Mind the Gap
between
mind and self.
The
self enjoys
a
respite of maybe
14
seconds before mind
fires
its next
'thought',
a death-tipped dart
hits
the heart.
Then,
a second, more
unforgiving,
thought
strikes
and lays me low.
O
that another, kinder, mind
might
overwrite my mind,
or
teach it mercy,
but
no, my mind replies,
'I
am your only mind,
you
built me from the thoughts
you
thought you needed
to
survive.'
Poor, Lonely Prime Numbers
Poor,
lonely, prime numbers:
3,
83.
7
who was told he was lucky,
13
who was told she was not.
If
they could hook up, they'd be 91 -
91,
Queen of Our Fates!
Happily
married couples: 6, 10, 15.
Same
factor couples: 4 (best friends), 9, 16,
gay
but partnered (and don't call them squares).
Same
factor threesomes: 27, mixed threesomes: 30.
Polyamorous
communes: 72 - a five-way!
Polynumeramory!
Poor,
lonely, prime numbers:
97,
only bachelor on his block.
And
on the next block over, 100th St.,
four
old coots: 101, 103, 107, 109.
They
never get invited to the barbecues at 105.
"We're
all odd,' they cry out.
'Don't
that count for anything?"
Now and Then (in the fire
season)
Seven
sun icons in a row,
the
winds' direction changes,
smoke
comes over the mountains.
A now stalled in the skies.
'Taxicabs
at twilight' -
that
was Elizabeth Hardwick
recalling
an evening
on
Central Park West
back
in the ancient modern then.
Now
a new now -
a
weak Alaskan low
undermines
our Pacific high,
&
the winds take the smoke
back
over the mountains.
Living & Dying
for
Barry McKinnon
Riding
forward facing backward on the train.
Sucked
into a tunnel! Out again!
It's
a nice day, sunny Monday in October.
I'll
have lunch at L & S, hopefully
Stephen
Quinn will be hosting On the Coast.
Maybe
tonight go to the pub for an hour or two,
though
now, October, it gets dark early,
the
trees invisible from the window,
but
when I get downstairs, out on the sidewalk,
they're there,
beautiful
trunks and limbs, bare branches,
in
front of the construction site, apartment house
going
up, the site where Kidsbooks used to be.
Red,
white & green lights over Broadway.
Breathing
in, there's a sense of 'return to the world'.
Then
to the pub.
Wearing
light-coloured trousers
at
night, like an American.
*
'He
not busy being born
is
busy dying'. - Bob Dylan.
There's
a clear distinction.
Look,
making a pot of coffee is living.
Reading
is living (even when reading
about
somebody dying - old Goriot).
A
clear distinction.
I'm
heading out to L & S again.
Four
of the next seven icons are suns.
Tuesday,
I believe I'll go downtown --
the
thought of those bright moments -
the
bright thought of those moments -
Tuesday,
sun, fish & chips
A native of San Francisco, George Stanley has lived in BC since 1971, and has published ten
books of poetry, including Vancouver: A Poem, After Desire, North of
California St., and West Broadway (with George Bowering’s Some End) all from Vancouver's New Star Books.
His chapbook Love Is not An Algorithm, from whence these poems come, was just produced via
above/ground press.
Photo credit: Christine McNair
George Stanley and rob mclennan in Vancouver, February 2020
