In Today's News
My horoscope: "Shiny happy person. Today your individuality will really shine. So for the best day possible, try showing off the qualities that make you different and unique." No suggestions about what those qualities might be. I learned long ago that what I think is so great about me is much different than what others appreciate in me. An example: I once thought I was very sophisticated (please don't laugh), until three people told me I was the biggest spazz they knew - still am, I suppose.

Ode to Phil (odd neighbours' recently dead cat)

Oh Phil, so fat and spotty,
You reminded me of my dad -
who is not spotty, no longer fat,
but mellow, serene, and funny,
and I like that.

It's shoe day - a day I've been procrastinating over for weeks now. Shoe day involves cleaning, repairing, polishing, and if needed, Febreezing a sorry pile of shoes in the back of the closet. Thanks to another near sleepless night, I'm cranky enough to finally tackle this pesky job - but outside on the porch, natch.

What I had for breakfast: coconut juice, spilled from a coconut that I purchased and punctured, plus two oatmeal cookies and two rambutan.
What I'll have for lunch: coconut chunks, and couscous with spring onions and tomato.
What we'll have for dinner: greek chicken drummies, rice with spinach and feta (a caloric splurge, but so delicious).
What's growing in my kitchen: butterfly bush, delphinium, shasta daisy, thyme, rosemary, cosmos, all sprouting from seed in flats. Lots and lots of thyme - want some?
New favourite cookbook: Babbo. The N.Y. Times called it virtually impossible to cook from (their dangling preposition, not mine), but I disagree. Recent guests fawned over my venison ragout. Even better - it's signed to me by the author, the one and only Molto Mario.

Absence
My eyes are closing
to warm hands at my throat.
Kisses dearer, nearer
to a together place;
you smell like autumn.

Sent from me, down the street
across the country -
I can't see you.
It's snowing,
and my feet are cold.

My eyes are closing
to the sound of soft cries
outside my window.

Inheritance
I wanna be famous
in Regina
where I sing folk in bars.
A man in a hockey sweater
introduces my act
and hits on me between sets.

My blouse will smell like smoke tomorrow.

I wanna have your baby in Gander,
raise her in lumber jack plaid.
She'll smoke Players Light,
and drop out.

Her boyfriend works at the Seven Eleven.

I wanna be famous
in Lake Head
and sell slices of life to truckers.
My boss is fat,
he comes from out west
and he wants to get down my pants.

Winnipeg is twelve hours away.

This Week's Dreams
I dreamed that I wrote a novel. And it was published! It was very, very badly reviewed by a great number of people, but I was so proud of myself for having accomplished such a grand thing. I raspberried all the critics and danced around singing "I wrote a book and you didn't nanny nanny boo boo". An uncharacteristic positive attitude, no?

I also dreamed that Madonna lived next door (ed note: possible name for very bad novel??). It was the cute, preppy, t-shirted Madonna of the Papa Don't Preach video. That's my most favourite of her many reincarnations. Which Madonna would you wanna be?
a) Slutty, Frilly, Bangled Madonna (Like a Virgin-ish, but without the under-arm hair)?
b) Take Charge Madonna (cone-titted and naughty)?
c) Glam Bam Thank You Ma'am Madonna (Monroe-esque, gowned and bejeweled)?
d) New Age Madonna (stringy hair, career-in-toilet-but-I-still-have-yoga)?

Best New Idea Garnished From a Dream:
I've wanted to improve my French for some time. The plan: Scrabble en français, tous le temps.

Mask Poem
Under this quilt is where I hide
from preditors
from editors
from creditors
Eat me, delete me...
they all want something.
Let 'em look I'll laugh and never mind the letters.

It's good under my quilt -
when I raise my knees it's a cave or a fort
where I played as a child.
But tonight I'm not in the mood so I'll lower my knees
and hope you go away.
If you want it, find someone whose phone works
so you can get a pizza afterwards.

Tonight I'm not in the mood.
I'd rather listen to the radio,
visit Elvis who lives downstairs beside my super who chants
"it's not my job".

I read my poem on the radio
but they said my name wrong.
Now it's just me, this quilt, and my identity crisis,
as I lie here listening to my toilet run.
Where the hell does it think it's going?
What could be better than all of this?

=Montreal, Easter 1991