that girl at earl’s

Alexander was quickly dodging the late-night patrons at the most popular Earl’s in Vancouver. Spilling half a Paralyzer on the Asian girls in the corner while barely catching a serving of Cajun Chicken Caesars. The place was loud as usual, and the regulars were chatting near the lounge in the rear.

Leaning against the island was the tall Caucasian male with a gimped right leg, his name still a mystery as his credit card signature was illegible and the top portion of his Visa ripped right off – he was a flirt. There was also the big-boned fellow he always came along with; apparently Asian but tall even by Caucasian standards. The tall one chose the girly drinks like the Paralyzer, his friend, domestic beers.

Alexander was always keen on noticing different things about people; it is one reason why he enjoyed this job. Every person has a story; as does every person in that story have one of their own. That is why he took a second glance when she walked in.

You could see her long legs under a sleek, black cocktail dress that was draping eloquently from the hip down to her shin. He bent over the bald man’s head as he delivered the Chilli Chicken and his wife’s Penne Alfredo; she came alone.
He was not the only one who noticed her walk to the busy restaurant. Many a cat-call were ignored as she irately dropped herself near the end of the lounge. Alexander quickly darted ahead, in front of the waiter working in the lobby at the time.
The beautiful girl he saw walk into his restaurant faded away with the tone in which she asked her what she wanted in a . She was either pregnant, graced with high metabolism, or very ticked off – she ordered a Salmon Provencal Salad, Spicy Thai Green Curry, Dynamite Shrimp Rolls and some more Chilli Chicken. It was not so much the amount of her ‘dinner’ (as it was near closing at midnight) but the way she ordered it that turned him off. She seemed upset, infuriated even. But even still, there was something about her…

After many poorly timed and poorly executed pick-up lines, the ‘regulars’ at the lobby wobbled away leaving the girl alone at her table. In fact, she was near alone in the entire restaurant, save the newer employees washing the tables and taking out the garbage and a few staggering stow a ways.

The late hour managers are less strict of the dress-code and Alexander rushed to change out of his room mates horribly uncomfortable black dress pants – it was laundry day in his complex and he forgot . While kneeling down in the kitchen tying his shoes back on, he heard a noise, a shriek coming from the lobby. He shot up on his feet with shoes un-tied and ran to see where the shriek came from.

That shriek heard from the bathroom door was that of the girl in the sleek cocktail dress fighting against a pair of struggling hands around her neck. She was being choked from behind by a man dressed to the nines he knew only due to his overuse of ketchup.

Alexander ran up the three-stair climb screaming on the top of his lungs, perking the interest of the night manager as he tripped on his un-tied shoe.

The only thing that saved him from slamming his face in the corner of the table was a handful of fist in his face followed by the disgusting snap of cartilage. Dizzy from impact and losing blood from his nose he lifted his hand onto the table and pulled his bloody self back up. A life-time of violent video games and even more violent action flicks finally came to use as he retaliated fiercely by grabbing a full jug of beer and slammed it against the cheek-bone, jaw and nose of this un-known adversary. With a satisfying crunching noise the half-Asian man fell to the floor with a thud and a splash into a pool of warm beer. Alexander followed suit.

When he awoke he was surrounded by his manager, his beer soaked slacks, someone else’s shirt and warm hands holding his own. The girl in the sleek, black cocktail dress was kneeling beside him tending to his wounds with a waitresses pocket slip. Helping him to his feet the two stumbled over to a bar stool and the manager offered Alexander a glass of scotch to take the edge off. Softly sipping from his glass he turned around and saw the medics pulling away the broken mess of tall, built, bleeding Asian man.

“You doin’ okay?”
“Oh? Yeah, sorr..er.. thanks” she swiped her hair behind her ear only to show a few scabs down her neck. When she saw Alexander staring she quickly pulled her hair back down her neck;

“he was my ex-boyfriend,” sneered the girl beside him, “and hi, I’m Victoria“.

A Foggy Day (In London Town)

Through the sepia tone
of the midnight fog
     through the corner
 of my eye,
I see her.

I see her saunter
slowly, balancing
on her 4-inch heels,
down the dock.

She lifts her face
     out of the ruffles of a fur coat
and time stands still

Piercing eyes;
emerald green radiates
like lights on the pier,
through  the murky seaside.

