he said, I dreamed about making out with you. It wasn’t even sex.

Originally uploaded by folkfestfan.

It was a tiny alarm in an unfamiliar gloom that smelled like honey. I picked it up and couldn’t figure out how to turn it off, so I nudged the priest next to me, and put it into his hand that wasn’t trapped by my body. He mumbled, I was serious when I said the bit about the nipples was about you, and shut it off.

It sounds like fiction, but it’s true. I sat up, did up some buttons that had been undone, straightened my stockings and kissed him on the forehead. Go back to sleep. His shirt was open, so I put my hand on his chest to feel for his heartbeat, and smiled. Some mornings I know how much of this holy book was made for me.

I’m usually intimidated by sacred things, but instead I’m still okay. I am blinded by halos and I fear for my vision. Don’t let me burn like a witch scalded by a writer’s rejection, I want to say, but I don’t, because in my heart, we are family. I’ll call him later, and laugh a little, and I’ll make him happy.

I passed the cenotaph today walking home in the rain. It’s our Remembrance Day here. Veterans were lined up in black capes with their heads down. I stopped until they began talking about Jesus. It makes sense to me that soldiers would have gods, but I woke up next to my rabbi, so I kept on walking.

Home is a shower, maybe. Home is downloading my videos of the last night’s proceedings and uploading them for you here. Home is this keyboard and listening to Shane, knowing that he’s still content to be left in bed because I tucked him in there, because his rings got caught in my fishnets, because one of these days we’ll have time for each other, but not just yet.
download these

This one’s called Finally.

I saw some cows and it got me to thinking about love.

If your lips were crayons, I would like you to press them to the colouring book of my face… and scribble.”
(You can hear me murmur, oh no, on the video when he began talking to me.)
Video II, continuing the same poem.

A bit of crowd banter. New rule: you must be that beautiful to ride this ride.

For the woman who told me to fuck off after I told her she was beautiful.”

All you need to know for this poem is that a lanyard is nothing more than a glorified keychain.

I’m sorry that I keep saying I’m sorry.”
This is where the band kicked in.
Video II, continuing the same poem.

I don’t imagine you saran-wrapped in black latex or seeping out the edges of something tight and red.

I’m going to shit books so bad-ass that they’ll be banned for trying to define bravery as walking into a biker bar wearing a pink sweatshirt with a picture of a unicorn being tamed by a gnome.
He used to scald me with this from stage. He knows a little better now, but he stills whispers it at night. I like the BrickHouse, I said to my friend. Whenever I go, I leave with Shane. I don’t even know you yet, but I’ve been sleep walking towards your kiss. Shh.

In his own cunning way, my friend tells me about his girlfriends oral sex habits.

edit: I’ve also got two videos downloaded a long while before.

World Slam Finals: Help Wanted. Every day my grandma would come into my room and I’d hear her say, “Rise and Shine. The world has a window that holds a sign there’s help wanted somewhere, young man”, so I rose and I shone. I put on my shoes and I was gone.

CBC: People Get Better.