Posted in eavesdrop, Poetry

je t’avait dit non

Our first
conversation after
the Chunk Lover concert, you told me
that you needed to have a little
sex, even just a blow would do.

You promised that you had a
tongue cleaner—lemon flavoured—
back at your place that I could use.

I know you weren’t necessarily trying
to be an asshole, but this was a stark departure
from our previous talks, where we debated
the merits of soft leaded pencils versus
hard ones.

The only way I could react
was to give you that weird look, which I regret

because now I seem like the maladjusted one.

But it wasn’t enough that je t’avait dit non.

Just a little sex, you insisted.
Je t’avait dit non, and that wasn’t enough.

So I had to bring up the fact
that you smelled funky.
Very horsey.

And that wasn’t enough.

Just a little sex.
Funky.
Just a little…
Horsey.
Just a…
Non.

Just
Je…
a…
t’avait…
little…
dit…

And it wasn’t enough.

-01.31.18

 

Posted in eavesdrop, Poetry

aurora boreality

 

Have you seen the Northern Lights, dude?

I swear I was frozen in place for at least six days while it reassembled everything I thought I knew about being a human being.

It made me question why I got so much pleasure focused on trivial things like, outdated notions of discipline and dietary needs.

I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m humble now, but when I wake up in the morning, I no longer worry about who’s going to love me, leave me, take everything of value that I’ve got—I’m sure they’ve got an app for that these days.

I’ll let the computers worry about that.

That way I can work on more noble pursuits, like fucking with the government and all that good feminist shit.

-01.29.18

 

Posted in eavesdrop, Poetry

the answer is bees

I spent six months figuring out
how I could make our signal better, across the board.
I’m talking grand gestures, not just
that bullshit that Mark calls “primary gland secretion.”

It wasn’t until the third Tuesday in July
that I figured out that it all boils down
to bees
with backpacks
and tiny little transittors, made by real Italians.

You know, the kind
that are easy to make fun of and will still work hard.

It’s strange the things that come to mind when
you’re staring into the pit that your life has become, convinced that
when she said
“On ne changera pas,”
she really did mean that she wasn’t ever going to call again.
That she couldn’t transfer her emotions into a tangible form

for me to hold onto and keep myself warm at night. I was almost ready
to spit into that void, call her a bitch, and move uptown, but then
those honeyed thoughts came over me.

Bees man.

The answer is bees.

They’re going to
change
the way we see
interpersonal relationships.

I can feel it in my sternum.

-01.22.18

Posted in eavesdrop, Poetry, Uncategorized

softer now

The last time I visited
my mom, we sat around
and watched Citizen Kane all afternoon.

I was so bored, I kept dozing off.

She scolded me. Told me to stay
at home next time, if I was going
to treat her like my ex-wife.

Dad isn’t so judgemental.

He only knows about 30
words and phrases now, so he isn’t so hung up
on “the classics,” or reminding me
about my failed marriage.

He’s softer now.

I hate to admit it, but it’s really
helped to break down social barriers
between us. I’ll make him some nachos
and he’ll laugh at my jokes
about how he ever managed to stay with a woman
like mom.

Even if he doesn’t really understand
what I’m saying, it’s nice. It’s the closest,
I think, he’ll ever come to being able
to say, “I love you.”

-01.21.18

Posted in eavesdrop, Poetry

Grillmaster Kyle

I’ve always been better at giving, but I guess
there’s only so much you can impart on someone.

No matter how much good
you think you’re spreading
in the world, there’s always going to be those
who come along and skew your perception of things.

You kind of have to take it with a grain of salt
and move forward if you want to keep relationships intact.

Take Kyle for instance,
he’s basically a beast.

In a family full of vegans, he’s the one
that goes out and changes his name to
“Grillmaster”
and opens up a butcher shop.

Can you imagine that? Just blood and guts
all day and then
he has the audacity to come home and offer to buy me a beer.
Like I don’t know what he’s getting
up to downtown, during the week.

Maybe
he takes me for the fool—broccoli salads
and non-dairy cheese—I reckon he looks down
on me for not having the fortitude to kill an animal.

But like I said, you know, that whole thing
about giving. I guess that’s why
I’ll always set a place at the dinner table for him…

he is my son after all.

-01.15.18

 

Posted in eavesdrop, Poetry

people with dogs

Even when I told her
that we were failing, that she was ruining our
song, she just stood in the middle of the ocean sabotaging things.
Her mother told me
it was out of love and her friends all say
it was out of fear, but what do I know?

I’m not exactly a psychologist,

yet. My friends call her a beast, though
I’m sure I can get better insights
on the topic, than drunken texts from frat boys
at 2am. I’m not even sure what good
an answer will do because closure
doesn’t really exist,

it doesn’t really solve the mystery of why people do bad things…

or why they never call you back.

I mean, there are some
who try to tell me that people with dogs
are so much nicer,
but that doesn’t really explain Kate to me.
She has a bichon frisé and

she still sucks.

-01.09.18

Posted in Poetry

Should Have

I have an old anxiety
about not knowing what others
are talking about. I feel like
I’m letting you down
when I have to pull out
the weather app or use Google translate.

Some things I am wise to though, like linear progression.
You can’t stop linear progression.

Just ask
my girlfriend. She was
on the pill
and still
got pregnant.

Now
I’ve got a lovely new song
I like to sing to her:

“I should have just came in your mouth.”

-01.01.18