Written On My Hand;             

 – for HJM

I have written everything on my hands again.

I have left some elegies in the basement for you.

Don’t get lost.

That wouldn’t do. Not on my watch.

Here, it happened, so it belongs with the rest.

(throws burnt Barbie doll- figuratively of course- in a pile of the rest)

 There’s something in there about you,

And that night we smashed the shit out of it all.

There’s something about Burroughs in it.

I read it in the middle of a popper high

 at a laundry mat in Halifax,

 2nd year of my scholastic ventures.

 It goes on about experience.

How each one is separate, even though

24 hours might hold them all on the tree,

so to speak…

Good things always happen to me in laundry mats.

I should really go to them more often.

Followed a French girl named

Alice home from one once. The way she walked I was like a pied piper victim.

I slipped a poem

through her mail slot.

We ran into each other once more.

She bummed a cigarette.

I wanted her to just repeat her name a dozen times more.


To peak further into the magic that poetry gives us all;

To never see anyone’s reality as a letdown, it is the only fantastical thing left.

  Poems Written on Hands pt 2.      

– for Them.

“Random Ones

I met this night-

Emily-we met at the bus stop

the morning after, she had just

come from Church and she

has a tatt behind her ear

it says HEAR NO EVIL.”

That was two days in.

Later the wrestling of memory and actuality started in.

But first I got a few lasting impressions, like lifting cracked, brittle letters from headstones by a running stream.  

I learned to paint in a few dreams that stretched through a weekend once.

Burroughs was right though, nothing is really connected. Every experience is an island.

The sound of the skipping stones thrown just right, a perfect patter of kisses. A Beethoven-choreographed Shit-kicking.

“Laura the Alien

-We Kissed. We called our future

a seasonal show, and this was our Pilot.


“Daisy Chainsaw. She was sharper than one, too.

Looks like 13 from House.

I heard she was from somewhere else. Somewhere horrific.

That and the fact I always associate the greatest things with horror.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Waxwork that terrible movie with the wax museum of killers and sadists. There was a midget. Even de Sade was there.”

“Magda- She looks like Anne Frank, I say,

and she thinks I’m racist for saying it.

Somewhere around now I kicked in

with the Guinness and Jameson’s

Nobody does Irish like me.”

“Mary Annabelle- We met through a friend. Too much stout that night.

I ended up with her scarf, nothing else but a hangover. I am pretty sure I might have had something special if I could’ve just relaxed. Relaxing is not my strong suit. I lost the card entirely in fact.


She’s German. Vegetarian.

Her voice is like the quieter

moments of

Miles Davis’

(In a Silent Way).

Her smile interjects your vision.

I love this one so much from the start it turns into shtick

before I can even make an impression.  


I’m afraid to sleep in case

I don’t dream about her.”


“Steph- The Girl Next Door meets

A Smile that Corrects Symphonies.

Not the one I would bring home

to all my predilections.

But then, I always did prefer

to be fucked up than just fuck.”