A Poem by Rob Halkos

hello, Kensington,
the toronto in a rhombus, or something close
to the shape of my heart. i feel your
persuasion, so i don't Place blame for our perversion there.
: at least You're a true museum
/ knowing museums change.
/ at the least, You're almost a true mausoleum.
realty struck me when i looked
over there from spadina street... a venue of
bobbing heads and as many perspectives.
before this Trip, i may have been convinced that an
examination within just one steely buildan' could sum up both
recent and previous-to-recent truth, but diamond-eyes tend to forget about that Place one block over, where
yellow
-
houses everywhere dared me to
otherize my thoughts.
otherwise i'd end up another stranger-causing stranger; another
disappeared
.
linked together, everyone, every one...
isn't it hard to be the Standard, and live up to it at the same time?
very much a local dream, we desire
everyone creating, you know, 'create your own
jealousy,' silly small town trademarks.
o
u
r SO-silly, a
naivity-always never the same, for You are
a Place that changes like people, and changes people,
linking everyone to an ever-history of not-gentry and not-city-housing.
.
cheaters, though, ride in with city-badges and city-signs
oppressing poster posts, stripping them bare of all but the staples, the stains, and my empty stare...
my first vist was really short, and the same goes with this one-bittersweeter.

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