Poem: The Recovering Separatist

now that I've left
I no longer harbour the white hot rage against the pages of history
that thumping textbook of reproach that sliced,
a paper cut always ready to be re-opened and bled

for a hunger than never seems to be fed.

My head is filled with non-Quebec thoughts
crowding out the Commandment to never forget.
In this other world, I slowly convert to that heresy
that religion
of Being One

Perhaps I could be less disconnected
if communion did not require assimilation
but for now I question
I am denounced
I am dead.

POEM: Saint Ottawa

You are painted
draped with a flag
as you pose
for your martyrdom by those evil
right-wing zealots--proposing death
by a thousand tax cuts--
sharp as the arrows of
St. Sebastian,--

They must be opposed
Without question,

Your mouth raises a cry and
you call them fanatics,
although they're pretty mainstream,
but that's just semantics. It's the substance
that matters and it might sound pedantic but
for their own good you must
milk their sympathy

And you dangle the Charter
The Holy Scripture
Look at the camera
And wait for the rapture
Of election night
For your martyr’s crown
Because you’re the elect.
And we must bow down.

POEM: The So-Con

I have nothing to feel for Canada
The sore is too deep and wide
There used to be something in me
Resembling pride

I have been wounded, wounded, wounded,
The stabs have made me numb
Inured me to the charge of bigotry
And mainstream odium

I am the intolerant
Qui tollis peccata mundi
Nailed again and again
For being a fundy

I am vide,
apatride,
A political invalid.

With only decadence in view

I cling for dear life
To Psalm Twenty-Two.

POEM: To My Dead Fetus

You’re supposed to be in heaven
As of a month ago, although, you
Could be in limbo. I dunno.
You’re gone and now I can finish
My semester. Still,
Questions fester.

As I rummage through the looseleaf
And the spiral notebooks, looking
For the answers to essay questions, you’re
Still fresh in my mind, like that
Last cup of coffee; somehow, maybe,
This wasn’t the right decision; the pros and the cons
Weren’t debated with academic
Precision, and like any other
Operation, you should weigh the risks
Before they make an incision, but honestly
I had a different vision.

I switch channels to late night talk show
Discussion.

No one asked me if I wanted to get pregnant.
I took the Pill and he had a condom. What are
The chances? And what are the chances
That he’d turned out to be a jerk?

I couldn’t face the world pregnant. I couldn’t be
One those girls who was thought to
Not take precautions; or be one of those moms
In the supermarket you know is single because
She’s so young and her kid is a brat.
I didn’t want to be that.

The exam was soon, and I needed an “A”
To get the scholarship; I had to make it go away
And as foolish as it sounds
I started to pray.

When they sucked you out, the clouds dispelled
And I thanked the doctor for saving my life.
Crisis over. Back to normal. Things back on track.

But I suspect a little soul was zapped that day.
Gone. We kill all kinds of things in this world
And don’t feel sorry.

Except I’m a little sorry we didn’t get
Introduced. It might have been fun to love you.
And see you smile.

But it would have costed. I have a life to live.
A degree to finish. A career to manage.
Can’t be bothered with it. Still.
I can’t help think what if.
I can’t help to think of where you are
And if I’ll see you again.
And if you’ll love me.

They say abortion is murder.

It’s murder alright.

POEM: chihuahua eyes

Chihuahua eyes, dimpled with light,
stare mournfully out of the buxom
SUV whose fat ass pontificates
“My Body, My Choice!”
as she shuffles through the slush-laden street
fuming at how slow-going this whole
world is, just about ready to
drive off the road
to get where she’s going.

And the little Chihuahua curls up into a ball
To go for a long sleep
Out of my sight.

POEM: t-shirt

the t-shirts that say “Quebec”
in suspension
arms outstretched like
haunting phantoms—
they wait to be adopted

or they’re wannabe Messiahs
looking for a
crucifixion

instead they are purchased
by tourists
shoved in a backpack
to be occasionally displayed
and worn
when necessity
dictates

POEM: Cloudburst

The embryo-sized droplets explode on the
sidewalk, a shiny black billboard.
The shrapnel—little pinpricks—snap
and crackle against my window
and the sad rivulets
drain into the river
but fail to percolate
into the skull
of Mother Earth.

The Obligatory Inaugural Post

I've decided to create yet another blog. The purpose of this blog will be to publish my literary writings.

I will not wait until my writing is all neat and polished. I'll simply publish what I have. It may even remain unfinished. Just whatever suits my fancy.

I think I need to do this.

I write a lot, but I don't actually show a lot of it off. I don't even finish a good part of what I write, especially if it's prose.

Part of the reason is that I lose enthusiasm during the writing process. Other things get in the way, and the critic in me is so loud, because my writing does not live up to my standards in a hurry, that I just leave it aside and don't come back to it.

So I'm hoping that blog readers will happen to land on this blog, want to read whatever I have posted, and maybe comment. Hopefully the comments will be good, but even if they think my writing sucks, oh well. I know what won't be worth my time.

This blog will feature many first drafts and unpolished pieces. I'm amazed that some people actually like the first drafts of my writing. Does it mean that it's good? No. What their appreciation does for me is give me the enthusiasm to carry on, because I know I can make it better.

Deep down, I think I'm a pretty good writer, which is why I cringe at some of the stuff I write. I know that if people like my first draft, they'll adore my fifth draft.

I fully intend this blog to be entirely self-indulgent. I am going to publish whatever I feel like, and if other people don't like it, well just too damned bad, I'm showing off my wares.

Some people are probably wondering: why "The Uterus"?

If you look at my other blogs, you'll realize that I'm a pro-life activist. So it neatly ties in with that theme.

My writings are the product of my fertile mind. :) And this blog is a like a uterus, carrying my little babies, who may come to term, or be miscarried.

I rarely abort literary activities, i.e. rip them to shreds. It'd have to be something atrociously bad or offensive.

So there you have it: that's what this blog is all about. Thanks for reading. I hope you stop by often.