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poem

notes from above

notes from above

birds forming coalitions

treetop caucus
clean slate of highrise policiies
tracking biounits
breaking platinum records
like they didn’t matter
what the coach did
where the drones hid
on hilltop perch
like that actress who’s made it
don’t trade in your old issues
because one day, everyone will want to read them
a boat or a bed made up for the special guests,
chocolate wafers on the pillow
illicit affairs of the heart, in shadows, in travels
taking my energy
a high pitched note
carried over morse code
tap tap tap, incompetent strategies
programming since birth
coding like its no tomorrow
tracing the tail bones of the mummified remains
like an egyptican from last year
faced with looming tornados
and trickster acrobats
we drink rum and coke in the afternoon
switching to nastrtiams and honeycomb in the early evening while dusk bound mosquitos whisper rhymes and rhythms of the down under to escaped convicts hustling a crust of bread, like they’re not worthy, or they’re most worthy.
if you die they’ll look at the things you had in your pockets
inspecting the minutiae of a life
i scribble my notes on it all
and forget the sordid accounts’
where i’m judging and mocking others
feeling sorry for their standard amounts
— it is hard to be an immigrant
although you are told you are welcome
in fact you ally with your homeland
and think nothing of what you’re about
in this town,
i laced the chilli with peppercorns
and the people are hardly aware
as we made you into our silence
we traced your remains to the lair.
poem

strategy

the friend of my enemy my friend

criss crossing over hills ‘n bends

were they ever in danger of freezing

or were they ever in danger of death?

we are beasts of enlightenment

whatever we think that might be

translucent bugs coming out of it’s

shell of 221 years –

to mate with the ancestral peers

3 cheers & a who-ra

any day it’s a night

in a house in the sky

they can stay there indefinitely,

but at least til 2030

when the space time continuum runs out

because there are 644 meanings

and secret liason meetings,

i’m in the broom closet mating

and you’re back where you belong

hating

me

 

poem

the streets of toronto
worn, bullied, catastrophic
always a memory
the place you threw pizza
on the ground
wishing it was me
the place where we recited
endless reams of poetry
the place where i worked
until the BIG LIE took hold
the place where they’ve now dug
and burrowed and holed
every street narrowed, bulwarked,
emblazoned,
flagged, coned, piloned,
pocked, scarred and scattered–
streets that scream “go home!”
“you’re not wanted!”
unless you’re a tourist and then
“please ignore the mess,
and come spend your money anyway”
we are swerving to miss
the jaywalking grandmother
the carefree 30-something couple dragging
a child’s blanket like some comic book character
that guy on the corner with the microphone singing you can’t believe he’s still here after two years,
the man on one wheel,
the scooters on the gardiner,
the shooters in the school.

poem

space junk

i sit here contemplating what will happen
we don’t get paid to think yet
waiting for the drones to plant trees
waiting for the gates to re-open slightly
peaking our way on to moonlit paths,
only brush sets us apart from the spiders’ webs
stumbling quietly so as not to upset the killers
distracted from the reality of uncertainty
and the naming of the enemy
that goes on in lovers’ lanes
over right-of-way arguments
where the sun never, never reaches
parks emit light pollution
and waterfalls spread foreign fires
thru forests of builders,
seeking an alternative to concrete
while plastic bricks rescued from ocean trash heaps
stare bleakly from lofty ideals
making great green blog posts
that might get read by most
before the 23 tons of steel & glass
pour down on our next emergency.
2021 by a.i.heeds

poem

for the times

i can pay you from my profits
but the profits never come
the major airlines will get seven billion
but I am only one,
person
running a trade
turning the page
on a life of no change
we walk the streets talking
the girls and guys gawking
and all the while hawking
our most precious and divine
there is no time
we lost it all in storage
the landlords’ drama bored us
the winds and rains poured on us
and we were left in tents
we had no money for rents
we wanted to be nomadic
but we were constantly held by cabinet
to a rock on a road’s hard place
a locked ransom not in concrete
i cannot stand it
i feel they planned it
and what ever happens
i am going to be fucked
it’s enough
this is fucking rough
all the sheep are lost
and the boy, lonely on a hill,
has cried wolf
and wolves are killed
but there are no thrills
like taking back the homeland
re-occupying the highland
generating the skyland
i stand in sinking sand land
dunes richochet in