Toothbrush: Thought Police # 89


Dear Colgate 360, I want you in my mouth.
During Board meetings, Labour Management meetings 
when the interpretation of Article 34 – Sick Pay – gets sticky,
during budget presentations to the Finance Committee,
then do I want your supple, absolving bristles on my tongue.

I knead you between my lips, the plastic neutrality
of your handle a temperature just below mine. 
I lean over the sink in the women’s bathroom.
People are always asking, supplicating, extracting decisions 
– that grievance payout, that motion to rise and report, 
that 5% budget increase for another fiscal year – 
but with you in my mouth, I have a reprieve.

Dear Colgate 360, Chief Oral Officer
and Director of the Department of Hygienic Affairs,
I crave your mint aftertaste, the flavour of a directive well-received, 
of strategic alignment while churning out a policy report at 4:00 am.
You are the taste of a well-placed semi-colon,
a termination letter delivered on a Tuesday,
a conference presentation, hungover but hiding it well.

Don’t flatter yourself – I know you’re not a lone operative.
I see the support you gleen from your executive team
– Toothpaste, the Bringer of Mint; Dental Floss, the Fixer.
None of us are any more than the products of our surroundings.

And don’t think your work is over at 5:00 pm.
At the end of the night, you are my final accomplice,
scraping off the evidence of G&Ts, another blowjob, whatever.
I cradle you in front of a different sink, a different mirror 
and contemplate my distorted cheeks as I brush.

Eternal Infant

1
He stomps the earth again and again,
drowning it in the melody of his laughter.
Rules, warnings, and threats—
all fade beneath his tiny lips.

2
Even in helplessness,
he clenches his fists in courage,
rising like a sun in the Milky Way.
Wiping away boundaries, he crawls forward,
softly claiming his freedom.

3
Hiding his face behind a dark cloth,
he chants— ta.. ta.. ta.. ta..,
bewitching with playful tricks.
Then, lifting the veil with a smile,
He lets the moonlight embrace him.

4
Scooping sunshine into his palms,
He fills himself with light.
With delicate strokes,
he awakens the seven notes of melody.
For a while, he sways like a pendulum,
then pushes time aside.

5
Between his small hands,
claps are born.
From their rhythm,
a fresh voice takes breath.

6
From his music, a father is born;
from his gaze, a mother—
falling gently, like tender petals.
From his lips, bonds unravel,
thread by thread.
Between night and day,
He is the architect of love’s foundation.
He knows neither poison nor cruelty—
He is the pure churner of an ocean of milk.

7
Years pass, yet nothing fades.
His feet step into adulthood,
but his laughter still stomps the earth.
His hands bear the weight of years,
yet within them,
the same claps echo.

8
He wears a suit, speaks of deadlines,
yet still chases butterflies in his mind.
He makes decisions, signs papers,
yet his heart scribbles dreams in the clouds.
The world calls him a man,
but within him—
a child peeks through time’s cracks.

9
He is the child who never outgrew wonder,
the man who never lost innocence.
A grown-up baby,
cradled between yesterday and tomorrow.
Tear-filled eyes today,
but tomorrow's painted in dawn’s gold.

Whatever I Amount To on a Given Day
 
My thoughts keep streaming
like some Netflix series but duller,
fewer laughs, more trepidation. I am
the B-class actor in my own show.
 
I direct as well, ordering myself
through my sets: living room,
kitchen, bedroom.
But laying down my glasses
and forgetting where is not
in the script. Taking a tumble
will have to be a one-shot scene,
no retakes on that one.
 
On a day when sunlight
shines through the kitchen window,
I aim for comedy, juggle knives
for my audience of plants and cats.
The cats run; the plants stay.
I hoped for applause,
but no blood after the act is a wrap.

Slick Survival Kinda Style 

 
None of us lie.  
This world – 
A mean motherfucker.  
Brutal hurt,  
Every day. 
We spit truth,  
Styled in the way we survive. 

and we all know what comes next


sometimes life happens way too fast


but most of the time, boredom is starting

to wrap the cord around your neck and

we all know what comes next


i've lived long enough to watch most

of my family die


all the pain, the suffering


what becomes of dreams crushed before

they ever get to be


keep your head down and carry on, never

talk back


all shitty advice from a man that never

wanted to be anything other than rich

without ever having to earn it


my father never loved me


and of course, that is why the page is

my fucking therapist


he went to vietnam to die


and i had to pay for his inability to die

in a war where all of his friends did


maybe that’s why i've had success

gambling


no one deserves that kind of shitty

luck

Metaphorically Speaking

I will chop down your weeds

and dig out your rocks and

 
stumps. I will turn your soil

and maintain your tractor.

 
I will muck your stalls and

abundantly fill your hayloft.

 
I will be your scarecrow. 

Words 

People ask if my books sell.
Doesn't matter.   If I wrote
For the money, I'd write novels.
That's where the money is
Other than in writing TV ads.
I'm just sharing some of my
Words with the world and not
Caring if anyone likes what I
Say or not.  I'm not some fool
Looking for a pat on the head
Like a dog, maybe a nuts rub. 
It's just me and what I come up 
With.  I even read my own stuff.  
Every once in a while, just every
Once in a while,  I read someone
Else's.

The Sun Is Always There

 
The sun is always there
Although it is raining
Water is pouring and
A flood is forming

The sun is always there
Although clouds are gathering
Blue sky is quickly blocked
While sunlight is still in the air

The sun is always there
While you’re not looking
It warms your heart
With or without your noticing

The sun is always there
As long as you have faith
It will appear again
At the very moment you forget about it

The Local

Climbing the narrow walking path,
The Local points to where
the crop circle appeared last year,
says he met some Americans like us,
last year, who were here from Kansas,
who said they made the journey near
the Summer Solstice, like us, to be closer
to the UFO's that seem more frequent
in warmer weather.
His companion checks out the Neolithic
burial chamber we were climbing
to see, says, "It's walking into the woman's
vagina, that is, the mound opening.
Each of the interior cavities represents
different parts of her body: the arms, legs
and head." I was tempted to ask,
"What about the glass windows in
the antechambers? Are they mirrors to
the soul or what?"
But I bite my tongue.
Questions might spoil The Local's monologue
about Crop Circles, UFO Landings
International Conspiracies, Cover Ups,
and all that good stuff. He's into juicy
stuff like, "Silbury Hill is a landing area
for space ships & other UFO's.
Everyone around here knows that,
all this stuff about a shaft collapse
during the last monsoon is just government
nonsense." When he notices my hearing aid,
he knows I'm listening but he can't be sure
to what, or, whom I might represent
and backs away, tongue tied now,
fearing the worst.