cantina.

samson ignored me this morning/ he glanced up from his usual post and then one paw in front of the other without a glance he walked right by/ i understand/ i don't feel like talking to anyone in the morning either/ and/ he had grass to eat/

lucy's back in the office this morning looking a tad perkier, tho, she still has splotches of brown/ poor lucy/

had a wicked little feast with s last night/ raspberry mint moitos and the best EVER guacamole/ sooooooooooo tasty/ it's in the hood and proven by the boy's sitting beside us would make a grand *#@! restuarant... ahhh, too bad there are no more *#@! pour moi... happy as a clam, happy as a clam/

reading: the longlonglonglong awaited new noval from Sarah Waters The Night Watch and devouring every word...
listening to: tracy chapman, kinnie star....
watching: i can't believe i missed this week's Top Model... i'm SO not gonna win Top Model. damn.
drinking: coffee.
wearing: black on black skirt, boots, and hoodie.
wanting: only more.
missing: it's too early...
looking forward to: seeing c tomorrow... the way you say the word tomorrow, seeing s next week... clearing up and out.

hello.

getting lost in my fantasies of having a dog again marching to work this monday morning/ SOME people get baby pains, i get doggie pains/ visiting with neighbours that have built small paradises in their apartments/ seven little turtle's, one orange cat, running water, lily ponds, and a toad named william/ creative thought and sublime care pouring out of every surface/ count the days on your fingers and toes now/ misspelling coccyx/ glucagon contrast study/ and/ oral cholecystogram/



ugh.




monday.

it's the first day of spring and i am wearing shiny emerald cinderella like slippers.../ i am taking thing's moment by moment... moment by moment in this office/ here and now/ not 10 minutes from now... not even 3 minutes from now... only here and now/ and it takes all my concentration/ because i have a mind that jumps around like a class of thirty kindergarten children at recess/ skipping rope/ basketball/ tag/ a mind that whines fulfillment/ here and now/ here and now/ here and now... trying to find joy in little duties like removing staples and small talk with fractured strangers/ trying to remember why i took this job.../ stop/ there goes the mind again... here and now/ here and now/ here and now... but knowing that i won't be told to shhhhhh... or finger wagged like a 5 year old... but, it's the first day of spring and i am wearing shiny emerald cinderella slippers... here and now/ here and now/ here and now...

happy as a clam.

feel three thousand miles away...and you didn't even even last an hour/ i have boredom stuck in the marrow of my bones and cat scratches on my skin/ my girls called from mtl last night they were all together and nostalgia set in hard and fierce/ i can't wait to be closer/ the moon has crossed her lines/ and i am about to enter the red tent/ i can't wait for the heat of summer to seep into my skin and i know toronto will have sweaty walls... / and as i denied access last night and replied with a swift no spine stiff walked up and out i know i grew (if just a little) bit taller/ this making up for the inch or two i shrank as i swallowed inappropriate comment's with a letsjustpretendididnthearyousaythat glance shot from the corner of my eye and you know i feel a little bit sick every time you watch me walk away... and you know i've never thought clam's looked all that happy.

i want to know her name.

for three nights now you've been meandering through my dreams/ little things/ you hold my hand/ i wake you up/ i even met your dad... a man i'd never seen before/ nice man/ and i took my leave (which, i should mention was the important part)/ a dream/ a lump in my throat/ you have made it on the list/ the small list of names... the list of names that mark a circle on my heart and live languidly in my solar plexis...


next time i see your ghost, i'm going to introduce myself.





because...

you. my best thing.

trying to stay quiet and keep my own council/ had a sunny/sunny weekend... i can't wait for hot weather and flip-flops/ feel my toes wiggling in the greengreen grass/ long walks and water/ knowing i need to make a final call regarding july 1st... to move or not to move; that is the question?/ fuck/ weight/ weighing the/ prosandconsprosandconsprosandcons/ wait?/ and knowing it's not nearly that easy/ re-discovered tracy chapman... how could i have forgotten? that voice.../ silky smooth lyric's that hit right in the solar plexis/ WHAMWHAMWHAMWHAMWHAM/ a pure delight/ i noticed saturday morning as i sang along that i re-discovered her when i discovered you/ and/ the title of the album... telling stories/ beautiful/ i laughed until i cried and cried until i laughed again... pure joy/ there is fiction in the space between/ the lines on your page of memories/ write it down but it doesn't mean you're not just telling stories/ but in the fiction of the space between sometimes a lie is the best thing/ sometimes a lie is the best thing.

and for this reason alone... i crinkle at the edges of my eyes and smile until my face hurts... and we are just a few hours away from the ides of march.

good luck.

i grin like a hard-wired fool at small things,
like pretty girls in pretty clothes

this clandestine care/

hovering in the drafty interior of your first floor of letters without meaning;
as i whisper softly in your ear nicenicework

the force of me.

rending into the palms of women/ look up at me wild eyed and whisper excuse me miss but this won't fit/ i am predisposed.

i tend to have skin that silks and bubbles overtime/ over time/ lead on/ lead in/ look/ make far/ move toward

and this.../ the force of me/ love strong/ vehement and violent/
as i flex and extend
fully.




nil acute.

backbone.

trying to be quiet i go to bed early and wake up late/ wake with youhaveonemillion messages beeping on the line with people checking/ checking/ provocative dreaming/ dreams of comfort and whole pieces/ dreams of my hand at your back/ pulsing like a baby bird/ avoiding screen images knowing they are not for my eyes/ constructed/ using other womens words because i feel like mine are spent/ drinking strong black coffee because thats how i drink my coffee and sometimes milky sweet (as i choose to believe your handonmyhand could have been) and not to take away that piece of sweetsweet something/ gingerly / holding for you/ place finger on keys... heart on sleeve/ i will revisit/ i will revisit...

nothing sinks (however) night is passing
to dive head first into reality
such a compatible writing, its inks
i'm dispersed/multiple savour of lucidities

(bec.) the only reality
in body the (fiction) or this time
the mental space of the word women in ink
calls forth the unrecorded from myths and torment
turning point of the imaginary of forms of comfort

i thought in profile and face to face
that nothing could put an end
to this skin of origin we know
splendidly in our territories
that this battle skin
knife undertow _______________ eyes
that break up and bind turn amatory
phrases that address (letters)
women whose curves scintillate

(crisis) for me linked to words
(machine for divining symbols)
to the softness of lips, of eaux-de-vie
in the angle of neurological drifts

because cities are circuses of dream
about which we think
since..........the obliqueness of fogs
in this expression we are speaking
integral, in the fog of avalanches
my woman, so that no cliche
separates us


~nicole brossard

angels in america.

and to you it means nothing/ like your hollow words/ a tool/ me your play- mate/ a tonka truck car mat bright coloured roads/ grotesque fool/ a joke/ as i carved red into my arms and sat dripping in the whitewhite wall's and attempted to answer questions to the justdoingmyjob/thesearemystudents/theywillbewatchingmeandnotyou on duty psych nurse/ mary/ as she calls my wounds 'superficial' trying to think up answers to whatthesourceofmypainis/ as i sleep for 18 uninterupted hours because giving to you has exhausted me and i want it back/ feeling like a child/ being picked up and coddled thinking thisispathetic and justmakeitstop/ the you in this not the [you] you but more the proverbial you the all of you/s/ because/ i knew/ i knew/ knowing you ripped off those lines and fed them to me like a malnourished tiger i drank them down/ every letter was hand picked/ hand crafted/ but not for me not for me.

should have known.

i deleted them because she _____________.



not a fucking word.

























































































































love.