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.