching

159. XP

A child with Xeroderma pigmentosum.

Photography By: Sarah Leen

Image Source: National Geographic

So.
much.
Sun.

beekeeper
alien

Black mesh:
mask
hijab

Swirling laughs,
sliding up and
down

Regarding
all alone,
shoes upon the
gravely
lack of
ground;

GO
Mom
says –

bare arms and
open smiles,
twirling pigtails;

Red:
burning,
metal igniting in the
toxic
leaden
rays

Sparkling in the noontime heat:
rectangle,
mass-produced,
delectable –

another
leaps to the
sand;
pounces, pummels:
siren sounds;
a group occludes,
greens and
blues and
reds too –

158. BUBBLE

For whom?

do the
hollow shelves
wait

the dusky
archives and
yellowed
magazines
beckon –

The
ants still
mill about,
carts rolling,
volumes flitting
back
upon
shelves;

Frictionless
vacuums
where
children
play

algorithms and
formulae
[formulas?] and
conservation of
energy &
mass and
momentum;

acceleration,
inclined planes and
laws of
Newton:

Silence on the floor,
despite the
creaking of
cubicles,
clicking of
lights,
buzzing of
4-year-old
Sony
Vaios…

155. Lingua Ignota

Wings flutter;
flyers in the
door-made
breeze:

lurid,
almost
desperate pleas
for
attention:
shadows remain of
careful, tack-
rent fingers

One, absorbed in
his
book,
does not
see
and yet –

unseeing
of the words
at hand:
eyes covertly
search
the gathering crowd

My then-self:
as exposed
as a half-tacked
flyer upon the
wall,

for a glimpse,
a single
glimpse
of my
beloved

who, despite
my careful
planning,
could not
alter what was
to be:

One poster
upon
another,
plaster on
plaster and
paper on
paper:

151. PILOT

Still lay the
body,
blood
sprayed upon the ashen
cheeks,

blue uniform
specked
with
white
          debris.

Laying on the
tilèd
       floor
of what was once
the second
bathroom.

Gentle
          Face,
do I look upon thee with
sadness?

At one time
still upon the
mantelpiece, yet
full of life,
and yet here,
now in life
and full of
stillness –

You rest in
death so
quiet -

I want to say:
“We are reunited
once more;
how I have waited for
this fateful
day –”

Or should I stand in
silence,
full of pity and
reverence,

or Hate:
shouting “Muori
                         dannato!”,
over a body
             “Muori”
I didn’t
             “Muori”
kill?
             “Muori!”

Oh, as still
in death
as in
life,
the same
coldness and
neglect

I think I might
stay a while,
observing this
strange specimen,
at once so
new and so
familiar –

Except it is
not my house the
plane collided
with, not
my bathroom the
Pilot
died peacefully,
my puzzled eyes
beholding
this face
once more

But here in the
dark, star-lit
museum of the
mind,
the body can
rest,

eternal in its stillness;
quiet in its
permanence.

147. Little Litany

Little unborn
fetus,
peeking through the
window of a
burrowed
egg:

Sympathetic arteries
trail to and
from your
thumping
body

So exposed, so
fragile: your heart is
beating; it is
a tiny
miracle –
a strange thing
to see such
inner workings
crudely
revealed

We are
injecting you with
strange
fluids,
failing to
explant
you

We have
mangled the
yolk and
you are blurred
in
the aftermath;

Upon rediscovery
you are
hovering,
heartbeats
faltering

I am so
sorry

I say, over and
over as
you fade, as your
heart
stills

Poor little
chicken embryo,
I am so
sorry;

We are discarding you into
a plastic
bucket
used for
cherry
picking some
summers
ago

I would like to
say a
prayer for your
unborn
soul

But I am not
religious, and we
are surrounded by
uncommon
melancholy

Or I am,
as the others leave and
discuss their
weekend plans

I am left,
devastated – for
what?

The sacrilege of a
stifled life,
dissected and
discarded

I am haunted,
and I am
so,
so
sorry.

141. Glossolalia

Butterflies,
coy smiles:
I like to think
I am still naïve enough,
not yet jaded;

that I still believe
there is
love and beauty
in the world:

it is horrendous
thinking this is
all there is –

one needs a little
fantasy,
a diversion once
in a while

something to bring us
out of our
sullen moods,

to take us out of our
fatalistic musings,
and remind us

We are young,
there are moments ahead
and years behind us
already.

Let us laugh and
giggle,
foolish today,
not knowing if they
will ring again
tomorrow,
not knowing if we are
being altogether too
insincere;
for in this life,
we survive,
we enjoy.

139. Grandma’s

Dust is everywhere;
so is dog hair, cat hair, granny hair.
Old monochromatic photographs,
black and white, rest beside giraffes;
dollar-store dolphins on the mantle
complete the odd ensemble.

Orotund, magnanimous reminders
of a foreign past of hers
finds stasis in this irony:
grandiose relics in harmony
with cheap trinkets,
purchased as tourists do from over-eager merchants.

As if to eradicate
longings for another place,
they are placed, souvenirs,
living with the present, ghosts, for fear
that memory is not enough, that
physical mementos are evermore more apt;

Rummaging through this
strange apartment, it is
odd to feel small
in the magnitude of
such frailty.

Everything here feels
disembodied and disconnected.
Stories of the “old country”
flit in and out of my
head as I finger aimlessly
though album leaves,
eyeing hopelessly
the digital clock on the
stainless steel
microwave.

I am almost powerless as I
realize I am in a shrine to
my past,
our past,
locked in a bygone
identity housed in
another which
makes even
less
sense.

I am trying to care, but
I am confused.

