#CanadianWriters
i Behind glass in Mexico this clay doll draws its lips back in a snarl; despite its beautiful dusty shawl,
Marriage is not a house or even a tent it is before that, and colder: The edge of the forest, the edge of the desert
When you hear me singing you get the rifle down and the flashlight, aiming for my… but you always miss and when you set out the poison
Your lungs fill & spread themselve… wings of pink blood, and your bone… empty themselves and become hollow… When you breathe in you’ll lift li… and your heart is light too & huge…
The body dies little by little the body buries itself joins itself to the loosened mind, to the black…
You walked in front of me, pulling me back out to the green light that had once grown fangs and killed me. I was obedient, but
Evening comes on and the hills thi… red and yellow bleaching out of th… The chill pines grow their shadows… Below them the water stills itself… a sunset shivering in it.
He was the sort of man who wouldn’t hurt a fly. Many flies are now alive while he is not. He was not my patron.
i The children on the lawn joined hand to hand go round and round each arm going into
Snow packs the roadsides, sends du… onto the pavement, moves through vision like a wave or sand… The bus charges this winter, a whale or blunt gray
I do not mean the symbol of love, a candy shape to decorate cakes with, the heart that is supposed to belong or break;
Starspangled cowboy sauntering out of the almost– silly West, on your face a porcelain grin, tugging a papier-mache cactus
The eye is the organ of vision, and the third eye is no exception to that. Open it and it sees, close it and it doesn’t. Most people have a third eye but they don’t trust it. That wasn’...
Cruising these residential Sunday streets in dry August sunlight: what offends us is the sanities: the houses in pedantic rows, the p…
This is the lair of the landlady She is a raw voice loose in the rooms beneath me. the continuous henyard