Paule Kelly-Rhéaume is a phenomenal young poet. I chose the featured image, of Joe Strummer on tour in early days, because it reminds me of her and her work.
Like him, she is on an inevitable path, on the brink of busting out; like this portrait, her poems are as solemn as a jar containing still, yellowy gasoline.
This jar of strange sunshine is being agitated, tamped down and set on fire.
These poems rise up and shatter the glass, PKR writes the new poetry in motion
Wearing my bikini bottoms
while my laundry airs and the sweat pools between me and the couch.
I haven’t written since, since I started I guess.
We’re both picking at our legs, Animal style.
Is it because I don’t want to remember?
How will I make it to Texas in this heat?
Must send more clothes home.
My sweatshirt, the minibar.
He has Taro boba while I watch, suck the tapioca.
What can you remember in this heat.
The coin laundry, the cash-only donut shop – one chocolate glaze, the other stale krueller.
Last night we went to Colcoa, the French Film Fest in town at the Director’s Guild.
Except we were in the wrong theatre so 20 minutes into L’affaire SK1 we ducked out across the hall to find the actual movie we were there for, the documentary Of men and war.
I can’t bother to capitalize.
In this heat.
My hair is like straw should I cut it all off?
Sprawled like Bridget Fonda – in that movie – with Morgan Freeman?
The one where she answers the phone. What is there to say?
What was better: Las Vegas or nowhere at all?
Where am I in the world – and no I won’t float off to Catalina.
Where when how.
When all I ask is you.
One More Day in Miami
Barbecue chicken on my thighs,
the element of flesh
Michel from Boucherville
Il fait 24°C à Montréal, à Miami
The scar on my arm reappearing like a scorch of the sun
It would be so fun
Where would I rather be?
Let’s see if the cowboys don’t get too rowdy
One more day in Miami
Atchooming all over the place.
Into your crystal ear.
California oranges are setting in the sun,
a mariachi band just started playing
dogs are yapping
What is it that they tell us to do?
when the pink rises up, the satellite tower shimmers to dark.
Will I ever see you again?
In my life, in my pocket.
Deep roots that want gnawing.
I know that you are having better sex than me, more often.
It doesn’t make me convulse.
I feel the weight of the sky in my palm, let the clouds roll over
It is enough to keep searching,
and to yearn.