Table of Contents
3. A Canadian Funeral
4. How I Became G-D
6. A Winter in Montreal
7. Forever
8. Cybersex and the Arty of Zen
9. The Death of the Poet
1 0. The Birth of Narcissus
11 . Decorum
1 2. Narcissus, Musing
1 3. Our Post Modern Theology
1 5. A Dream of Love
A Canadian Funeral
Gathered closed mouthed, futures painted in
oaken symbols, the threshold for us
becomes those watching; pale robed and
wordless in the Canadian winter.
Tom Thompson saw this vision in shrubs,
in sti l l lakes loons don't dare disturb
us, fingers sti l l wrapped up in the hands
the wire on the fence wears itself thin
should a bell tol l stir the empty dusts
open your door and fol low the band
we all knew this day would come. unheard
those yews sti l l wi l l stand, in si lent hoods
without an epitaph the blank din
marble marks endings in forethought, thrusts,
reflects in withering meadowland
or the dimming eyes of the children
another place and time, seeds wil l truss
once more before autumn and winter
who come after you, misunderstand
vibrant springs or their warm rain in sin
I lay a flower at the next bust
much lonelier already unbirthed
dead as alabaster, sti l l as carved wood
How I Became G-d
You should know me by now, I am the gargoyle
to your shopfront. I am that ancient grinning
face that once kept away demons, before you
made me one one. Do not kid yourself, I was
here long before your cathedral was ever built
lurking through the corridors of your mind and
watching over your adopted idiots chanting
solemn hymns of ignorance. I was here long
before you felt the need to reach skyward,
balanced on a platform of asymetric stones and
even before you felt that you needed get closer
to those hands that were always open. I was
here long before you began to learn to look
down from the parapets owning everything. I
was the dream in the mad artisan's head when
he set about my business with a chisel in your
name. While others fi l l the halls below with
bl ind promises and gospel I wait, I l ive now and
then, I sit high above you searching for the
future with eyes that could never close since
times that came before reason. I have become
all the remainders, and their sum tal l ies greater
than your parts. I became Suns and Moons that
moved through the sky with equal,
inconsequential meaning. I began to discover
there were no demons, no angels - only me. I
began to find that there were no creatures of the
night with a disposition to hate the day when
light and dark became meaningless to a seeing
blindness. The forms all looked the same,
intention was the monster. I real ized I never
guessed yours in creating me. The creatures of
the night don't know there is day, just as you
don't see me now for what I was the same way
as you never see me then for what I am. I have
become a bridge across seconds, minutes. I
am years nailed to a cross because I do not fear
your pain, and try as I might unl ike the stars I
cannot fal l .
Your inverted faith holds me fast as iron, and as
captive as a man in an open field who has
nowhere to turn.
AWinter in Montreal
As empty as darkened shop fronts
potential now just a promise
that never got kept. or never was;
that gaze turned to the ground looking
for nothing and never finding
what they think it should be as loss,
or peace, walk backwards onto
the street wil l the future
behind you now be what
remains unbought on an empty shelf?
I see all this as you pull
your collar up against the wind, it's
better not to lose than smile
it's better to be empty than in pain
I t's better to have nothing to sell
it's better to have nothing to gain
no one clears the snow from your steps now
even if you always leave on the l ight:
Al l this from that one moment
when I couldn't guess your name. . .
Forever
Once, we owned shares in forever.
Now, we buy and build ourselves
Life sized models with forensics…
Cybersex and the Art of Zen
I have run a finger over your bytes
l ittle ones and zeros fi l l your eyes
there or not there, the incessant
flashing cursor
forgets what to say; can I
picture your face? How you may lay
cheeks prone; against the pil low and
under my lips? What letters writ
(in sequence or inconsequence)
could represent this tender moment
that would fal l l ike dust under scrutiny
of even the most complex rules of logic
as improbable, unimaginable
(within parameters) -
Here now the sun has become fluorescent
and I have married my hind sight
it has taken my pro active last name,
slowly the imagination has crystal l ized
everything I touch becomes glass replica
of itself, I join with other
si l icon lovers dancing periphery samba
and with the tips of our fingers articulate
the isolation we feel
from behind our eyes.
The Death of the Poet
Posthumous, the edict exists;
scribbled on the unseen side of the wall , the
warm inside the door never taken,
in eyes that never caught attention
in the last drop of water from the well
in the veiled sunlight through the drapes
In the moments of si lence that breathe
in a kiss that built l ife around it
in the bankruptcy of the late night dream
in the hipocracy of longings
We’ve all bought label-makers, now,
there is no need to understand
We all sleep much easier.
The Birth of Narcissus
Bursting through
(why always the resistance?)
(why, am I the resistance?)
I spl it rocks with these hungry
clutching roots
waving leaves
I bare myself to the l ight
struggl ing for the warmth I was
the sun
but always too far away
and there is no sun here,
no sun strong enough
to warm this
heart buried deeper now;
diving
through the dark
looking for sustenance
deeper in the black.
Decorum
The offer of dialogue was
sti l l drying, bloodied on the paper
while poetry died yesterday.
Now if we live in it's wake
Words have not thought of the words to
take, thus simplified, the world turns;
You have become the heir to nothing
What's known is common, homogenous,
always unerring with it's glaze
and if you are against this
it bel ieves you are wrong
discreditus e operundi
Narcissius, Musing
Lovers hearts
are candelabras
fi l led with tiny flames
and wound together in
threads of wax, l it but fading
remainders, moulded
burned
retreating from passion;
sculpting increments
of scars
closer, and growing away
your face, my hands, our love
forming
maps of pain and hope.
Our Post-Modern Theology
Black tar pit bottoms of coffee cups our
words struggle in them, vain dinosaurs
to die truth's sure death while the
clocks ooze off walls
losing the race to the afternoon shadows;
this futi l i ty bearing fruit in
quiet processions that carry masses in
ebb and flow around our table, our windows,
our cities, the bluish blush of the television to
dul l the shine in our eye,
reason fol lows in vapor trai ls now
tracing vague sketches of reality: see them,
endless wakes, suns refracting through
dirty windows, it's here that
we lay, dying of bubonic plague
or the absenteeism in our gaze and
my mouth has opened, forming
words that no longer have any range
but fal l over flat and unnoticed on the floor, no
you wil l not lance the boil
you must not lance this boil
no pious weakness stains purity
and we'd lose our place in the l ine
we sit, while love must die we
pull the wings off moments
so nothing wil l change
unti l nothing else can change.
Narcissius, a dream of Love
My fingertips cold
against your porcelain face
frozen for centuries I 've forgotten which
my touch or your smile;
in this second
in this pond for the looking
I find only myself sti l l
mirror smooth and unmoved
I dream of a day
my reflection wil l change
into what you need
the statue to your Venus
the pantheon of your greatness
the apollo to your beauty
hung in orbits, backs turned
from the sun
desiring nothing more than the view.
Jeff Casselman was born in
Montreal, Quebec in 1971.
He has been writing since
1987, and was shortlisted
for The Lester B Pearson
scolarship for Literature in
1989. Currently he works
full time and pursues new
creative outlets in the self
publishing era. He has self
published 5 chapbooks, and
more recently has
experimented with
Amazon. com' s publishing
platform. He lives and
works out of Montreal,
Quebec, Canada.