Category Archives: Poetry

It tasted like chewing on pennies and soap

…prior to five days ago.

I suffered unknowingly for close to four weeks
with this awful metallic soapy taste
in my mouth.
No amount of salt could dilute
this abstergent awful pungent state.

I was not ingesting antibiotics
nor was I crunching copper crumbs at breakfast.
As quickly as the onset of this malady hit, it’s remedy
quickly brushed


Sadly, four weeks ago I had purchased a tube of toothpaste

as the one before it
had run out.
Being non brand loyal
I switched and had chose another.

This Tuesday
I bought another brand of toothepaste.
That night my mouth turned saline!
NORMALCY ensued.

Beware people of new and improved
for it may be bad and caustic.
Conglomerates are inventing concoctions;
new whitening sensations
to feed our consuming nation.

White is not all that great
if it comes at the price of homemade chicken stew
tasting akin to poultry conditioning shampoo.


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I watched them pack or Seasons Greetings!

Hear no evil, See no evil, Speak no evil -

I watched them pack sunflowers
I watched them pack autumn leaves
I watched them pack orange berries
amidst stems and wreaths

I watched them count
I watched them punch it in
I watched them count
I watched them pack

it in…

to oversize black garbage bags,

Autumns last breeze.

It will not compost
As it is mostly plastic

Nor be loved
or be seen for a million years
lest humans dig it up
in search of yesteryear.

I see things everyday not unlike you.
I do things everyday not unlike you.
Some of these things deeply concern me.

At 80% off they didn’t sell


I moved Christmas into it’s place.

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Urban Tumbleweed

This tumbleweed rolled into view
across the street in shoppers parking

He made air hitting that grassy knoll
up to the sidewalk
he barely hesitated caring not to look both ways
to cross that four lane street.

The wind savage
The clouds dark purple, pink and grey
and daylight fading

the chance glance of life.

tumble tumble up and over
brands rolling out of sight

Oh there’s the bus
…and the traffic

Step on that bus.

Good bye life.

tumble tumble up and over

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About 11 Days Ago I Celebrated

I celebrated quietly. It felt surreal. It felt awkward and good.

Eleven days ago on August 26th, 2007 I celebrated 24 months *sobriety.
I drew a picture; a representation of feelings felt in the midst of quietly laying alone, late that night in bed.

11 days ago I celebrated

Some people know this as I did tell them that day. A handful really, had not much to say.
“Be proud” they reply.

I sigh inwards
and rather deny… the right to be so.

Lightning didn’t strike and the World remains intact, save
for the few orgasmic attacks.

I wonder why I didn’t cry. I wonder why.

*sobriety from GHB which had been my lovely drug of choice

Have you ever tried to work out the way you think.

I think about this person saying these things to another person.

“She is fabulous!
She is an artist”

“Oh really
tell me more”

Tonight it dawned on me. It rose up beyond the clouds into perception;
into reality.
I think about people and what they think of me
much of the time.
Is that,
what I am thinking?


I think about those people saying things to other people when in fact, I am thinking about saying things to other people about themselves.


How do you grieve?

Have a I lost something, misplaced it or walked away from it all together? Did I have a choice? Six months later it hurts like it was yesterday that he walked in, sat down beside me and said “I am leaving you.”

I made a phone call tonight. One that caused my soul to shatter, fall apart and later-later let go of a hope I’d been hiding all these many months.

Trying to understand is futile at this point. Trying to discern what could have been, why and how isn’t all that important anymore. Remain calm. Hold your head up high. Smile and move on.

I don’t know if it gets easier. That same feeling in my upper chest winced, shrunk and expanded as it does when those feelings come on strong. Enduring them is all I can do. I keep repeating that no one can take away my love. No one. But when the person you love does not love you it does cause one to question themselves about things left unspoken and phrases that never were written in haste, when the final departure did indeed take place.

The last day of letting go is not for the faint of finger movements

It’s the final countdown!
dne ne neuhhhhhh
ne ne ne ne neeuhhhh

Everything is half price today at the Moving BACK-EAST Sale!

Today for 4 hours *I aim to sell everything I have for sale.

