ditch,

the poetry that matters

Gregory McKenzie

Gregory McKenzie currently resides in Toronto.

  
Here are the late graduates
Firing down fields of factory work
Pet shops
And sales reps
Conglomerating in parks and under the eyes of a questionable God
Here are ones who haven’t yet earned their fame
Their lives becoming mute relics of some long lost
Forgotten age
Here are the cats spewing throat biles on the floors of the prostrate
Lying prostrate
On the bed of sex and unrequited orgasms
Here is your mother
Thinking she hates you
As you squelch one more family loan to make the next month breath
Here are all the fathers and divorced dads
Who peep through those gates at long loved
And shortly forgotten
Children of past ages
Here are the siblings
Arrogant
Cocksure
Unable
To satisfy their own demands for survival
Here is to all the brothers fighting through bouts of abortion
Folding dreams upon the sales room floor
Here we are
Poking premature babies with thick needles
Watching them deflate as balloons
And hoping through the days
That none of it is real
Here they swerve across painted lines to void their own success
Swinging metal at foreheads
To escape the social networks
Of a blue screen
Green minds destroying what they love
Turning lips green
And fingers green
Typing green all over the bleach white paper
Virginity
Until that instant
When the keys infect its purity

 

allowances

as she leaves I open my lungs to take another breath
my shoes cracked from all the time we spent together in the Philippines
bruised jaws of memory
hustlers calling cat-like in the warm night
open cuts and sore heels
revealing past night’s debauched lullabies
crooning children at the gates
smiling husbands who reach through
pulling mothers, tearing away hot concrete
warm sun over suburb pools
woodlots and worms melting in icy glasses of wine
and smiling faces coated in cigarette smoke
dust escaping lung shelter
statues that never perform
wolf faces that haunt the cores
feet clicking over gutters and trailing wrappings through the roadways
husbands
again at the gates
looking softly at babies of old born lives
slowly dripping towards the horizon
noses pressed through bars
foreheads horizontally shaped
bent
lucid
dreaming of allowances
when such structures never existed at all

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                                                                                                                                              August 2011