My Friend And I
My friend and I
We had primordial loss
We try the monastery
each in different ways
We try the spa
to see if it can soothe
the aching body .
The monastic
Is respite
and the good
is life .
It heals and eases
from the dropping
of the final straw
and brutal finality .
Bill
Bill sits slumped shouldered
At his table siping coffee
Holding a cigarette
in gnarled fingers
With his white
runners on
Thinking
Alone
Am
I
The Grande Dame
Hallways
of the Grande Dame .
How many babies were
born , wrapped
and carried here ?
How many women healed ?
Walls painted white
now are waiting
for the artist’s hand .
Some artists
sit thinking ,
some
dancing ,drinking ,
or pigment mixing.
Lilith and Eve ,
they were progenitors
of the Grande Dame
MD.
Egyptian eyes,
Ank in hand ,
and on her forehead .
the last maquillage
before
by design
she, Isis is brought down
to her end
for a shining
new beginning ,
for the regenerative
concrete, glass
and steel
of woman’s
new healing.
The Patch
Water falls hard
grey mud
asterisk splash
Aging streams
of different directions
Place where
the young man fell
sad remembrance
drops
now washed clean .
Cancer
and remorse
old
remain
alive and well
Occurrence on Bloor
Kiss erotic kiss
of darkness
where lips and Eros
meet
In the milk mist
of evergreen
evening
where ladies walk
with arched eyebrow
and people talk
and mouth the words
of secret revelations
as Sirens sound
to emergencies so loud
that they leave an ox
blood red glow
In the misted evening .
R5 AND triple 3’s on Huntley
as smoke seeps
into moisture
and yellow figures
light the darkness
of the grey
and shining streets .
The hooded lick their lips
as death comes calling
in the 3’s
of uncle, aunt,
and stranger.
White Bone Claws
White bone claws
against
tan wood patterned panels
with Etruscan silver keys
Do not confuse
snobbery
with style
says Yves .
Moment of
discontent
spent
in the anger
marscapone madness
dissipates.
The beauty of flowers
In a stone mausoleum
All the Muses have Left
All the muses have left
me .
They’ve been
gone for a while ,
perhaps even longer .
Don’t know where they go,
when they suddenly travel .
It’s just their style .
to suddenly leave .
Are they
in The south of France
or gone en vacances
to Kuwai, or Hawaii ?
Maybe they’re at
work in some
street city ghetto
or have travelled to China
or even Dubai ?
All I know is
they’ve left me
as cold as a fish
without even as much
as a parting goodbye .
They do that sometimes.
They know
that I don’t take offense ,
that I wouldn’t mark
a single line
till they’re back
in my corner
drilling
circling
In defense
of the word or
of any line
that they drop
on my heart
or slip into soul .
This is just a note
: Wishing you were
here.
Bushman’s Hallelujah
The percussive beat
rolls on,
non stop in the night,
a quick pitter patting
of an excited heart,
a bushman’s hallelujah
The percussive beat
rolls on,
non stop in the night,
a quick pitter patting
of an excited heart,
a bushman’s hallelujah .
The beat slowed down
like water drops
running out
that dropped
progressively slower
to faint
and quiet beats,
that fade.
Dead silence
In the night
replaced them.
Planes landed .
Lights in windows
turned on ,
and silently
life continued
in them .
From “Ruminations Of The Dead” by PWChaltas
Night music in the Parking Lot
A freestyle Calypso
steel band plays
in the In the corner
of the Shoppers drug mart
parking lot,
Illuminated by lot security spots,
and surrounded by
red Rogers
Bundles vans,
and by a lighted
chain link fence.
The music echoes
freely off the underbelly
of a freeway stage and stand,
as the steel band practices nightly
for a coming Caribana show,
with lined up arms
all swinging
in a row
on stainless steel tin cans.
Ringing tin music
bounces off smooth
grey concrete walls
and ceilings
and off the pillars
of the slightly lonely
freeway stand,
and the music takes us
to the brilliant whiteness
of the island sands.
And as I stand there
with my MacDonalds coffee
and the rest
of my bystander clan,
with their Blackberrys
clicking pictures,
and recording music
all in hand,
along with all the other
random stragglers,
and some other Shoppers
parking lot club fans,
I’m reminded of my
friend Jamaican Island Wayne ,
with the palm trees
that wave and flutter in his eyes,
as my good old friend Ben
had once described.
And that palm tease makes
the ladies all excited
from the tips of their
Philip Traecey hats
and down
to their polished knees.
Their Marc Jacobs skirts
sway in the gentle island breeze.
It makes
their Hermes hearts
all flutter,
and oh how he knows,
right down to
the tingling tips
of their luscious,
red underbellied,
Louboutin toes.
And I sit in my beige Lincoln
and think
how can paradise
be described ?
Is it name brand heaven
that makes us all alive ?
Can we survive
on the islands without
Dolce and Gabbana
and without Todds?
Are we all so invested,
that we just can’t
be divested,
of all those brands,
without losing who we are,
or for fear of being someone
that no designer knows.
Perhaps it’s just Ma Bell,
who is always listening,
that only really ever knows.
The calypso steel band
is still playing.
and it’s so real and so alive,
and it’s so not even Bose,
And I think of my
little two year old
nephew William,
who would now
be clapping,
and a dancing,
and taking off his clothes,
to the ringing island jive.
Where is naked, natural, beauty
with unemcumbered eyes,
free from all the Maybeline
(that’s now even worn by guys),
and all stripped down in its beauty,
and free from all designer clothes ?
So drink your one fifty one and coca cola,
and polish your Manolos too.
It’s just plain good for you
and stylish too,
or so we’re told,
as all of corporate America,
Europe and China knows.
So make sure
to wear your Calvins,
underneath your Gucci suit,
and hop into your Mercedes
for display
on a circling Yorkville toot,
as the music of the islands
still wafts across
the evening sky,
and the white sand meets
generic salty waters
across a brandless evening sky .
Worship at The Temple
At the corner of Boissy D’ Anglais,
and Faubourg Saint Honere,
the faithful come to worship
at the Temple of Hermes .
Devoted in their worship
of leather silk and brand ,
the pilgrims journey to worship
to be cured and healed
from all manners of disease
and from the bourgeois
well heeled malaise .
They come with votive
offerings for their token
brightly coloured
squares of temple cloth.
And the priestesses
circulate upright
and solemn
with smiles
in simple black
clean lined temple garb
with black hair
and Egyptian eyes.
And the High priests too
have orange Potiron ties
elegantly placed
with poise
and clean lines .
At the altars ,
with relics finely made ,
the devoted hunch over
and pray silently,
lovingly to the god
of Couture
and Design .
And there are sacred places
at the tops of stairs
where only
the utmost devoted
can enter
and commune
with rooms of precious
religious artifacts
and jewels,
which can be theirs
with payment
of massive
votive offerings
and fines.
And the faithful circulate
up and down
the temple stairs,
sometimes
in familial groups ,
sometimes
in pairs,
but the truly
most devoted
go there all alone,
to clearly divine
what they must own,
and to determine
the will
that the Gods of fashion
that reside
at the temple of Hermes
have for themselves
and for their own .
From “Dreams for a Saturday Morning” by PWChaltas
PWChaltas 