No Yarn, Just Words…

As One To Drown The Sky


As one to drown the sky, she flails

“What wonder of wisdom, thus?”

The soft decline the shallows

and half-shadows shuffle the dusts


as a distance, or careen from hip to shoal

the tide remembers vertical, the ribboned sky

she wobbles, weary, touches muffled undertow

the beach-head inclines, dunes go sedimentarily by


as sun-licked tongue, a Braille of perspective

or temple riddle, a weave of sargassum tails

an impolite tug, this whistling fire-haired straggle

and as one to fly the waters, she sails.




Knowing the dust of roads,

travelling beyond shoulders,

his feet being sand, or a lost heart;

the rust of an old tin can licks the wind,

gives it meaning;

and Kansas City burns,

one symbol at a time.




And tho’ you cannot see it cannot see these sheets these

bargains as bundled borders;


you stitch tiny beads dangled braids woven toes arms

constructing up down and where they stop all round around;


to this fabric which breathes stomps knows you beneath

11 a.m. canvas stagger’d to this square-ringing brush;


kind of like the children that are aware of the night are the night  absorb star-light being both/neither black and brilliant, being beautiful in their own


giggling collage.


A Story

And there was a story as real as any memory that may or may not have occurred…

An offer of golden coins from the deepest eyes, this was a man in Canada and he was buoyant, alive and was Canada, and somewhere in his sleeping back-streets fuzzy orange flowers struggled with broken porch steps and the cook at Oscar’s Restaurant yawned the breeze; his teeth glittered, blinding the harbour gulls who rode the sluice of the dawn.

The chin of the rusty hill overlooked the ragged children playing tag upon the waves, biting foggy knees with the curtain of this drowsy Tuesday morning. The air raged as a drunken stevedore, inclined to shave the dew with a breathy arrogant glove. And the sun roared, belly sparkling like the neck of a sudden mine.

There was grace with his every step, a green trace of lofty footspeak. Yet he was flat-bust, leftover luggage and the story made him up as it went along; the crumpled plane ticket in his back pocket the only hard-tack proof that there was somewhere else, his passport to the interior arms of these rock guts cod flats cannery depths. He looked on in a greater blinded vision and it was salt fingers and meandering afternoons. There was a mumble on his torn lips – hesitant, solitude.

He had just returned from the war. Lying medals hung his neck down; his beard startled last light’s crumbs, feeding under-trod delicate mice that swam after his heels in search of quiet communion. And he blurred, his eyes jigged to match his submerging feet; the weight of his shoulder was a new world; the stones within him stormed and rattled loosely like lost playground laughter.

And his story hid in the shadows, counting; had no neighbours or permanent residence. His memories seemed loaned or stolen from sidewalk cafes, gun turrets; a used paper bag of loose tears in a hungry desert. The tattoos of his wrists mere hard hitchhiked maps; a handful of lost canvasses with no eager direction.

At the edge of the dunes, he took off his shoes, knocking out miles and calendars into the transient sands. His eyes scattered clouds, scraping the heads of the distant petticoat houses, and their slates were greasy and cool on the wind. His heels lapped the silent brines of the shoreline, crystallizing the moment – there was a reaction, and it was content.

And there was a story with no beginning and no end, and the horizon was multiplied in perfect vision, and his legs stretched on forever with lazy rest. He looked within, and the insides of mirrors whispered in transparent subtitles and suggested footless paths that are only revealed in our tomorrows and he sparkled as a promise and that’s all I’m going to tell you.

St. John’s, Newfoundland; the return of a soldier, a changed soul… 


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