Boy Delilah

They want evidence,
cold hard fact.
They want his picture taken to prove
that he is more than decadence,
more than a superficial
artifact,
crafted by human celebration,
a soft man
created to be their
genteel bow-tie metropolis man
wearing teal, not green,
a crossing-his-legs-out-on-the-scene man
with soft hands
wearing pointed toes, not steel.
He is only in their minds,
something they find appropriate
to construct,
somebody they think would be
a good fuck,
bottom, they say, because he looks delicate,
a boy Delilah
who can make great men stumble
a sweet Calcavella,
the catalyst
for making great cities crumble,
definitely not a works-with-his-hands,
trekking back-country,
falling-for-a-horticulturalist man.
They know him, they think
(but they don’t),
because they see him
and that’s enough for a taxonomy,
something like astronomy.
Watching stars in the distance
has great margin
for error
and so they name him quickly
because something indefinite will always
cultivate terror.

285. Undelivered

I want to make him
eat
all his words in bite-sizes too big
to swallow,
so that he
chokes
on his intentions,
leaving his deceitful gifts undelivered,
dribbling excuses over his
chin,
running down his chock-filled
throat.

I want dusk to settle in his
cheeks,
while his
eyes
plead for my Heimlich
and his slippery fingers clutch in vain,
imploring mercy,
receiving merely
a pat
on the back
for making me think he was more
than random.

Two-Face

It was an unclean kill, a spine-crunchingly majestic twist, and then something warm spilling down my legs, soft fingertips down my back.
Listen, she whispered.
All I could hear was her breath, so steady, so effortless in my ear.
The first time I kissed her, we were out on the porch, gardenias whorling through my nostrils.
She was shaking then.
Now she is so solid, a pillar of disemboweling strength, so stoic – a culling monolith with skin like marble.
I’m letting you go, she said, smiling.
Her teeth were blinding.
I slumped to the floor, the cold ceramic tiles a shock to my naked body, but the fire rolling under my skin was like comfort.
I thought about truffles melting on my tongue.
Goodbye, I thought.
She stood over me, her body moving away like smoke – a malicious spectacle.
She was too clever by far.
And I was her most finely stitched kill, the first of her collection.

Want

No one else will sit in the back of your green Jeep and watch silent movies because you let the battery die.
I know I should despise you, but it doesn’t come easily and neither do I.
You were the first one to smash me into the blue.
I wish I could have met you now instead of way back when.
Then maybe I would be one inhibition less and you would be ready to know me and know what you want.
I had a dream that we stole away and fell into each other. 
I was lying on your chest, not yet wanting to move, enjoying my fingertips sliding down the length of your body.
The sensation made you quiver and the anticipation for something harder was killing you softly.
Awakening, I tried to return to you, but even with my eyes closed you were fading.
You left the silhouette of your body burning in my mind.
Maybe I was holding back, but I have never reigned before, never cried in the rain before, never taken the reins before.
You delivered a crushing blow and left me flat and disillusioned.
Yet still I want.
The wanting is all-consuming.
Wanting not necessarily you, simply I want.
I want what I want you to be.

See Dick Distance

As the world turns, as the flowers bloom, as the COVID spreads I am trying to stay normal, trying to stay sane and trying not to harass Tales and Kobo too much. Everything I read about how to fortify your mental health during this crisis recommends maintaining your routine as much as possible. Lethargy and complacency will only lead to thoughts spiraling out of control and then you find yourself with a skid of toilet paper and not enough shits to give.

Okay, so routine. This morning Tales and I got up early and took Kobo for a walk. We noticed that walking down the sidewalk is like playing a game of chicken. Who’s going to give in first and cross the street? The chicken, that’s who. The very ethical chicken who appreciates his health and free range. Maybe it’s a Canadian thing, but we noticed that people need to apologize and explain why they are avoiding you or make a joke so they don’t appear rude.

“We’re going to be really good at measuring things,” said the elderly woman as she created space between us.

“Yup, gotta keep six inches between us. I mean feet. Six feet. Have a great day!” I replied.

