Wheezing and caffeine

Yes I have been quiet again. Between fighting off the pokes and jabs of some kind of throat/respiratory malady, I have been sprucing up [places for writers] and working on some writing. For the first time I am entering a prose contest (how civilized). Lately I also find myself frequenting a variety of Toronto Starbucks (I know I know) and finding myself quite pleasantly possessed by words. Each visit elicits about six to eight pages -- and the Tazo-chai-soy-latte-caffeinated verse is actually usable when I look at it a few days later. I can't explain it.

25 January 2004, 11:01

Asking for change

Clouds glide behind skyscrapers,
stroke the soft cerulean sky.
On the sidewalk, the outstretched hat
accepts the negligible weight of coins
into its blue curve of fabric:
the concave place still warm
and worn from cupping
downy white cirrus against
the edges of an old man's head.

19 January 2004, 19:01

Sunday afternoon

Sun blazes between two buildings,
the concentrated brightness erupting
into two effulgent arcs over glass.

A second's glance burns blue and green,
freckles eyes and sky and buildings
with searing circles. Floating.

A cloud passes overhead, spilling snow:
glitter sifting down into the sun's shadow,
sparkling dust that dares to distract
from the fiery spectacle above.

18 January 2004, 17:01

Storm

Snow doesn't happen here very often -- at least not good snow: the kind that falls in luxurious soft clumps to the ground or sifts through a crisp night in veils of powdery sparkle. No, none of that. Because of our geographical positioning we are lucky to see a fine dusting, a few vagrant flakes.

But today, snow has descended upon our city in a glorious, tremendous tempest of white. Walking to work I dodged snow-tornadoes skidding across the road and on toward the lake: clusters of wild, mad swirling-ness. From my office window I watched the magnificent maelstroms move over the lake and obliterate condos and shops and streets. And on my way home, me and three heavy bags of groceries were tossed around by a frenzy of flurries. A cold chaos that followed all four of us home.

14 January 2004, 18:01

Insulated (a memory)

Nighttime and we are walking home
in the insulated night, white padding
the trees and houses and sidewalk,
our voices flat against the charcoal night.
And we are skipping, holding mittened
hands four across, scuffing boots
through glittering powder. Laughing.
Songs sung from scarved mouths
in off-key notes are too quickly absorbed
by the street and clouds and snow.

12 January 2004, 20:01

The next day

The surface has hardened into craquelure, a jigsaw puzzle of scintillating edges fused together. The lake is a frozen mosaic: shattered glass tiles, angular and silvered, held into place with the embrace of the dark water below. Every piece of ice is a shadowy mirror or a darkly opaque window powdered with white winter dust.

10 January 2004, 17:01

When the water is warmer than air

The entire surface of the lake steams; tendrils of white vapour curl upward from swirling white clouds hovering close to the dark surface. These are winter ghosts escaping the depths of the still-warm water: january souls that seek the caress of frigid air. Their evacuation, a white and billowing, ethereal dance.

09 January 2004, 10:01

Freestyle

The darkness is lit by globes of light: lamps that line the walkway to the outdoor ice rink. Anxious bladed feet swing from benches as the zamboni rounds a curve, breathing steam and sweeping a shimmering wet path over the cloudy ice. In its wake, the rink-lights weep blue and green to a decades-old song. The clean-edged notes slide across the luminous ice, leap into double axles, let the wind spin them into the shining cold night.

07 January 2004, 19:01

Clouds

Clouds scrape the sky as they move eastward toward openness. They chafe the faces of dirty skyscrapers, scouring the grit of indifference. Great grey sponges, they soak up poisoned exhalations, then wring themselves of wrong. Their slow, methodical travels polish the sky clean. Underneath it is lambent glass; they say you can see through to heaven.

06 January 2004, 18:01

January 3, 2004

Dirty clouds clutch at paling sky:
purple watering into blue. The air
is soft and humid, a comfortable
warmth that breathes cool.
Cyclists speed down streets
that should be paved in snow,
but it is 11˚ in January. This
brings dangerous words to the lips
of strolling families, to the tongues
of sidewalk coffee drinkers:

  hope     release

Untethered from winter
we are bounding dogs who dream
of happiness and grass. We lose
caution, abandon worry that waits
for us in clouds in two days' time.

03 January 2004, 14:01