The Wino's Shirt

I remember the lights as
dim like the single bulb in the
basement that comes with
a string that swings too low.
Upon the littered street,
darkness casting shadows
that match the shadows of light,
fight over which corners they
will cast their spell upon.
Kids released from a Metalica concert
wander around everywhere
like ants around their dirt.
Late at night in this strange city,
my head in my pocket,
I sneak long stares at
a wino and his box of cheap Cabernet.
He loudly chats to a fellow bum,
caught deep in conversation
about nothing important.
They enjoy the night,
occasionally spitting grit from their teeth.
Another bum shuffles by in slippers and
torn corduroy's with a round, white
bell, impregnated with beer.
Maybe. It could have been rye.
He twirled his oily gray hair with
one dirty hand,
sucked his thumb with the other,
allowing scary noises to escape
from his encrusted mouth.
He could have been lost;
a stray dog looking for someone
to follow.
Deranged, the stray dog may need to be shot.
I think he was foaming at the mouth.
The wino on the steps of the
government building
shouts to him:
Need a shirt, mate?
I watched, engrossed in the moment,
while waiting for the bus
to take me safely home,
shaking from too much smoke...
Stray dog quickens his shuffle,
almost loosing a slipper on the stair;
less gracefully than Cinderella herself,
and grabs the shirt without thanks
from the wino
who had just taken
the shirt off his back.
Uncontrolled shock slivered throughout
my entire body.
I let choked air stab
and I cough in an attack
of almost swallowing my
tongue.
What is this emotion?
Guilt? Betrayal?
I felt small. Like one of the ants
wandering around me, looking
for anything that could be important.
I wanted to get up and sit
with the wino.
I wanted to be his friend.
Greedy was I to want such company
even if he no longer wore his
shirt?
Maybe his only shirt?
I wanted to know.
I got up to speak with him
and almost missed my bus.
I paid my fair and watched
through the water stained window
at the wino and his shirt
of skin.
Was this Jesus?
This man of many colours was
living on a stair with a box of Cabernet
chatting like
nothing had happened.
His kindness
changed
everything.
I bought a box
of Cabernet the next day,
and sat on my stair
waiting for my
revelation to
take over my thoughts,
like the rain of light and darkness
of the single bulb in my basement.


Jennifer
2000

Vivian

Vivian wore too much makeup; she had a big mouth that ran like the ocean into the south of the Americas where peace comes too slowly and sovereinty loves with cold rain flow. Mirages of birds and things that fly way up in the sky search for a reflection while high on life an other substances we share while we watch monsters looking back in prayer. Fountains of youth spring forth promise miracles, hope, love and charity in a lair's truth sinning for the souls they keep under lock and key wishing on a diamond sun in Lucy's sea. Vivian said things which were of false fabrications that left us feeling cathartic in sensations of chills crawing up our back like a spider racing along the grooves of a door frame in attack. Bells ring in a catherdral telling all who will listen that Lord Jesus, Holy God on High has risen with intentions of frogiving human kind for bad things that eat up pure thoughts in our mind.

Jennifer
2000

The Sailor's Backyard

I'm sailing a magnificent boat,
cruising the seven seas.
I smile at the world and
know they are looking at me.
The gods above bend down,
and bless me with a kiss
of sunset moons and honey skies,
of earth and heaven's bliss.

A touch of salt upon my skin,
a ray of light to know that
the way of passage before me
will let the winds to grow.
What force there is to push ahead
letting sails of hope maintain
tears of glad that quickly crash
upon my canvas stain.

And on we go, through a maze,
holding on to hope and trust.
This magic vessel will swim
with all its rotting, bottom rust.
Mountains of dew and thin breath,
Holy glory all a blur,
which way did we go today?
I must say I'm not so sure.

But why does it really matter?
The sun this day does shine.
For all the water of this world;
The Sailor's backyard is mine!
The current and the curl of wet,
wave hello as I come,
and pound against my humble bow
like a rhythmic Indian drum.

The time has come, I do say,
to pray for fond farewells,
for the deep Ghost Ocean call
does pull me to its swells.
So I leave with this: listen close
to sounds of sun on soggy shores,
for they might whisper in your ear:
The Sailor's backyard is also yours!

Jennifer
2000

Wet Dreams

Back then they called me Shaniquwa.
My shaky hands,
lying in the sands,
with midnight tainted toe-nails
and silver rings around my soul.
Anyone could smell the skunk
imported from the west,
the grass we enjoyed the best,
racing through my veins and
splashing my insides with glad.
I would tap my feet and writhe with lust,
watching waves wet,
forgetting how we met.
Licking your fingers one at a time,
like saccharine-frenzied lollypops.
See-through, cheese-cloth cover-ups,
breath dense in desire,
lips sultry with fire.
Lacey strokes of covet requests
upon my bronzed neck,
arched and strained away from heaving breasts.
Heedful in agile ache,
giver gets what I take.
Thirsty, attacks waver until you cry out,
vibrating universal permission
toward voyeuristic stars and my sanity.
Animal insticts reside.
Again, yet again I'll abide.

Jennifer
11/02/00

Ignorant Rodent

A lonely sidewalk
slips underway,
while legs keep moving
forward in searchof you.
Bleak skies turn
a pepper shade of gray,
small harsh pellets
flick my skin in mockery.
My legs moving faster
with passion and motive.
The path I run leads to
where I began and realization
of being the fool
who was chasing his tail
does not come to kindly.
I ache inside and fall with
heavy burdens, knowing
all too well defeat.
One day, destinations will
have a fence I can climb,
breaking this repetitive trap
you have got me running in.
Like an ignorant rat in his orange,
plastic wheel.

J.M.Jesseau 2000

Innocence Remembered

I had a blue banana seat bike.
It was stolen from the market
while I was buying tomato soup.
My brother had a silver BMX.
We'd sail down the gravel path
as if we were seafaring boats
by the flat corn field with the red silo
and the dusty rusty train tracks.
There is a park we liked to visit
with tractor tire swings,
thick scratched plastic orange slides,
and too high steel monkey bars,
that left yellow peeling calluses
on our little hands.
We were surrounded and drowned
by manicured money-coloured grass
and grudge filled half-alive trees
that waved to call attention to
their naked roots exposed.
A hidden path within their haven
where me and my brother
found a turd of doo doo,
camouflaged by brown decaying leaves
made our laughter innocent
and the happiness remember.

Jennifer
11/02/00