When Tales and I planned our bathroom renovation, little did we know that we would be social distancing and staying at home. Initially, we were showering at our friends’ house, but as confirmed cases continue to climb we have chosen to be responsible and stay home. As we are staying active daily, thanks to the ongoing programming from Polsky’s Strength and Conditioning, you can imagine how ripe the nooks and crannies of our bodies are beginning to smell. Why does body odour always smell like last night’s pizza? Now I don’t want pizza and that’s sad.

In order to quench the stench before six feet isn’t far enough away, Tales and I filled up a bucket of water, grabbed the soap and stepped out into our backyard. Luckily, it was a balmy six degrees so we didn’t have to practice our Wim Hof breathing.

I can only imagine what our neighbours were thinking:

“Hey Heather, Dick and Tales are half-naked in the backyard.”
“Again?”

“Hey Kurt, Dick and Tales ⸺”
“Let me guess, they’re eating some kind of organic superfood, pumping out air squats and doing it all in their underwear?”

“Hey Rose, Dick and Tales are bathing in the backyard.”
“Gross, they’re sharing one bucket!”

Okay, so we didn’t exactly think that one through. Next time there will be a cleaning bucket and a rinsing bucket so as not to defeat the purpose of a thorough cleansing.

Although most of us may not have all the same luxuries and freedoms we are used to at this time, we should still be grateful for the necessities that we do have. We have access to food, water, shelter, healthcare and various forms of communication to keep us connected with each other. Aroma Cafe is also taking online orders and dropping off coffee beans; they need an Instagram sticker for saving Waterloo Region from  uncaffeinated monsters.

For those of us who are laid off, like myself, now is the time to do those things we always say we never have time to do. Just do the damn things. No more excuses!

And remember, Missy Elliott has never been more relevant than right now.

COVID-19 is shutting down the world:
“Listen up everyone! We have been just informed that there’s an unknown virus that’s attacking all clubs. Symptoms have been said to be heavy breathing, wild dancing, coughing. So when you hear the sound WHO-DI-WHOOOO! Run for cover motherfucker.”
– Pass That Dutch

When you want to go outside, just think:
“Is it worth it? [Should I] work it? I put my thing down, flip it and reverse [my ass back inside].”
– Work It

Just stay home with your boo:
“Ain’t nothing out there for me. This is where I wanna be. I dun already been in the streets. And I ain’t came across nothin’ so sweet.”
– Nothing Out There For Me

Clumsy Philosopher

He is
the new phenomenon in Pistol City,

free oblivious epiphanies,

knocking over anthologies for years,
back hot toddies and ballads
for tears,
dropping his pennies into paper cups,
two at a time,
making his way into your hearts,
into your homes,
almost making you believe
that he has found a final resting place
to lay his fiery head,
to douse those luminous stands of divination
reaching out to make you see
bright lights,

white dilated chandeliers,

reflecting all the right answers
off of the ocean,
elucidating your fears,
those lonely beads imploding into fathoms,
releasing amphibious childhood
monsters and other great productions,
now silent,
diaphanous vapours returning home
to where they brew,
to recalculate diplomacy,
developing a new criteria,

sweet frothy hysteria,

changing into shrewd relative blots
that speak of
effervescent strokes of genius
and other darker thoughts,
welling up,
a soggy epidermis desperately, painstakingly
holding onto a weak thesis,
a sorry interpretation
of an outdated exegesis from a
clumsy philosopher,
a wayward traveler who has left about

one thousand homilies

by the wayside,
hoping someone will pick them up
and see his brighter side.

206. Beautiful Incompetent Hands

You dip your hand in oil.
I place my stained-glass heart in your palm.

I would rather you break me,
then never
have you hold me at all.

You got down on your knees
to gather up
all of the pieces with
your beautiful incompetent hands.

For one slow breath,
I was lucid.

Maybe breaking
what keeps us together
is how we survive.

Tiny little pieces give the clouds
room to roll back.

Tiny little pieces give us edges
to cut back curious fingers.

