22 to 45 of 100


I moved
To follow the sun
And the words were just so
The pen
The cigarettes
The towel
The grass and the sand
Someone’s charmed existence
Some kind of art
A lovely little mess
Like life.


Here I flick the smoke
The ember lands on the sand
I feel nothing
At home
I flick the smoke
I feel fear
Don’t tell me
Where I can go
What I can do


And if there really was a mission
There’d be a tone in the air
You’d be on your guard
Too many films
The smell of danger
And that is how crime happens
And that is the definition of naivety
Intuition is a solid tool
Until it isn’t.


Though no one thing she said was brilliant
It was a moment
At the end of the day
After her blathering on
That you thought
Perhaps she was alright
After all.


There’s a little path like this
Leading to the water
In Varadero
And I took a photo
There’s an exact path like this
Leading to the water
On the island at Hanlan’s Point
And I took a photo
There’s another
Identical path like this
Leading to my aching, rich life
Miraculously afloat
In my fibre
And I took a photo
It’s in the dark room.


The people walking
« One kilometre left! »
Like it’s a long way.
Like it’s not a gift.


We have whites
First it’s
In our nose hair
Our pubic hair
One in the eye brow
Then it’s in the beard
We thought at first
But as time soothed on
For the wise
We laughed
And a baby cries
Because they caught on
Before the white hairs
And like Bukowski said
There is nothing worse than
Too late.


Remember that innocence?
Remember that fascination?
That wonder?
Remember that trust?
That protection?
Remember the beauty,
The humanity,
The everything.
Remember not remembering?
Because they said
You begin.


Of course.
It’s never
As exciting
As glamorous
As easy
As perfect
As it seems
Of course.
Then the engine sputters
You renegotiate the curves
You look in the rearview mirror
So let me rephrase…


One girl
One hotdog
One bottle of wine
Five cigarettes
One beautiful day
One more hotdog
One ice cream cone
One happy girl
Don’t tell her
She’s a forty year old woman


You view life
Through the necessary lens
And it always looks like


I take solace
In some of these assholes
They were someone’s precious baby
Someone’s « My Little Love »
Little solace
Even now
I understand
About snapshots.


And the bicycle lane just ends
You no longer exist
I expected to see
A pile-up
Of bewildered cyclists
But I guess
They are just
Among the
Divine cars and trucks
Noted by
Pretty painted white bicycles.


I rode all that way
To his vernissage
On the top of a horse
In a dirty garage
With a long, grey beard
I did not make a sight.


Fried pork
Fried chicken
Fried cheese
It all sounds like poetry
To me.


You get down
The sky falls
You’ve been fooling yourself
Though litmus only tests for acid
Though scales only measure weight
You forget
You get down
Can’t move
Can’t leave the house
You finally manage a shower
It’s two in the afternoon
You can do this
Pass me my eyeballs
Pass me my heart
Pass me both my hands


I want to be the fittest in the room
I want to be the dumbest
I can absorb
Your words, thoughts, theories
But not
Your muscles, tone, beauty
I want


Bukowski on the beach
The wind, the waves of the water
You can just sit there
For hours
I count
The adventures
Finding a spot
Setting up camp
Searching for firewood
Sipping wine as the sun begins to set
Watching the airplanes
Take off
The leaves rustling and politely crackling
Like the quiet immenseness of a church full of tapping thumbnails
One hour twenty minutes
Left until sundown
The man named Adam
Packs up his kiteboard
But he doesn’t come back
To get the photo I snapped of him
He just left
Didn’t even say goodbye
It’s so strange
I wonder why
I don’t want to go to the party
I never thought I’d tire
Of going to the party
But even I did
Don’t they get tired
Of going to the party?
I found out much later
That they thought I was a snob
In highschool
I was shocked
That my dripping insecurity
Wasn’t obvious
I prefer
Their version of events
The wind is picking up
The sun is going down
Second stainless steel glass of wine
I thought I was being friendly
I helped him with his kite
It’s chilly
Am I really going to do this
But imagine waking
To the sunrise
The lake lapping
And leaves rapping
I’m going to do this
Of course
Maybe Adam was a child
Or maybe he was old
Like me
I can never tell
I need to get good and drunk
So I can sleep
When the sun goes down.


Instead of
Instead of
The song
For someone else
I let it sing
To me


I ride my bicycle
I build a fire
I watch the fire
I listen to the waves
I sing
I run
I walk
I write little poems
I smile widely and sincerely at strangers
They smile back
So yes
I, too, go to therapy.


I love seeing
Two gay men holding hands
As they walk down Bloor
I love seeing
Salsa lessons in Christie Pitts park
I love seeing
The beautiful web of wires
For the streetcars
At College and Bathurst
I love seeing
The beautiful scary stone faces
In Old City Hall
I love seeing
Cloudy and Glare and Lerch and Honest and Spud and vandal and MAF
And those cat faces
And even Fario and Crops
I love seeing
Airplanes fly by the CN Tower
Never fearing a crash.


One box of fried chicken
He smacks his lips
He slurps the gravy
His obesity is dripping
All over the seat
A second box of fried chicken
He thinks he loves it
He knows he is killing himself
He must know he’s killing himself
He almost falls over
As he gets up
He shuffles, stumbles
Slops his way over to the counter
A third box of fried chicken!
I eat my soft taco.


Throwing beer cans
From the car window
Driving drunk
After the gig
Like we’re immortal
The way we used to be
When we were in highschool
Old friend.


They don’t hear my bell ringing
They don’t hear « Excuse me » in the aisles of the grocery stores
They don’t hear my hello in the elevator
They don’t hear their wallet fall out of their knapsack and onto the street
They don’t hear the sirens of the fire trucks and ambulances and they don’t pull over
Plugged in
Tuned out
Such goddamned amazing music!

À propos de Stina

If I could tell you about me in a neat and tidy definitive statement, I don't think I'd be writing this blog.
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