The foghorns bellows;
a gust of wind pulls
the strings between us
     and we brush into each other.

She looks like
Marilyn Monroe,
     palms between her thighs
on legs the length
of a city skyscraper.
    holding
her bright red dress down.

Caught in a torrent
of strings of hazelnut hair
and a hint of strawberry
      on her neck

“Thank you”, I whisper.

I turn my head,
and step off to the side
only to be greeted
by a quick tug on the coat.

“Why?” she asks.

I smile
     and leave her
with a soft  peck on the cheek,
lingering close
enough to hear
her thoughts whisper
in my ear

On With The Show

I grab my bag,
check my wallet,
got my tickets?
Let’s go.

White knuckles
gripping the handlebar
of my 10-speed.
Speed bumps
- mean little
traffic
- mean less.

Skid to a stop,
quickly tie up my bike,
I bloody book it.

Panting,
heaving,
I hand the driver my change.

The bus ride to the your
first concert
is always a long one.
Swarms of kids flock
onto the bus with me;
just as starry eyed.

I ignore the odour of the kids
(pushing into me)
the bad makeup
(smearing onto me)
greasy hair
(brushing against me)
And horrible shoes…
(stepping on my feet)

I know the city;
the snake-like turns and
n a u s e a t i n g l y
long traffic lights.
I know why everyone
starts breathing hard,
why their palms
glow red.

The hall – just around the corner!

Here I am,
I made it.

The Man Who Sold The World

knew the power of
of their greed,
the hands of theirs touching.
A missing rib makes an awkward man
as the son gazed into the sky.
Wincing as the hunger tempted him.
(The two large dolls are naked)
Hair anew, arms and legs alive
as they walked from His hands.
Even at their birth
he is too small to scare them,
so their teeth, like his
will bite the apple.
Years later, his Father will say:
You weren’t weak, you were showing
how to sin.

640 SCOTT RD STN.

The squeaking tires of the bus,
sudden gust
cool air,
wake me
as I fall from my seat
onto the dirt encrusted
flooring.

I notice her coat;
the colors of fall.
I notice the winding ivy
printed on her
sweater, the color of the rose
(held gently) in my corduroy coat.

I slip off my headphones,
we exchange courtesies;
She lives on the island,
mother and boyfriend.

As the bus drives past the lumberyard
she tells me of            fights
          violence
                                  divorce.

She tells me how so much
about the city; her old home,
has changed
        and looks the same.

The brakes squeal,
our hands catch us tumble
into the back of the seats.

We gather ourselves,
hand reaching cautiously inside
my corduroy coat
           (…and boyfriend)
we step out.

I walk her
   up               the escalator
   across        the platform
Show her where she wants to go
and how to get there.
She leaves me
(with a peck on the cheek)
and is swept off
down the              SkyTrain.

Wallet

I am an omelette,
with your favourite treasures inside.
A dead cow,
folding onto of itself
I spend more time on an ass
than a girl on a downtown street corner.
I am the old mansion,
rotting at the seams.

Aging Telescope

Along the deck he paces on sinewy tree trunk thighs
- as my own, twice as wide
With sun glaring through an ancient pair of glasses,
Old eyes squint as he brushes his brow with a battered cloth

At 6’7” he steers with a strong but shady grip,
His bearing at the mercy of an adolescent temperament.
- quick to judge and quick to act
He is dark as those encountered on a mission trip,
and just as confused.

Even still, he wears on his back a cloak of dignity
that is far from commonplace,
held together at the neck with a weary clasp,
worn by the ceaseless tug of mortality.

Living more of a life than he was built for.
His first wife, snatched by the toxic tentacles
of a cancerous kraken
I fell as near a fate

With steady hands
he steers our stern.
Choppy waters divert our direction;
focused upon through shady eyes
and an aging telescope resting on a wrinkled sneer

The winds of which propel our lives
inconsistent,
unreliable,
as the words of a drunken ship mate proposing mutiny.
The anger soon passes, conflicts soon settle,
and confused rage are retired to their sheaths
Laughter soon fills the echoing halls of the forecastle.

A salty gust blows over the ocean,
cooling the smear of sweat on his ever expanding scalp
My father and I, panting side by side,
hands resting against our thighs,
chuckling as if nothing had happened.

(lest my fathers grip become abraded and stance uneven yet again)