*All remaining items are being donated to charity; specifically women’s shelters and mental and/or addiction treatment center’s for womyn. One of the toughest things for a woman recovering from addiction is a sense of self in how you appear to the rest of the world. In the beginning stages of recovery you feel atrocious in both mental and physical ways. Everything you own becomes gross, nothing appears as it is and worse you begin to feel vulnerable. And having nice things, i.e. clothing in various sizes is a must as your weight will fluctuate during an undetermined length of time while recovering.

Nothing fits for months years. Your skin changes. Nothing you used to use for cleansing works. IT REALLY doesn’t. And when recovering you usually don’t have a lot of money to buy a continuous stream of cosmetics, beauty supplies or clothing to suit your daily varying size and skin texture.

I think I’ll split between the women who live in my building and charity, the clothing i am not taking. That feels right. For over three months all I wore were two pairs of jeans and one pair of stretchy pants. I had found the two pairs of jeans in the front lobby. I bought the stretchy pants from the Salvation Army. They were nice, they fit, they worked. I have since lost 20lbs and am holding my weight. A small goal achieved over time something I am proud of.

This week has been anything but awful. I cried watching the sun set over the Vancouver cityscape with mountains and water and ships in harbor. Friends (René, Darren, Junko, Tomoko) have surprised me with visits and food. I love you guys so much.

I’m still in shock about moving a 14 foot high Japanese Maple Tree down four flights of narrow stairs in an East Van apartment on a dolly, bouncing one step at a time with a man named Loui. Then moving an apple tree down the same way and unraveling a concord grapevine entwined meshed into a iron fence is not for the faint of finger movements.

I didn’t break a branch.
quarter inches at a time
while Tomoko breastfed Kai and Junko cooked Japanese
I peacefully removed
life from death
and sold it for 50 bucks.

I’ve been running half marathons every day for the past 2 weeks.

Up and down and UP and down.
Lift and carry lift and carry
tell a story

Anywho I fly out late Tuesday evening.
I’ll post the final ad link on Craigslist in the comments of this post.

About picking caterpillars off friends

You stare. It stares. It begins.

The bugs march to and fro throughout this dwelling high and low. Be
ware deviants.

So much paper. Must be cleaned. How does one clean paper? Sweep it?

Pest control arrived and delivered the chemical.

Dousing nooks and crannies. Angry? Yes.

Angry at you? No.

Dealing with a nuisance.

You know, I didn’t grow up with Cockroaches and Bed Bugs. They had been annihilated fifty years earlier. They’re the nightmare nursery rhyme come to life that Dad used to sing when tucking me in for bed at age 8.

“Don’t let the bed bugs bite…” and his voice trailed off and I wondered about bed bugs crawling on me. Don’t get me wrong, I lived through my share of mosquito infestations, no-see-ems, black flies, army worms, locust plague, red salt water jellyfish attacks and lets not forget the giant black flying ants that only hatch or grow wings, once every three to five years for 24 hours infestation. That’s it. You run for the nearest shelter. Once they land they crawl; they mate and die.

Oh that’s a pretty one.

Daily we picked caterpillars out of each other’s hair. All the girls in the neighborhood had long waist length hair. We were tomboys. We watched all the fruit trees die in our neighborhood three times while in elementary school. All the families began wrapping tin foil around trunks of any species of tree the worms preferred for diet. They were always falling on our heads from trees. Plunk. Awah – hey look at this one; it’s special. There were pretty ones that stood out when sidewalks, roads, driveways, lawns, rooftops, trees and walls from the millions scavenging green vegetation surrounding you. Those hundreds, were pastel and vibrant hued caterpillar creatures. The butterflies were gorgeous during those years.

Nature was stakeholder with the above masses. Bed Bugs are not so. These bugs are human engineered and nature has no part in either their lives or deaths.

The city IS their natural environment.

I could never figure out WHY people from the city would freak jumping up and down when around mosquitoes or black flies OUTSIDE. Moments later, their skin’s surface blotchy with red patches from bites or stings. Right now I freak as they did except INSIDE and squirm around and whack anything that moves with paper or hand.

Time to buy a swatter and fight.