In the minx browns of Great Eastern Street,
\na throbbing cab waits in the pouring rain
\nwhile a building implores,
\n\u201cLet\u2019s Adore and Endure Each Other.\u201d <\/p>\n
In the gallery\u2019s late Vorticism,
\ncritics\u2019 pens reel in and sour on
\ntreasonous reviews. A hood
\nof superior aerodynamic absolutes. <\/p>\n
We drink at The Gun, spot
\nTracy Emin\u2019s \u2018International,\u2019
\nand then the thundering of the storm.
\nWe\u2019re hurried up; it\u2019s time. <\/p>\n
Judgments turn correlative,
\nready-to-hand in the penumbra.
\nMy poet friend, a sad pterodactyl,
\nmust hightail to Crystal Palace, so I stroll. <\/p>\n
We must not personalize the high church
\nnor weep for the fallen world or commuters.<\/p>\n
Artillery of diminished orders.
\nBirds chirp loudly, putting faith
\nin an early arriving dawn.
\nAnd the violence of influence
\nand the red rose wilted
\nand decline witnessed
\nthrough a dirty windowpane.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Spring, and he moves away, into
\na room next to a simple tea-house.
\nHe strolls the grounds and like spring
\nhe makes a plan: flowers lead to honey.<\/p>\n
He rivets wings onto his ankles,
\nwaxy residue flaking softly, as down
\ninto loam. Below, the plowman follows
\nthe plow and the shepherd<\/p>\n
minds his flock. Sailboats bob
\non the water, fishermen cast
\ntheir nets, seashells pearl
\nthe shoreline, and a town in<\/p>\n
the distant hills conducts its fair
\nin the sunshine. Every body
\nbusy at her task: nobody notices
\nhis climb and headlong plunge <\/p>\n
to the sea. A rush of water at interlunar
\ntempo is heard from the moon-viewing
\nbalcony of the Katsura Imperial Villa.
\nBut the approach to the entrance <\/p>\n
of the Main Building is empty.
\nA verandah of the Musical Instruments\u2019
\nRoom hums in starlight. There is
\nan echo in the Pavilion. The absolute <\/p>\n
modernity of such techniques will be
\nrecognized and adopted one day.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Forty-eight and finally, I learn While we sat in that empty real estate down on uptown, the dangerous trench 1977, I remember waiting for my mother Later I ran with humourless startled with vast now and then everything is parenthetical <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Young Poets In the minx browns of Great Eastern Street, a throbbing cab waits in the pouring rain while a building implores, \u201cLet\u2019s Adore and Endure Each Other.\u201d In the gallery\u2019s late Vorticism, critics\u2019 pens reel in and sour on treasonous reviews. A hood of superior aerodynamic absolutes. We drink at The Gun, spot Tracy […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":160,"featured_media":6513,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":[]},"categories":[333,334],"tags":[337],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\n
\nhow to start living if that\u2019s
\nwhat it\u2019s called,
\nI mean, spring clean,
\nbras
\ncup-side up in the drawer
\nJapanese fantail
\ndress detail
\nonly some<\/em> excess
\nfive-inch Louis Vuitton
\n\u2018Kimono\u2019 heels
\ncoffee at an East Village
\nbodega on Christmas day,
\nDecember sun on walk-ups<\/p>\n
\ncr\u00eaperie on Carr\u00e9 St-Louis,
\nspeaking Bretonneries,
\nwindows steamed
\nfresh snow on St-Denis
\ncooking school across the street
\n\u2018Funny,\u2019 I said, in the middle of
\nMontreal\u2019s deep-freeze
\nFebruary, \u2018the city moves
\nlike an insect in a fridge,
\na ville fourmillante\u2019<\/em>
\nI\u2019d never been to New York
\nyou\u2019d never been to Blighty
\nthe metro dumps us at Vend\u00f4me
\nwet fat snowflakes,
\nthe deli with canned puddings
\nand it\u2019s nothing like Paris
\nnor is that tiny basement apartment,
\npaneling like a captain\u2019s cabin
\nnear the small ancient hospital,
\nwedged mid-block on
\nAvenue de Marlowe among
\nthe semi-detacheds in
\nNotre-Dame-de-Gr\u00e2ce,
\nforever the month of March,
\nforever 1955,
\ndark halls, mannered
\nportraits in maroon paint
\nhanging from green walls,
\nglowering financiers
\nbureaucracies
\nprovincial visionaries
\nde la belle province<\/em>
\nwho does behave like
\nthe belle of the ball?<\/p>\n
\nRen\u00e9-L\u00e9vesque, formerly
\nDorchester, Hotel Reine-Elizabeth
\ncarpeted VIA train interiors
\npermanent winterzone
\nangels looking up at
\nafterlives from the cathedral,
\nmoribund church,
\nmoribund government
\nnationalist dreams
\ntaken down by the usual
\nethnic vote and that persistent
\nxenophobia like a bad penny;<\/p>\n
\nof D\u00e9carie boulevard
\nperched over which we lived
\nin a dusty 6-storey with wide
\nstairwells, 5 and a half for
\nfive-fifty a month &
\na landlord telling us
\nmice come in off the street
\nthrough the front door<\/p>\n
\nhere in an old white and gold hotel;
\nthat\u2019s how I learned to wait for someone forever <\/p>\n
\nboys and they had me:
\na firefighter who
\nreminded everyone of his job
\n& the unsmiling Hun with
\nbad teeth and alimony payments &
\nthe sociopathic millwright &
\nmuch later still, Doctor
\n\u2018Bad Sex\u2019 who\u2019d fucked
\nthe same person, by age fifty-two,
\nfor twenty-five years; and, way before that,
\nthe bartender
\nwho couldn\u2019t get it up.
\nI ran away to the south coast
\nof Barbados to lose
\nthat one, but in my
\nstupidity every escape from
\nevery awful guy
\nwas somehow a goat song
\n(\u2026except for the glorious
\nexeunt<\/em> from my life of Doctor
\n\u2018Bad Sex\u2019 who
\nbrings me back to
\nbeing forty-eight)<\/p>\n
\nincomprehension,
\nstrangeness
\nat what preceded me,
\nand what follows me,
\nor the possibility of me–<\/p>\n
\nprepared badly if at all
\nfor every civility of
\nbourgeois society and
\nnot offending
\nordinary Canadians
\non Twitter<\/p>\n
\nsubjunctive
\nwould,
\nshould,
\nthen this
\nthen that but
\nnow and then
\na clear view of sky
\nas if the sky was
\nthe whole view\u2014
\n(it wasn\u2019t, then;
\nit isn\u2019t, now)<\/p>\n