138. Coal Workers

Easy to
regard dirtied
blue-collar workers
with a wry
eye –
there is certainly
something
that makes us
special,
protected:

Clothed in warm
furs,
Tchaikovsky
flitting between our ears
via iPods,
iPads –

After a fall,
we pick ourselves
up late at night,
completely vulnerable;

we
realize:
this is life,
happy or
less so,
it carries on in its
drab
shades…

Forced to confront the
reality of our condition,
the frigid weather,
the boring country and its
resolute permanence

We look at ourselves
and the grey walls and
wonder, how much is
delusion?

How many escapist
stories have we told
ourselves to escape
these
cold winters,
dry summers?

The geese flee
and return
as we ponder these
Grecian thoughts,
not insensitive
nor enlightened;
but better off that
way,
perhaps.

133. Skins of our fathers

After the rain,
the frightened insects
emerge,
surveying the damage,
knowing this battered land
is what remains
and what must be
lived through.

How many tears have irrigated
this unruly soil in
vain?

Suns will one day emerge,
but how, but
when?

In such darkness and
uncertainty, how
strong must one be,
to trust,
to hope!

131. Bite-Size

A moment of indulgence;
for I have spilled my soda,
and you are searching for
napkins:

right pocket, left
pocket, jacket –
meanwhile, I have
tissues, tucked precisely
in my own
backpack

watching you struggle is
adorable, perplexing, as if
slight suffering
justifies
affection

What does it mean
to not expect,
and be surprised?
To not desire,
but to exist in
simple
moments?

In such a fleeting
moment
of unadulterated
complicity –
is this what
friends do,
kindness in discrete,
foldable portions,
unexpected bliss
never beyond
these
confined
means?
Must we demand
more?

130. Kindness

In your eyes,
I see only coldness;
in your smile
I feel only hardness

In my mind, I
see only joy, I
feel only warmth

Only after have I been
informed
plainly,
nonchalantly

that you had not cared,
I realize how foolish I was,
how naïve I had been again,
fooled to believe in
a world of
false illusions,
forced again to return to
a bleak and
unchanging reality.

Could I have believed
a mere mortal
could transport me out of
this misery, this
eternal, natural world?

All we have are empty trees,
empty skies,
empty oxygen
filled with our misguided
dreams, lofty
expectations –

Stripped down to molecules,
what are we searching for:
meaning from our
atomic structures?
How could beauty assuage
fears, solve
insecurities?

Is it really only
escapist tendencies,
wishing to pretend there is
something more, there is
meaning?

In vain, searching
the same cold irises for
truth

Beauty is not truth;
beauty forces us to
examine, to
struggle from, to accept
our condition,
our destiny:
our frailty
and our
mortality.

128. Surveillance

Somehow the night gives pause
to this commonplace
world

An empty library lit in the
late winter darkness
glows with a new
fervour

Devoid of blood,
do we finally see its
architecture, itself for
itself?

All this
wasted electricity, which could power
a small African
village
or whose space could
house a thousand
hobos

Such irony, such impossible
possibility, is this what
we observe –

plants in an oft-neglected
window,
the tantalizing glow of a
pop
machine?

In this silence,
I reclaim
sight

Never at home when others
occupy these walls,
it is in
contemplative silence
that these buildings
seem as lonely as I
am

Yet emptied of follies,
they are locked and cold; and I
must go
before the moon begins
suspecting

127. Sylvan Daphne

Farewell,
shadows

You brought wonderful darkness
to my life,
imbued it with
strange, special
meaning

Always searching,
we can never win when we
vie with shadows

All around me
are happy faces,
all smiling;
it is my birthday,
it is Black Friday,
they are smiling all the
time

Taking my place amongst
their artificial
joy,
I realize their artifice is false
and mine is
true

it is only I who is
pretending

My only regret being
why I could never
figure out why I was so
unhappy

Always questioning,
always wondering,
always
dreaming –

Perhaps there was only this
world,
these trees,
and that is what made me so
sad

In memory of Sylvia Plath, who committed suicide on Feburary 11, 1963 at about 4:30 AM.

126. Callas Cries

So tired –
it is past anyone’s
logical bedtime

The crowd is still
cheering
the cast and crew
all
jubilant

I am so tired

Tired of E-flats
and flute cadenzas and
blood-soaked
gowns

I am tired of this
migrant
life,
receptions,
recitals,
rehearsals,

(Hear how the
audience roars –)

I missed a word tonight
in the duet with
Edgardo,
ran out of breath in the
mad scene…

Audiences hear
what they want to
hear:
success is in their
eager
hands

Roars of lions
today
jeers and boos
tomorrow –
what is success?

I failed today,
I could have done
better;
I can always do
better –
is it all absolute?
Is it just
subjective?

123. Derelict

Contained
in an impossible metallic oblong
trapped sounds
emanate

Rustling
gossiping
pens scribbling or
twirling around,
bored

eternities could not
sort through these
mysteries

they are static
at rest,
waiting

silence
is never truly
silent

Listening down the
empty line
of a half-
abandoned
phone –
podcasts, sitcoms,
pop songs
in the
foreground

There are sounds we will
never hear and
sounds we
always hear

static interferes

120. Bell A23C

As all good actors,
I act so well I forget
the role:

All of a sudden, I
abandon self and
reclaim you.

Only after the
trance I look,
disgusted at myself.

Copy of a copy,
designed artificiality:

false grain repeating on
false planks of wood;
modems glowing in their
green domains,

chanting mutely in the winter breeze

We are all the same
only I am clever enough to
copy, copy
for I am too afraid to
disrupt this elaborate,
sickening
suffocation

for I
must