Alison’s Eyes


Lo-fi, Lo-res, analog primitive

stark and minor keyed

when recorded in mono

like a clay pot fired

on the last day of Pompeii

A final human gasp

of artistic expression

before ruin and enslavement

In vinyl, preserved ever fragile


Holding vigil

Still, even now

their voices carry forward

they rise with the heat

a flame of hope that burns

in the end of every year

These penitents and pilgrims gather

in annual purgatories circled

in calendars on their walls

The very last week of a decade

when these flames burn brightest

and your noisy exit echoes

on through ages long

With black and white stills

that you still recall in color

The place, the date, the time

Still belonging to a now

that most have never known

Now holding vigil

for fellow travelers astray


Hastings Street Coffee House, April 83

Three AM on Saturday

we were crowded in a doorway

Bars closed, we sheltered from the rain

The drops beaded on your poncho

like flower petals the morning after

I saw you before around the billiards

Two other pubs and fourteen bottles

A spark in your jade eyes remembered

I let you enter first

and never saw you again

But your jade eyes in the mist

saw me home in the dark


Our awful legacy

Black and white portraits

gaze innocent from the page

They give no indication

of the awful people we’d become

Black and white or grainy color

youth looks the same in any age

Their faces show no inkling

of the awful weight that is to come

Relentless time and gravity

will ever awaken the sleeping rage

when hopeful dreams face resistance

to these awful times that are now your home


At the end of suburban matrix

where the macrosphere meets

Industry and consumer briefly intersect

In the concrete world

where all dreams are asphalt

Orphaned sub-lots overgrown with weeds

Amid cement barriers wire and pipe enter the earth

like a needle into fertile veins

of a patient sustained on life support

Nearby the flies swarm

over pedigreed road kill

Their flesh feeds teeming masses extant

manna from heaven in their exile

as they flee their urban chains


Dundas East, New Years Day 83

Cold, bitter, arctic mass

A low winter sun blazed brilliant

Searing hole of fire

in broad azure tapestry

All sounds traveled sharp

amid the steam of our breath

from the icy walk beneath your boots

I wondered did you hear it

through those purple ear muffs

I was afraid to ask you

I didn’t think you’d come

Je regrette, Mademoiselle Cameron

Once we’d arrived I didn’t know

Why you’d want to be with me

for I was no one

I had nothing

and you didn’t even know my name