Pretty solid
Saw this man last night under a ship's mast in the biting chill of the maritime winds.
22.2.11
I wrote this while on the phone with a girl who wasn't interesting enough to listen to.
I don't remember the poem that followed, but I remember this, and your smirk and your swagger.
18.2.11
A wind in the door
Matted hair and little boys' parkas handed down, giant climbing packs on the metro, the winds of Halifax in my eyes, train horns sounding in the distances of my mind. The sidewalk salt and balmy drizzle of Montreal feel Atlantic.
I board The Ocean tonight.
I board The Ocean tonight.
17.2.11
No glove SO MUCH LOVE
Montreal does this thing where for four months of the year your days are slush and darkness. The monotony seeps in and the state becomes immutable. You no longer mind, you adapt and deal. Winter biking, impervious to the biting cold, skiing on the mountain to remember what the world outside the window looks like, drinking mugs of spiked everything and wearing grandfather's sweaters, you let grayhaze depression say hello but fight to not quite let it settle in. You get goodnatured validation looking at all the wellheeled Tranochildren who feel the need to wear $700 polar expedition parkas and $150 galoshes in the city while your outdated kamiks and softshell hold their structural integrity but turn greyer and filthier as the season wears on. You get slippers for the math building so you never have to go outside. You think about replacing your bike chain for an entire month.
Then one day the thermometer peaks just above zero and you notice it's four pm and still not dark and for the first time in months you take off your gloves and bike barehanded, the pleasure of the contoured handlebars under your softening callouses hard to explain. So you buy sausages at the butchershop and barrel down the streets off the Main with groceries on your back and your head full of the melodies and noise of the Talking Heads, grit from the salty snowmelt in your hair and glasses and teeth, hearing the ices finally crack.
Then one day the thermometer peaks just above zero and you notice it's four pm and still not dark and for the first time in months you take off your gloves and bike barehanded, the pleasure of the contoured handlebars under your softening callouses hard to explain. So you buy sausages at the butchershop and barrel down the streets off the Main with groceries on your back and your head full of the melodies and noise of the Talking Heads, grit from the salty snowmelt in your hair and glasses and teeth, hearing the ices finally crack.
New Lovers
In a sunlit room nestled on the couch putting off tedious calculation, watching them.
The slightly sweaty softfeatured guy with the paunch and stained t-shirt making small talk with the businessdressed shorthaired professional girl, eyes in adoration. Their hands touch more than casually, voices animated, the pleasure of their interaction palpable. And I sit here with a refreshing feeling of presentness, disconnected from their world but still a part of it, and I play this song and drink fifty cent meteorological coffee, my eyes smiling of their own accord, my thoughts at rare peace of their own accord.
The slightly sweaty softfeatured guy with the paunch and stained t-shirt making small talk with the businessdressed shorthaired professional girl, eyes in adoration. Their hands touch more than casually, voices animated, the pleasure of their interaction palpable. And I sit here with a refreshing feeling of presentness, disconnected from their world but still a part of it, and I play this song and drink fifty cent meteorological coffee, my eyes smiling of their own accord, my thoughts at rare peace of their own accord.
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