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| april 23, 2001 I find you between Jazz Styles history text book pages, all enveloped in Vanguard music, notes and silence caught within your hair You move through seasons of wanting only the sound of a piano hitting and bouncing off the small of your back And then you are lost in all the beauty that could be written from the look of your face on a pier sunset night, all orange and hopeful |
| april 27, 2001 I have rusted pots a bad mouth a bad mouth I have your rusted pots right up to the window sill I have no armour for intensity your character floating above a tired afternoon And I have a genie for all the things you'd wish for I have a genie, at least, to take care of |
| april 30, 2001 you're on stage I lie sprawled on the auditorium floor and you are beautiful in your own right in your own right even though you are not mine you have a drive not even a truck driver can speed past and in my own right i love you |
| may 1, 2001 is it really self serve Bob Walsh? do you self serve in life? do you live for the clank of coins, of a gumball machine right as it spits out the candy? hey Bob Walsh was that you out by the pump, swatting a cloud of bees with your wet, acidic squeegie? Bob Walsh, you self serve you serve the coutry with dignity and you serve the ditch's hogs with a gasoline morning breakfast |
| may 7, 2001 My dear, it is how all the other flavours feel when you pick the plain vanilla It is how this back bends and bends and fights not to break under you under you The concellation queen my cheeks never as rosey as the moment I found out how my garden does not grow so you know |
| may, 2001 the coincidence in sitting for a while- of staring, as senselessness drains from my pores, you in my eye, in everyone- and then you there, walking Bloor Street with a notebook in one hand and your girl in the other- the 'all you need' what a heroe I am to only myself |
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