11:47

numerals....
math has no place in my head
a blurry submerged sense
still....why I keep tiny log books
with numbers on the cover
of their black white abstract
fronts..some think I am clubber
but I am flubber...trickster merry
prankster

the tidy sentiments of my hard ass
mother..sister..lovers through the
ages were defined in the most
sentiment of pieces..

I remember the sixtie two baby
blue wind up jewellry box...the
ballerina on her spring..the
tiny mirror for then tiny faces
turning...
the lift lid record player...the
Beatles Rolling Stones collection
CCR Jefferson Airplane...Cat
Stevens...K Tel hits...when they
moved on jobs....boyfriends
I would haunt the room I feared
playing their music....trying to
figure where the dragons breath
emerged..the fire...
looking for the tenderness they hid
through bottle and prescriptions
their pillows did not smell of tears
nor fears...they did not rest weak
for long...owning cars..mighty
Outgoing!!

skip ahead...the small statuettes
like the greek romans and vikings
lie standing like easter island effigies
the most tenderest of sentiments
my mother it was the seventies tea pot
I bought her for mothers day after the
first major cancer reconstructions
she got twenty years with chemo etc
enough to travel..buy the dream home
she wanted...golf...long after leaving
the home...letting us to grow...far from
the whelping times...we were ready
twelve history of men stood on their
feet....I gaurded the fort all summers
literally...

figurines.....maybe it was a figurative
metaphor...round bowls from the femminist
shops of cool stuff...eclectic...
men dont use that word....we buy tools
hatchets and hammers
leaders in packets..light bulbs and oils
but still
i enjoy their collections
their vivid stories of horror in my head
wash the figurines....cleaning the closets
of dust...wiping the shelves...
smiling at the collections

my eldest sister had the poodle skirts
and those fifties shoes..
my parents wore suits dresses and clubbed
it at Hamilton Ontario the steel town west
of toronto...the black and whites of the in house
photographer snapping as they watched
entertainers on stage..they were happening
fifties...

my other sisters had the Peace Chicken poster
true hippies....also happening
I wore their denim jackets...they were
mod looking...no biased to sex
beads....peace symbols..
before I moved into the punk look
post 84'

I remember the poodle..a black stuffed
standard with rhinestone eyes
as glittery as my sisters two door
ford 1963 with the three eighty three?
lavender wicker teardrop air freshener
hanging from the rear view mirror
they all were a fast crowd

ask the poodle
ask Jefferson Airplane

I still sit the women in soft
matte on their pedestals
but they jumped from their
ceramic worlds into mine
all words..action and flesh
how real is the real

its unreal

ask the Poodle!

love these cryptic writes

Your friend
The Wolf!

to fully understand this poem but I definitely like it. The title drew me in.

Made me feel drunk, was that your
intention?

round and round we go

good to see you posting

Richard

What happened to the "abstract workshop".
You'd have had done a great job there, if only you continued what you have started...sighs