Tiny little pieces give us
no volume
by which to carry anything
ever again.

See Dick Teach

Some people like children no matter what. Even if the children are blowing mucus bubbles, shitting up their backs and practicing for their next Screamo concert. Some people only like children if they crawl, tentacles and all, from their own uterus and fly around the room – my friend Jane had a very interesting childbirth. Some people experience mild anxiety around children and can’t see the cornfields for the tiny faces. Personally, if I appreciate and respect the parents, I usually don’t mind being in the same room as their children.

One of my favourite things to do is speak. Dialogue with other humans is important to me and thus I find children to be a challenge. Most children these days either communicate too much or not enough. I was in the grocery store the other day, minding my own business, when I exited an aisle and stumbled upon a tantrum.

“Mommy, you’re a bitch!” Yelled a very upset toddler.

“Honey, that’s not very nice,” replied his mother.

“Bitch!” The toddler confirmed and slapped her.

Kudos to this three year old child for expanding his vocabulary, but he is aggressive AF. Perhaps he was mimicking home life interactions in public; some people really shouldn’t procreate. Perhaps he watches Empire when he really should be watching Arthur. Imagine this child in a teaching environment. A teacher these days can’t even give a child a stern word without risk of losing their job – who will discipline this hooligan? If the parents won’t and the teachers can’t, who will teach children how to be proper humans? I guess it’s up to Arthur.

The only thing worse than too much bad communication is no communication at all. I find it incredibly annoying when children can’t even open their mouths and talk – not because they are shy, but because they are preconditioned to only communicate with their own generation. This discourse often happens by text and not by tongue. The less these children use their tongues, the less evolution will choose to keep those tongues for the future and then imagine all of the things that we couldn’t do without our tongues. Please, somebody, for the love of all things we do with our tongues, teach these children to speak!

I actually tried to teach some Korean Kindergarten children to speak once. I knew they were all very smart for their ages because stereotypes tell me so. I modified lesson after lesson, educational game after educational game to try and get these kids to open their damn mouths and say something, say anything, but all they wanted to do was scream and throw things. Finally I discovered that they loved playing hangman. So I would make them spell out phrases like We are horrible little brats and We are the bane of our teacher’s existence. I’m sure my teacher friends are shaking their heads in disappointment, but ain’t nobody got time for that!

The other day at work I had a moment of confirmation that I should never teach young children anything. A little boy was picking out his first pair of glasses and was so excited. His sister was upset that she didn’t need glasses.

“Why can’t I have glasses?” She asked me.

“Because your eyes are perfect,” I replied.

“But I don’t want my eyes to be perfect,” she said.

I then suggested that her brother poke her incessantly in the eyes because then she might need glasses. “Ohhhh, that’s how you get glasses!” She said and then begged her brother to poke her in the eyes, which he was oh so willing to do. So maybe not my most educational moment. Their mother will probably spend quite some time undoing the damage that I created in a few seconds.

When she was young, Jane’s daughter Belle asked me one time at the grocery store why I needed so much soap. I could have said It’s on sale or I like to stock up, but I didn’t. I told Belle that soap makes me wholesome again after my body gets really really dirty and, because I’m so extremely dirty, I need all of the soap.

“Ewwwwwwww!” Belle exclaimed.

I think it’s Jane’s fault that Belle understood my innuendo at such a young age. Belle, just so you know, your mother has used way more soap than me in her day.

My frephew (friend-nephew), Sebastian, is just learning how to speak and I am so excited to be around to influence him. His parents are not so excited. He can’t quite pronounce my name yet so instead of calling me Dick, he calls me Don’t. Now I never know if he is greeting me or telling me to stop harassing him.

The Recurring Man

His glittering eyes give him the advantage – even over the intellectuals.
His beard is theoretical.

He’s so smart, she says, all dreamy-eyed.
Hypothetically, I tell her.
She ignores me.
I want a man with strong arms who reads Foucault.
I knew him when his arms were stronger and he read Leviticus.
She ignores me.

His hands are everywhere when he speaks – even on the back of my neck.
His fingers are subliminal.