Is a greasy spoon too familiar? Does romance
still share milkshakes on Arborite counters?
You on a break in your greasy cook’s jacket, blood
on your sleeve. Me with coffee refills, apple pie, heartburn
This is minimum wage date night in the slow hours:
twenty questions, take bets on what people will order
Side of fries. Piece of strawberry pie
Buddy Holly burger. And Sonny and Cher trite
on the jukebox. They say our love won’t pay
the rent, before it’s earned the money’s all been spent
Home when the sun’s up, give your roommate five bucks
to go to the grocery store
to buy us the time. Next Sunday it’s the same,
a table of twelve want omelets at midnight
We thought you’d get out early
I can hear you singing from the kitchen
while you blanch onions and I know
you’re singing to me
Ricepaper’s new double issue: Aboriginal Asian Canadian Writers is available now. This issue is a product of the collaboration between the Asian Canadian Writers Workshop and the Aboriginal Writers Collective West Coast. Includes a note by guest editor Joanne Arnott, Canadian Métis writer and all-round literary powerhouse. Also includes poetry by yours truly.
Be sure to check out Five Elements, an evening of poetry and music and fundraiser for SFU’s Indigenous Poetry and Poetics class. Friday Feb 23rd at 7pm at Rhizome cafe. Readings by Larissa Lai, Jonina Kirton, Janey Lew, Wanda John-Kehewin, Joanne Arnott, Janet Rogers, Kelly Roulette, Larry Nicholson, Laiwan, Arlene Bowman, Alex Jacobs, Annie Ross, and Michelle Sylliboy.
Re-occuring Douglas Coupland-esque dream. I live in a shopping mall, still functional but not very busy, with lots of empty space. Like Tinseltown. In some dreams my dwelling is in a junk jewelry store like Claires, sometimes it’s in one of those dead space areas: between the food court, washrooms, and maintenance. I’m furnishing the space with second hand and giveaway furniture; usually someone is helping my collect it from newspaper ads and back alleys.Several friends have played this role on separate occasions. Last night it was my dad.
He had a big 70’s wood paneled station wagon, and we were driving around town with the buy and sell. We found a desk that looked just like one he had when I was a kid. I used to hide under it. Last thing I remember was marveling at all the stuff we’d been able to fit in that wagon.
We like to write communal Haikus, each participant contributing two letters a a time. Sometimes they make sense, sometimes they’re nonsense, but they’re always awesome. Here’s the latest.
Frank learned bar stool
Vie for collective signs
wind renders ears deaf
Crevices sulk grey
Icicle centipede slides
tarred with hungry hand
O, tinder box blue
To fold mirrored ice, sharp, I
suspend space like flame