East Van Places represented in poetry

So on to my second self published book ("A Cure for Mirrors") from my pre transition era. This book also had a nice launch, as did Like Bukowski in Drag, which i launched once at the Bar called Bukowski's, but is now The Charlatan. Bukowski's was a great for a bar venue in the late nineties, early aughties for poetry, open mics. Local legend CR Avery did some of his very first shows there, most events were run but the Late T. Paul Ste. Marie, who was the best emcee I ever worked with. Someone sorely missed in the scene. RIP Paul.

I have very fond memories of those open mics, and seeing so many friends and great poets every week.

Anyway, my second book, which launched at the more recently disappeared cafe "the Prophouse"... a great evening with local musicians Rodney Decroo, and Wyckham Porteous, opening up for me, they opened for ME. So humbled by that to this day.

A Cure For Mirrors also is inhabited by places of the past, nostalgia. Though written when I lived in these places, now these pieces are nostalgic for me, and evoke stronger memories than even looking at old photos of "The Ship of Love" aka The Santa Rosa, (a block west of Main, on Broadway) where I lived on the 3rd floor with my friends Vince, Andrew, Hersh, and a myriad of short term others... ah Early 90's Mt. pleasant. real grit, not hipster grit. All those hipster restaurants, back in the day (early 90's) were Chinese Canadian greasy spoons, with big booths mostly and cheap greasy breakfasts all day, and usually the worst coffee you ever had. Worse than Bino's. Seriously.

Living in that building, I occupied the bedroom because everyone else came and went kind of willy nilly, and often I had the place to myself, and then there were 6 of us, etc... we were so young. I had a great view of the Lee Building, which was pretty run down back then. The events of In Mt. Pleasant are poetic interpretations of something I saw one of those nights I was there alone.

In Mt. Pleasant

in

  those mountains   over   there

some clouds  have landed   and

a short rain

is making   it's 

                way 

through trees

              sloping

                     into boulders

and falling

           towards

                  vancouver

often in my   dreams   i am

                            that woman:

the rain walks

              across my face

                            as i run   my

fingers   in the

                gutter of my   bedroom

                                window

in my dreams   often i am that

                              woman

                            in among

transformers   and high voltage lines   cables

she   is a black haida   shouting   distance

                           out   of her mind

and

   bent

       on hearing a man called                                      

                              "Darren"   

sing for her    

            she's high

            from ground   

where fire fighters baffle her noise

in

   the

   narrow 

   alley   

she's over 

...while all are busy saving   her

                               from

straddlingscreaming spirits

                            and a whole

                            city block

worth of electric   power:

                          a man   four floors                  

                                       above       

                                       her is

on his fire   escape chanting   

dressed in nothing

but horsenails and suede voices   

dust falls    down away  from 

his fingers   through gridworked iron and black

into   her shingled hair   

making

           waves

                     inside   her ears and

clearing cleaning   

                          sad spirits from

                                     scraping 

                                     scratching

and       

hanging

       on   for that one man   who isn't a fireman   but

a song 

     of   kissing "Darren"  

                   harder than teeth

and black as Indian

                   saving her   slow like flesh   

or a dream

in my sleep   often i am that   woman often   as

it's

raining in 

           Mount Pleasant .

© 1992 Josie Boyce (Published in 2008, "A Cure For Mirrors" under the name Joe Boyce Burgess)

The second poem is something based "the experience" I had at a party I went to in the mid-late nineties at a well known spot that hosted great house parties. so much booze, so many drugs. But always good times. All my memories of these parties are gauzy and candy coloured, even that time I almost OD'd on shrooms and ingesting pot, okay, and drinking well over a dozen beers... the poem is not about that night, but a similar less yellow eyed, liver killing night at the same house, a house I recall with much fondness, as all I ever did there was party. It's called "Spiders and Wolves."

Spiders & Wolves

it is 

one of those parties 

at Fish's 

where

the mushrooms 

glow along my 

vegetable of a tongue

& i watch 

the road fill with 

spiders and wolves 

            

         : i think :

my older than 

               old hands 

are frosty

moonlight sculpture 

                 evaporates

into scripture 

(under my drunk) laughter 

foolish boy that i am i

mishandle rites 

of ignorant solitude

          

       : i think :

you’ve got to breathe 

lime through teeth

you’ve got to breathe 

flatten the music 

that’s it.

Try flashy half empty 

attempts to get 

lost in catacombs 

of supple men 

        

        : i drink : 

i sink

my dream of 

teeth into

wolves that taste

all cold & 

             spidery.

© 1997 Josie Boyce (Published in 2008, "A Cure For Mirrors" under the name Joe Boyce Burgess)


The third poem I am showcasing from "A Cure For Mirrors," is called "A Ghost In Prayer" and is dedicated to a great old house I lived in, again with a few friends, but not quite as many,we were all a bit older, crankier. My gender dysphoria was at an all time depressing level around this time, and I tried a lot of different masks on, and I consumed too much of everything, from food to booze to drugs, to comic books, and collectibles,

I ended up with no job, and a humongous visa and student loan debt, that eventually i had to flee to japan to pay most of it off. I did make some great friends at that house, of room mates, and folks passing through, there were two little corner grocers nearby that I loved, we had some awesome cats there, and also, the place was pretty haunted. whether you believe in ghosts, or have some other explanation for the freaky shit I experienced, what i got out of it, was an empathy for those still clinging to places they lived and died.

One experience I had, coming to the landing up the stairs, i saw this poem down the end of the hall next to my room.

A Ghost in Prayer 

(for 909 Windermere)

a cloudless blue dress 

sweeps past winter

at night 

she cries out

bottles and glasses dance

spinning dust into song 

she drinks these 

whiskey elegies as 

long papery shoulders 

slump in a corner

she wakes the living

she shivers low echoes

long dead teardrops

for her dying man already 

a ghost before he disappeared 

in the fog of her arms

she mourns 

being stripped bare

and killed by 

her own watery voice

a cloudless blue dress 

falls away 

dry as prayer 

© 2001 Josie Boyce (Published in 2008, "A Cure For Mirrors" under the name Joe Boyce Burgess)

Hmm I enjoyed doing the little historical bits between poems. i think I will try to keep that up. See what happens when you do something, something else happens!