Tag Archives: poetry

Good Crip/ Vindictive Crip

Playing good crip for the scooter delivery boy.
Justifying my needs.
Explaining why it’s important to have a mobility device that fits in city buses
when he responds,
‘mais vous avez le transport adapte’ (‘but you have paratransit’).
Explaining that it takes 24 hours to book a ride.
I have tried
a three wheel before.
Contrary to popular misconceptions, I know what I want.
And what I don’t want? To fein interest in the advice of a man who knows
only my file number and what I look like after rushing out of my morning shower to answer the door.
And that’s it.
Je m’en cris.

Temptation tickles: ask him if he’s ever taken transport adapté,
Vindictive inclination tingles: break his knee caps with your cane so the next time he drives a scooter its out of necessity.

But no, here I am playing good crip, apolitical crip for the scooter delivery boy. So he will
take my side and
find me a scooter to
get on the bus with.


Smile at the pregnant woman’s stomach,
Sail silver girl.
Feed the ducks,
I will ease your mind.
I have manic tendencies,
Don’t want them to go,
but damn they’re a lot.


We’re airborne, baby

through the words, sharp corners around pylon teeth.

Round that nervous bend in your brow.

Airborne baby, that’s where we are.

Highways are made of dust and colour.

Speed faster, babe,

blur the signs together.

Speed past burning trees,

miss the turn-off.

On the highway

On the highway

This is  higher than we’ve ever been.

We’d never get paid for this;

Talk is cheap

Paper is expensive.

Down the highway,

Down the highway, baby,

we’re flying.

If you fall I won’t catch you.

Love isn’t real unless your ass hits the ground.

Fall for me baby,

fall for me.

We got matches

and water.

And our heads.

We’re airborne baby, its where we are.

Not where we’ll stay.

Poetry recasts words too dangerous to write. Omissions know the truth.

I get cranky before I write. Like everything has to be perfect, like I have to burn the right amount of incense, like I have to avoid the right amount of words said to anyone, like I have to place the right amount of folded blanket under my knees and play the right Chopin Nocturne. And have the right level of pain – that pushes me, makes me a bit anxious, but not enough to distract me. Its my inspiration. She’s my inspiration. Those eyes with the impossibly long lashes, the webs of truth and age-old knowledge spun in the blue-green stare that says I love you and I will always love you, and we’ll probably never be together in all senses of the word.

We’re together as she tugs at my bones, winding and twisting, nagging at me to move, to stay still, to be in water, to get out already, to worship her, to ignore her. I can’t ignore her. We’re together as we travel from town to smile past box stores and sky-covered fields. Stay with me she hints, never saying it but with her eyes. Leave before I get busy so I can mourn your departure one more time. We know it won’t be the last.

Her name is whispered on the lips of local carnivores, licked and yearned after. Desired and reviled. I can’t do more than reflect on the right to remain silent and love in a time of punishment. Offer my hand when she is near and my ear when I am not. What we have is lasting



Water breaks laws for me

I haven’t yet shared the bit of writing that started me off on my Under Water City journey.. so here it is! As usual, my life moves are sparked from something I wrote in a wrinkly notebook on a cafe table or on my couch in yesterday’s stretchypants. A warning, there’s a bit of sexy content in it, so if you’re averse to sexy talk of the homosensual kind avert your senses;) Also  if you’re a family member. In other words, Mum, don’t read this. If not, read onnnn!


Sometimes i wish the city was under water

so i could put on my goggles, see everything kind of foggy, and swim around.

I kind of see things better from a distance anyway, with something between me and the thing I’m looking at.

I would swim, float up to doorsteps, flutter my ways through windows, wouldn’t have to worry about opening taps or bottles or jars because there’d be liquid all around. And plus they would rust off if I did need to open them anyway.

God I think the best times I ever feel are when I’m making love really good and someone is licking my pussy, her tongue a little bit inside, and grabbing my hip flesh and I’m moaning and she’s smiling… or when i’m in the pool.

Concrete’s so harsh and inflexible and uncaring. Concrete would never grab my hip flesh or caress my entire body, like lovers and water do, licking, undulating on the hip part just above the bottom half of my stretched out, pseudo bikini, holding me, resisting a universal law – of physics – to make sure I don’t fall. Water breaks laws for me. Concrete doesn’t care if i fall.

And when I do, because I inevitably do, concrete makes sure there’s dirt there where the skin opens.

Water doesn’t care about borders, laughing between nets and over the sides of dams.

So there i’d be, floating up the sides of buildings, who needs elevators when you can do the frog kick up? I’d backstroke over to Steph’s house any time I wanted, I’d laugh looking down at all the bottom feeders still trying to walk in the lines on the streets at the bottom of the city. Stupid bottom feeders, don’t you know you can swim around? Don’t you know how to swim? Swim faster bottom feeders, sucks that your hands aren’t a little webbed like one of mine. Sucks that you didn’t spend all that time in the pool learning how to move as a kid, and at physio instead of learning how to drive and running on the sidewalk to keep slim and fit and show off your asses to the neighbourhood.

But that’s the concrete talking.

I never think negatively when I’m in the water. I never curse or scowl at someone just for a reaction. I stare up, lining my laps with the lines in the ceiling, meditating on the rhythm of my breathing, meditating on the feeling of my muscles contracting without hurting me, meditating on what I want for dinner.