From Mikayla

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You left me for a vegetarian man.
no one called me.

there was no letter, no email.

it was you who said it.

you had met him at the Green Door restaurant

he had long hair and magnetic bracelets

forty’sh and unemployed.

but he was your soul mate

your mirror

your spiritual mentor.

he would cook tahini and quinoa

and would only drink organic wine.

and I, instead of questioning the wine,

asked, “how would you know about his kitchen?

his table?

his bedroom?

you took the time to explain

to clarify my doubts,

and finally,

to confirm my fears,

“but let’s make peace,” you said

and invited me for dinner.

“you, him and I for dinner?

what the hell have you taken me for?

the three of us at the same table

asparagus, spinach and oregano omelettes,

balaclava for dessert.

no thanks,

save me from carrots

eggplants or zucchini

save me the indigestion that I see coming.

no thank you.

electrolygist house calls.

have I read it right?

the newspaper’s ad announced:

«Electrolygist for hire, men and women,

I bring my instruments. Your place or mine.

Call me. »

we, the 70’s men seemed so far,

our opened shirt

and hairy arms,

the women used to say

the hairier the better.

today’s women want them hairless and androgynous

soft skin and hard muscles

no hair in the chest, absolutely none in the back

the ass just like a baby’s.

what would have James Bond, Elliot Gould,

Franco Nero or King Kong say.

as for me

I’m making an appointment for tomorrow,

where was that ad?

electrolygist house calls.

at work I’m cornered by three women

one is French

another one is Anglo

and the third one is Greek.

each time I hung up my phone

the French woman intervenes

she asks me,

“whom were you talking to, Latin lover.”

the Anglo woman laughs

and wait for the answers

to these impertinent questions.

the Greek woman ignores me

she rarely says hi to me.

my calls do not interest her

as it should be.

intellectual dogs

in my adopted town

there is a little park

located at the end of Frank Street

near the Jack Purcell pool.

It is a meeting place

for the people in the neighbourhood

single men and single women

who take their dogs for a walk.

let’s not be mistaken about these dogs

they are used to air conditioning and television

nature is not something that interest them

nor in the least the little park.

their masters and mistresses

toss balls, frisbees and laughter

to their dogs,

they make faces and vocal sounds,

gestures that in my country

would be considered vulgar

and offensive if done in public

as the summer heat is vicious

the dogs become distant, aloof

laying at the shadow of the large tree

as if they were busy discussing Heidegger or Foucault,

so their masters and mistresses

and their tacky frisbees or colourful balls

can go to hell, and leave them alone.

a lovely man

I am informal

unreliable

ill mannered

ungraceful.

I attract people’s attention

for my ignorance

my lack of decorum

mi frivolity.

I often feel I have nothing to say

no lyrics

no role

no script

when everyone else

has plenty of words

on their lips.

I have no hobbies

no affinities

I do not help at home

nor do I go for groceries.

but in the art

of the sentiments

I am The King.

These are called: De Maisonneuve, Foliage and On the Way. Please offer her whatever comments seem appropriate to you.

Thoughts of last night are torturing me

We gave into “I love you” ’s and lust after a failed world war three

Playing with the black and white I’m inspired to let out all the amazing you see in me

Sitting still,thoughts of happiness like this used to make me ill

Jealous,I got angry instead of wishing others well

Luckily,this time I have a different story to tell

Maybe this time it’ll be something I can sell

With chords and a scream written in my own little heaven,leading your thoughts out of hell

“There’s nothing you can or should do within the next 24 hours”

A conversation that led to thoughts of first dates and flowers

Mimicking the heroes that brought us so close,I tried desperately to convince you of my powers

To make you happy and laugh,time travel to your hurts and take them all back

With my hands on your spine I pray that you’ll put up with this bed of pain one more time

As far as I know this is a rare occasion

A friendship like ours escalating into nothing less than love and passion

As my head tries to heed an old lesson something inside me screams “what use is caution?”

Wiping her tears with a mascara brush,

She adjusts her bra containing her only sense of worth,

Exiting with her armor on – nobody in, nothing out,

Fearful that the bird contained in her chest will escape, only to be shot,

Trust no one.

Deathly stares to all who approach – they are all out to get her,

Who is out to get whom, exactly?

Self Destruct.

Heels, fancy wheels and sequence blind the superficial eye.

Eventually everyone sees. They always do.

Hurt people hurt people, I remind myself,

Secretly I can relate with this girl, I guess it isn’t much a secret,

Her scars surface through the makeup.

Crushing hearts, one by one – she is alone.

I pray.

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Upright, Down-right Wrong
I’m standing while I’m lying straight—I hope not to your face.
(I don’t know the meaning of outstanding)
I’ve lost the meaning of upstanding, outstanding, understanding—Great!…
My balance is gone, but maybe it was always wrong.
This is serious business—hearts are on the line.
It’s certainly not the time, to play with lives.
It’s about time…to decide what to do—

At least save the feelings of a few.
Who are you? What is this? Are you proud…?
Are these the things you do…? You’re sure?
Because love shouldn’t be confused war.