Sunday, January 02, 2011

Pants on Fire

Am I brave enough (from the vault)

I said you wouldn't lie
But I was wrong.

Only the words
tumbling from your deceptive lips
speaking the truth.

Your body 
contains all falsehoods.

Your fingers move and glide
with fraudulent adoration
and tendreness.

You hands reach out 
in deceiving caress.
Pledging careful protection
but dispensing violence.

Your arms embrace me
implying shelter,
yet you deliver destruction.

Even your dick, you(r) prick
with counterfeit promise
pretending to speak
the language of love.


Somedays you are everywhere.

I raise my small cup to the spout
and release the cleansing liquid
you bought me. It was on sale.

My panasonic ring calls out
your name
and the mouse scurries into my bag
bearing witness 
to you.

Hand in glove,
porch light,
satchel over shoulder.
You are everywhere.

Even this road trip
once traversed with you
brings reminders of painful final days
all downhill.

It seemed we would be
comfortable together
old & content
until the string of an apron
bound around you long ago
refused to give freedom and
you did not know
you had the strength of a man
to pull the steak from the ground
and free yourself.


I am unable to escape
the sense it is 
not finished
or my hopeful wishful
thinking has baited me

Did I imagine the refrain in my head
"this is the one 
for whom you have prayed"

I'm even afraid to
commit it to black and white
lest my hope is deferred
and I am heart sick.


Crown glass
older than it's contents
garage sale score
just 50 cents.

Those old things are great
they line my shelves and protect
provisions, staples, spices.

This one has been the safe keeper
of history collected in thrift.

I examine the covers
phone numbers (7 digits only)
likely reassigned by now
travels stretching east,
inns, motels
restaurants afar west.

Princeton, Perth,
Orillia, Oshawa
Kitchener, Cobourg.

Peaceful dinners with a faithful friend,
lover, son or daughter.

Matchbooks unconsciously slid in jacket pocket
while smooth scotch mint tumbles across
mountains of molars
to rest, tucked against cheek.

Key turns in ignition
and all 8 cylinders rumble to life
away on adventure or
heading home
or with little ones sprawled,
asleep in the back
long before car seat.

Each packet tells me a story
as I pull them through the wide mouth
of the glass Crown jar
one by one.

And I'm left wondering
did Sue & Bob make it the 
the 34th celebration of their day?
October 9th, 1976
preserved in silver script
bottled in glass.