Archives for posts with tag: Catherine Jenkins

Fully interested, firm, active employees offer performance based fees for discretionary services of matching, short, intermediate, or long duration.
An examination of the price for limited partnership determines the appropriate timing of the transaction.
A minimum of two managers is associated with each client and we handle every private client on an individual basis.
Homogeneous portfolios are offered in ABA and BAB objectives to extend growth, turnover, duration and performance.
Professional staff offers social screening of private client objectives and risk breakdown by experience and quality.
Risk parameters are determined for each client and agreed upon in writing.
Yields on fixed instruments are high as risk and bottom-up top-down exposure increases.
Normal asset allocation targets are determined after consultation with clients relative to objectives and constraints.
We may then deviate somewhat from those targets at different times in the course of a full cycle to maintain discipline and liquidity.
Professional staff commingles with clients and regularly uses street research to maintain a dominant position.
When sector-swapping performance is consistently applied over time, the average meter of issues, duration shifts and asset allocations change in the yield curve.
Performance is cheap relative to intrinsic value.
This process is repeated every five weeks.

© Catherine Jenkins, 2014
Source: A Canadian Who’s Who of Investment Advisors from the mid-1990s

for me you’ll always be that skinny Noxzema-skinned teenager
sunbathing   bikini-clad   under a 1960s sky

the little girl chants “closer, closer, closer”
as we drive in   unaware of the desperate levels of meaning
wonder if she’ll remember the day she got the little red plastic boat

oblivious fishermen talk drunk along the lakeshore
your disembodied laugh dances across water
breaking surface tension into strands of helpless light

the little boy clutches his yo-yo
says “I want to see the sparks”

© Catherine Jenkins, 2014

people who have died
make up a part of me
you say you love me
and I don’t know what to do with that
I can never be anything but alone

the cat makes his demands
senses his aloneness
an immediacy
then forgets because I am here

the tv is on late into the night for distraction

I hug a friend
who feels like a lover
because I need her to
and you say you love me
but I don’t understand your intention

the cat demands and
I migrate into a waking state
shooting stars are rampant tonight
but the sky is filled with mist
so I’m blinded
the cat whispers to another feral
whose ghost purrs alone dead
and the sky is filled with mist

the memories of the dead
make up a part of me
but I’m still not sure of the fit
the juxtaposition of eternity
and common sense
leaves me confounded

you say you love me
and I don’t know what you’re saying
I have more wine
hoping to make sense of it
you kiss me
with your wife in the next room
and the ghosts of the dying see it all
you say you love me
and I don’t know what to do with that
the cat yawns and purrs
oblivious of his dead
but I feel them

the dead make you part of me
and the living I don’t comprehend
heat fills my immediacy
and I wish for an intensity to show me how to love the living
you say you love me
and I don’t know what to do
the dead make up a part of me

© Catherine Jenkins, 2014


just the voice traveling wires and space
orphaned in the wind and solar breeze
carried by mysterious chance to destination

I do not talk to people   only disembodied voices
whose languages I barely understand
straining for some mutual recognition of word or intonation
like an infant learning speech   language is a complex thing
my hesitation at slow understanding
causing the receptionist to say “allo?” repeatedly
while I attempt to decipher meaning from simple words

at my pronunciation of a name they immediately lapse into English
even with my best attempt at French   they know
I have Anglo written in my speech
tattooed to my tongue   incised on my throat
so embarrassingly obvious at moments like this
finding myself apologizing for ignorance
not bliss but awkwardness

fumbling for French
hand gestures   facial expressions
“here, let me write it for you”
do not convey over phone lines
limited to speech   to language
anguishingly aware of its limitations

and me in broken French trying to ask if M. Brochard is on vacation
her in broken English saying no, she will get him
the taped voice message saying “Please hold. We will connect you.”
in a fine BBC accent   seemingly incongruous
we are having a multi-European conference call   me the foreigner

a baroque breeze filters through the phone lines as I wait on indefinite hold
not sure what or who I’m waiting for   wishing for fluency I fall far short of
too short even for courtesy
thinking of the call to Norway
the answering machine’s long message as much of a mystery
as the one I have left

or the call to Sweden
the lilt of the operator’s recorded message
telling me the number has been changed and giving the new one
me unable to decipher the code of language
the words a barrier to communication

in Abu Dhabi at least the message is repeated in English
something I can understand
after the initial shock of guttural pronouncement

and I still can’t get that number in Andorra to work
the satellite misconstruing my intent
“Sorry, Mercury cannot complete the call as dialed.”

me flipping through the atlas curious at the sudden proximity of distance
and calculating the difference in time
I can phone mainland Europe until eleven   the UK until noon
trying to determine when to place calls to Singapore   to Japan   Australia
concerned because I know no words of Japanese
that would be suitable   can’t even attempt broken speech

lost in the mumblings of this electronic babel
trapped in the digital sand of this intangible existence

© Catherine Jenkins, 2014

previously published rampike

for D.T.
the night keeps getting longer and
there’s nothing I can do if your heart stops
it’s all over but the breathing

the way I imagine your body ending
like the Doppler effect of the planes landing at Pearson
tonality dropping   descending like a fine white line
contextualized in nervy images
impulses scattered like the last spasms of breath
as air becomes confusing

the phone doesn’t matter any more
let it ring
rejoicing the ascension of spirit
the power play of balance ending

but I can’t get past the tension in my throat

the way these tears can suddenly sweep me up
take me   dam bursting
controlled numbness is fleeting   the emotions left in its wake
beginning to ascend   catching at my throat

plaster the day-to-day look on my face
and hope you don’t see through it
to the lost control threatening
behind my tightened lips

hearing grown so acute with silence
I can hear the sixty cycle hum of the light
notice its absence as darkness amplifies around me

© Catherine Jenkins, 2002/2014
published Descant, Summer 2002


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