Kirk Bueckert is a Canadian writer born on the prairies living on the west coast. He has been an active member of the Alberta Playwrights’ Network since 2016 and has been writing since he was a boy growing up in Saskatchewan. This collection of poems represent Kirk’s first print publication.
The moon like glowing amethyst Peaks through the window pain, As a dream I’ve dreamt a thousand times Creeps back into my brain. And in my dream I’m not myself But who I long to be, And in the darkness I embrace His false identity. But dreams are things, I soon recall When morning breaks my sleep, Like humming birds and promises – To hold and not to keep.
I mend my wounds with poison oak (The past is looking grim) When you’ve burned all of your bridges You learn quickly how to swim
I don’t remember what I did last night Or exactly what I said. I don’t know where I left my keys Or who’s lying in my bed. I don’t remember calling you To say just how I feel. I can’t quite tell the difference Between what’s imagined and what’s real.
I don’t remember walking home, I don’t know where I’m from. I don’t know how I got here Or the reason that I’ve come.
I don’t remember how to end a poem...
I’ve kissed far more people Than I’ve slept with, And I’ve slept with more people Than I’ve loved, And I’ve loved far more people Than I’ve been in love with, Because I’ve only ever been In love with you.
You strip away my tattered clothes As I melt into your bed. “I can see your naked soul.” Says your voice inside my head. You dissect me like a scalpel blade, Your lips are anesthetic. Suddenly, this brittle heart Is oddly energetic.
You deconstruct my conciseness, Unravel every thread. “I’ll meet you on the astral plane.” Says your voice inside my head. So, I chase you into outer space Past Jupiter and Mars. Your eyes are burning meteors, (Or are they falling stars?) Then, through the prism I emerge A morning shade of red. “Let’s do this again some time.” Says your voice inside my head.