comfort+confortcomfort+confortoctober 28/07cigarette smoke clouds float out from the blue lips ofa cotton sky. the sun is polite, does not ask the mouthto exhale elsewhere. grayed wisps slide across hisface and he waits. there are no bylaws in the atmosphere.--a red hand stretches across the cover of her book,casting swimming light over the rubber and canvasof my shoe. the heel of her own gently taps againsther shin a small, soft rhythm.--the october fields of south-eastern canada die intoeach other. bourgeois crimson leaves break up thecountryside, beckoning fair-weather geese.--we are rocked left and rightin the mothering armsof the train car.coats slide from our shouldersand arrange themselves, warm,behind our curved spines.like babies, we sleep.
Jean: Three VignettesJeanOctober 16/07LaughJean opens her mouth to laugh. She is amongst friends, comfortable and careless as she sits on her window sill in a bedroom that would scream her name if it could talk. The room is so, obviously Jean: the dusty, scratched records in milk crates beside her Bollywood to Otis Redding; the portraits of Andy Warhol artistically arranged on her wall; the dozen overdue library books stacked next to her bed.Her eclectic tastes, her mismatched room in shades of orange and her hiccupping laugh are all extensions of Jean, the shared Jean. Not the Jean who stands at a downtown stoplight, frozen and visibly pained by a phantom hurt or frustration. That Jean is the back of the closet behind wire drawers of three dollar dresses.The shared Jean turns her head, in joy, to sound her amusement, to laugh her back cold from sitting against the clattering air-conditioner that does nothing to help the festering heat. Her room is a greenhouse. Swea
UnsenseUnsenseOctober 14/07iioh my god its the fucking rapture:oh my fickle stars!ah, my clustered constellations!yes, my dear celestials,borne of one million small frustrations.youre a laughable mess!youre a shimmering chaos!youre a riotous mob!youre a universe, babe!andoh my god you wont end.IIMy heart is racing.Actually.It has a party to goTo,Its got places to be.ThePulses it sends outAreCausing small spas-MsThat twitch the fabricOfThe shirt stretched a-CrossMy chest. These bo-NesAre oppressive barsInThe prison cell of myRibCage. My heart is jai-Led.It has been wrongful-LyAccused and it wantsOut,Dragging its hands ov-ErThe bones of my cage,BeatingMy lungs so much thatIHave no choice but toBreatheFaster to counter-actTheRage of my own heart.No.It is not rage. It is hope.ItIs anticipation. My hea-RtHas a party to go to. ItWantsMe to come
Daniel's WorldsDaniel's WorldsSeptember 27/07Daniel had always been an unusual boy. At first his parents were worried. They would stand in the doorway of his room, watching the way he stared at shadows moving across the ceiling, his baby body motionless and unblinking in the crib."Is it autism?" his mother would ask."No, no, I dont think so," would be his fathers reply, his hand squeezing her shoulder in reassurance. "Hes an observer; hes just taking it all in."And his mother would smile and walk into the kitchen to make a pot of tea. The spoon would tap against the sides of the cup as she mulled over her husbands words. Her son was only a baby and he was already looking at the world through an artists eyes. Hell be a poet, she would think to herself. Oh, I like the sound of that. Daniel the Poet.-------------------------On his third birthday Daniels cake decorations choreographed a song and dance for him.The s