Ten Things I'm Not Going to Do Anymore

She Will Feed You Tomatoes and Radio Wires




we must exterminate the leeches

almighty neworks of revenge

almighty networks of revenge laid out in old stories tracing time lines of oral tradition and literary work tracing gingerbread cut-outs and people we don't fit into tracing footfalls imprinting
tracing fingers trailing up-down-up-down-up-and-down frets releasing old songs old experiences, almighty networks of revenge intentional and sharp in D minors and dischord in rotting tributes in trite toasts to loss or to future, in people vacated and vehement, in faulty bottles constructed to deferment intoxication, to hold-off and to wait, to come back to adjourn,
almighty networks of revenge unpracticed and un-tuned
like lingering laments, griots grieving guiltless, melancholy missing memories,
hearts hastening their tempo to hinder dilatory mis-arrangements of current sluggishness,
to hide heartbreak akin to clock-work
scheduled and schematic
I'm scared sorry somber
I'm timely towardly and tired
almighty networks of revenge
all invalid and inappropriate
responding in regretful repent


This Junk

When I can't sleep I lay in my bed obsessively writing down lists of things that don't matter, and doing budgeting math that I don't stick to. I'll do it for hours. This is the list of all the junk that I still have/wish I had kept/ I am glad is gone.

1. A Piece of metal left over from the car accident that opened up the side of your vehicle like a can, but left you alive.

2. One half of the coconut shell, left over from the coconut we found floating in lake ontario, and that we cracked open and ate there on the shore despite the toxic sludge around us.

3. The Mister T. bobble head I bought for two dollars while in Charlottetown visiting my Grandma after my Grandpa's death.

4. The sugar packets from the dinner we ate at in Quebec, after driving across the country to pick up my Grandpa's car, and unknowingly staying in the same hotel he died in.

5. The altoids container we carried his ashes home in, so part of him could be left at the Fort Frances airport.

6. The dress I wore the night you raped me: I still have it, and I can still wear it, and you can't control me.

7. The professional photographs we got taken of our group of friends, the only girl I miss the most isn't in the photos because everyone but me was fed up with her.

8. The gold chocolate tin you once gave me a Christmas present in, that I now use to store my jewelry.

9. The Spongebob Squarepants note pad that reminds me of my sister every time I see it.

10. The razors underneath my mattress against the wall, next to the cloth used to soak up the blood.


Tenthings Tent Hings Te Nt Th In Gs

Between now and December 31, 2007
You're obligated to make a list

it doesn't matter what they are!
You don't even need to rank them!



It must be incredibly easy to trust people when you know that you could kill them if you needed to. All it would take would be the raising of an arm and the squeezing of a finger. However, if that’s all it takes, then what’s stopping anyone else from doing exactly the same to you? How quickly can you draw your gun? every time you meet someone new say to yourself, “Could I beat this person in a gun fight?” If the answer is yes, you can trust them; if not, use caution. In order to trust someone you should be able to outdraw them in a gun fight. But, how do you know you can outdraw them until you’ve outdrawn them? Simple: Trust no one.
If your spouse has a gun I recommend you sabotage it; jam the barrel, deactivate the trigger, whatever it takes; find out where they hide it and move it. If you see them searching around wherever it was you moved it from you’ll know they are up to something. Does this pose the risk that if you aren’t home a burglar could come in and rob the house blind while your spouse lays there, the clip of their gun backfired into their face? Yes, but it’s a risk you’ll have to take if you’re going to trust them. It’s your choice, nobody is forcing you to do anything.
Carry your gun in the elastic band of your underwear. Keep one hand on your waist at all times, just in case. Never turn your back on anyone you don’t trust, which is to say anyone. Never let someone open a door for you or force you to break a handshake. Get a chain for your wallet and a holster for your gun. Show it to your kids to make sure they don’t have people over while you’re out of town. Relax, you are now sleeping soundly. You are armed, and you can trust people.


I Showed You My Palms

How do you measure the gradual loss of love?
The tyranny of distance, physical or otherwise, that tears people apart?
When does a person shift from ‘my friend’ to ‘somebody that I used to know?’
What marks the end?
As someone who’s lost a fair number of friends for one reason or another, I’d expect myself to be able to answer these questions.
However, when it comes time to articulate the sudden feeling of knowing, “I’m still alive without you and you’re not my sheep anymore.”
My lips and fingers bring forth nothing.
Maybe it’s alright to leave it unquantifiable, to rely on the misplaced words or fumbled conversations to let you know that you’ll be walking yourself home and that they’re already long gone.


moon days

I feel you like a tidal pull
the moon days rushing in to gather
break and recede
to flush out

sitting within cedar boughs
on the right night
the moon rises and aligns with a stained glass telescope
placed there almost on purpose
as if you had only been waiting for the night where
coyote would spill out , falling to the ground, twirling
splashing into lake
crawling out into domestication of water dogs
bred to retrieve love and comfort the post menopausal heart
the girl who married the moon
post moon days post mourning post matriarch post mortem

oral tradition, art, and love of the moon
stories, stained glass windows, and proctology
I immerse into their culture like I know you must have before
and I cling to stories of spirituality because I feel them relate
to the legends you've left me
but at night when the moon rises
I re-write old Kalispel myth like changing of surnames and stealing of history
howling "hough shines brightly through my eyes like moon does in the sky"
I make art like the creases and folds in the moon like the outline of coyote when his silhouette once pressed against its surface
each flap of skin resting against moondust supported by myth
a face once made-out but not recognized
until now
when I draw

Now I see your silhouette, your countenance, your visage
each clear night
gather and recede, gather and recede
pulling me into tidal waves
into ancestry into culture
moon days rushing out to break.


Radio Silence

All my life, I'm in a tunnel
radio in my hand waiting for signal to return
cursing my concrete ceiling
cursing my concrete heart.
For the next ten minutes all we have
is this radio static coming in from nowhere,
like the kind that wakes me in the morning
that ties me to the bed.

Radio silence like the static
that ties me to my bed.