Three Poems
Outings (with homage to Lisa Robertson)
Something wandered in
from a place outside the body.
In the street I saw
a crow dancing a map of unplanned towns.
Ways to go are given in advance.
Parallel lines suggest a discrete meeting.
I made plans to eat.
In the morning I desired to be loved.
Exits coincide with holes in the wall,
collisions of expediency.
What interests me are the lines drawn toward spirits.
This is how I listen to various calls.
A machine lacks power.
A pylon is knocked over as a feature.
I was uncertain how to think about a project.
I felt comforted by the warmth of my skin.
The city aggregates bodies
according to medicalized patterns.
I tossed a coin into rivers I have never set foot in.
I had a feeling about stones.
Structures have gone unreconsidered.
An embankment banks in a determined line.
Having acted against objects,
I retreated home to consider myself a pioneer.
The city is a map
of an identical city.
I’m waiting to make my demands.
I would often recognize the words in a newspaper.
Horizontal planes emerge as recourse.
Messages fly underground.
no-name parkette
with elm trees to look at
from a weathered wood bench
the sustained metaphors of Toronto
form a narrative down Bathurst Street
one can read signs
at various rates of exchange
and think “Community Swim”
(with 1950s illustrations),
“Let’s build your future together”
or “VAPE BEER” and, wondering as much
as can be stomached,
piece together a civic body
of crime and labour
with maple trees and elm trees to feel
hemmed in by, like a natural animal,
the red brick path guides one past
a hillock of green blades
upon which birds hop and thrust
their beaks toward the dirt.
we are feeding the birds,
we board the streetcar in the warm evening
and tell stories to scaffold
our imbalanced feelings
from a widened word bench
with unnamed trees to look at
one can formulate a series of observations
about the general nature of things
or, passing out from consumption,
think of phonemes to stitch together
without regard for structure
under a loosening sky
one can plan for something that coheres
against the chaos of these trees
chittering with senseless voices
shaking violently their leaves in the breeze
under us their mute roots labour
not to be looked at
stepping
god I’m happy
in with
step stepping
not stopping. topping the s
on my tongue
the pot my opp & my salivation
fingers & toes : the givenness of tools
and the notthinkingness of walking
my sermon on a march
out my brain
&
through my ears
my song leaves
the body I wear
my hand brushes the hair on my left arm
I live in soft futures
there is a woman standing in a silver valley
what I like is
I don’t know
a step by step guy I
guess I get to go as I go
there I II III
start not at the top
by any means for get
you must there.
stop
Cover image: building materials and debris on the street of Toronto. Image taken by writer.