This is my Garden

I’ve loved at dawn -
in the brisk paces of the night
bending into the shape of a swan,
a circle of the moon on our outer edges -
a sweet blueberry tea, and the chills.

I’ve looked deep into the heart
of your CD-ROM collection (
no more hiding, no more bad times )
There is not much difference
to the sea whether it’s a rock or an airplane,
n’ I swear you flew here.
( newfoundland and fisher’s shacks
summer isles n’ Alma in high seas//
the bay of fundy is up in arms for
the mint tea and dry heaving,
giant arms wrapped around a
flock of albatross,
'j't'aime, comme un verger
de pommiers, où est où est,
j’prends ma voix, this
is my garden:
here are the olives,
the pears,
the oranges and mangoes,
the apples,
the grapes,’
j’prends ma voix, this
is my garden,

(brush the horse, pick up the dog,
feed the chickens, sell grown crops,
forage the mountain for bamboo shoots
and blue grass, give mary a flower,
make any necessary errands in town,
water the crops, clear the field,
and repeat tomorrow)

j’prends ma voix, this
is my garden,
filling with your aesthetic
of 80’s bourgeon floral,
so i weed out the petunias,
the tulips and the roses,
the small dressed women
with big hair,
i weed out yo’r heart,
wrapped in a layer of soft soil
and english ivy,
yo’r heart is perfect there,
dug out of the ground
like i imagine jesus to be,
it is beating and i see you
off somewhere laughing
and running by your own
next a small pond of tiger lillies.
suddenly i am startled
back up from my eyes
by the high laughter
of Victorians.
they are coming to check my progress
so i turn to you in idea,
i ache in this tiny
garden, où j’prends
ma voix, for you,
aching in a longing
saying silently,
'Ma cheri, où est où est,
j’prends ma voix, this
is my garden, i swear, i
swear it is’

ive felt the ocean close upon itself
with me in the middle singing
sweet songs for giraffes with short necks
thoughts that are intricately linked
in the backlog of my memory
i love you, i love you i love you i love you,
phone calls and facebook, twitter and tumblr,
i love you, i love you i love you i love you,
sagittarius is not my zodiac
i wish we could float down the petitcodiac
in small blow-up tubes
there are tiger lilies in my eyes
a bear cub is moving in the shape of me
if you look closely at my
body with light behind it
you can see the small silhouette
of a little bear moving my limbs
he is angry at his brothers
he throws his weight around

there is a dense cloud
in my brow, my eyes
behind my smile
and pressing
against each wall
cold, i , sa w you,
i check your twitter too often
i love you ,
i miss ou,y i hvkc ur twitter too often
terhee is osmehting about u
i am stretching for
i misss you so much,
i llveo you so much, i w ish i knew
how to cry for you, i would do it
so much, i llvoe you, i
know i wont
say naythign right
god doamnit
i am full of aching empties
and darling starlights
left behind by
our sunday fucking

I am under dark waters with
ladies with gills, my bones
are too warm and they ruin
the water. i kill the lady with
my very warm bones. on
the shore of the shallow pond
i take deep breathes. it’s hard
after killing something, even
if you don’t mean to. i move
air into my lungs. i move air
out. the stars look special
when they are spinning.

tomorrow i am eating an
apple by the window. there
are sheep here, deep into the
window. i have forgotten
about the lady in the dark waters,
i forget about her sharp teeth
and black eyes. yet there is
still a lingering within me,
in the warm of my bones,
and crouching in the crux
of my stomach is the feeling
that something has lost it’s way,
a small rodent is dead somewhere
and my cat is run away, a house
on abbey road has burnt to the ground;
something has been lost in
the backseat of the car in the night
when we traveled far from home,
something has moved, and god.

suddenly i am breathing hard
having just killed something
that is forgotten. a bug
or you or something larger
with smaller eyes. i rub
the wood of the oak chair.
i long for coffee. ‘oak is not
a tree it is a chair’.

i move my body
i laugh in the mirror
there are frogs about me

been playing minecraft all day
feel pretty neutral
not much is happening
and i don’t know how to kiss people the right way
if i was a cog and people were cogs
and cogs are in a constant state of kissing
the amalgamation of my lips and another person’s lips
is an antique dancing robot that doesn’t dance now
that was very steampunk of me lol

Feels like
a year has been
drained out
over the contents
of my body
the circuitry of me,
the bends,
the curves of me,
are buzzing
with every moment
spent alive
with you and with her
my entire self
is ringing of summers
in Canada

and a blue sea of waves
dancing with the moon
pulling it’s arc across the sky
it’s glowing face
speaking “god” “what a nice night”
to a conglomeration 
of barrels
floating in the pacific
is in me

i’m not sure what anything means
i don’t know my own name
or what string of numbers i am
i love the world though
it’s so big and deserves all of me 
all that i can give
i will try very hard
to spread myself on everything
the night is so pretty that birds are awake
staring with calm amazement 
at the circles of vision around them
"that’s fucking beautiful. fuck" 
they say to each other,
"what the fuck"

The prettiest places 
are the tiniest pockets
filled by small hands.
with the wild untamed
of the river brook, the
songbird singing in
the oaken glow 
of the afternoon.
where does the evening rest
when it’s not with us?
where does the morning lay
it’s head down to sleep?

back to tou