Thursday, February 21, 2008
you can separate your self- from consciousness
and you may find new memories
left behind by the waves of others, like kelp washed up on the shore
during low tide.
Today I am wearing clean clothes
and even on the bus
over the diesel smell I can breathe and take in the perfumed fabric softener,
it makes my nose twitch.
And I really must wonder
how a mix of chemicals
can smell natural
even on the fingers after the waxy residue is left behind.
When I scratch my face, the smell comes back
and I must remember to pick the laundry up
from the dryer. It has surely been an hour.
And beneath that realization,
I remember my friends have gone to pick up grass,
I must not drink all of their wine,
and beneath that memory I think that more must be purchased.
More memory more wine forgets;
I see names written all over the walls
in an illegible scrawl,
the writer will return to this place eventually
and remember the night he wrote his name in gold pen
over another in black pen,
even if he no longer knows
who wrote whose name first.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
cigarette smoke serene, spills out
the corner of her mouth, an elegant
circus of buffoons marching
the sidewalk, dancing to
wine-bottle music, a little emptier
each note, cheeks a little rosier
the autumn trees had burned off
vibrant green ecstacy,
waiting to settle down and die
amidst the snowdrift,
the sillhouettes, their fingers stretched
yearning towards the sky or
the glow of the streetlights.
sidewalk ceramic tables
the wine bottle is empty and
the parade has passed by,
you go quiet, walk home against
a distant discotheque bass beat, a headache
the first snowfall. In silence
the last drag of smoke
slips from her lips as her sillhouette fades
past the streetlight and there is
nothing to say anymore, and
at home your quilts are cold
and your bed feels empty.
my reasons myriad
and finishing for vanquishing
that all that has come and waited to leave after they got off
questions for those who bought off
and not for him who is set in period furniture
or those who learned in chairs of yore
-waited for the financial score
and reliance on dollars spewed across the floor
in a bloody mess
made quests for those with the best
or those with bags of 'cess
i confess, i am the one with less &
i hate to use dirty water to bless,
and that theres nothing thats mine
besides her who i try to impress
and I belong to noone less
than those who fill up my time
with silly rhymes in my head
or thoughts of books so often should be read
a blankness that should be fed
but instead, oh instead
i distill questions of who i was but am not
the world forgotten by the world forgot.
Monday, February 18, 2008
i find it hard to fit the parts
with open pages
is it me or just the season
cuz im feeling less inspired now
perhaps I'll get out
we always knew it wasn't easy
to recall the past and write it down
my memory wont serve me half as well
as photographic stills
just sitting on the shelf
they cant help themselves
they cant help but glare
our eyes are simply cameras
I myself, just a voyeur
my head is filled with darkrooms
taking names and printing colors
is it wrong to create confusion
with attempts at reckless thoughts
Whatever keeps you interested
while im connecting dots
and not for the closed or those who happen to have chose
the path which ultimately shows who is strong
and who has held out for something beyond the rainbows
or those nights on moon lake; all the walks i never got to take
and all the laughter I never had to fake.
-A schedule of routine stakes
as easy as spearing fish in a lake.
the only one who appears to erase.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Hey baby, you wanna go for a ride?
Don’t tell me no, cause legs like that
make me think of drippy stains
and don’t be shy, you know
my wallet is good for it.
Your hazel tone is
always such a good sip.
Wait what? God no, I don’t need
a stove anymore.
I’ve learned my lesson.
I’ve learned it’s not about potency
but rather the taste you leave
when you get all up in my
moustache. Makes me
unable to think straight.
Alright, so are you game?
You want to do it in the piece
that cools you off?
No, not the one with insulated
I’m talking about that black number.
The one I found out back
in the dumpster. Of course
so let’s do this quick.
to crash with you
and lay awake
for the remainder
of the day.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Thursday, February 14, 2008
encapsulated brain on matters defunct
still spinning, not traveling, but whats the fuss?
riding the ride all day long and still not strong
just a cat, without bones, whiskers all ran off
nowhere to land,no way to gauge
'The doctor is in. He's ready to see us'
shuffling my feet over carpet patterned to hide stains of the past
I await a trite spew- delusions
concerning the falsity of pain of genius
will the future face other brick walls?
or poutine and wine and chinacat dolls?
most certainly both.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
the tiny dots of individual color
so that the human eye can learn
to form the shapes on its own accord
so that each person sees the shape
but the painter's message is not lost,
just open for further interpretation.
In a novel
the editors strive to show each character
so that there is no confusion regarding
the nature of the man or woman
so that good and bad meet to form
a developing plot and clear moral,
a succinct message,
the only things really open for interpretation
are the individual
Friday, February 8, 2008
A glass of water motionless with ice
sits on a desk
amidst two months worth of dust
It wants little
on a coaster
It waits to be picked up
The sun rises
and glows hot on the unsuspecting ice
It distorts the image
the steadfast glass
Now it wells up
a cloud survives
A light goes on
above the quick
Unlike plants and mammals
water doesn’t need
beneath the surface
of the earth
a myriad waterways
uncharted land make paths
few gods will ever know
The cloud moves beyond
the now setting sun
A light goes out
allowing the moon
to illuminate a thing
motionless in itself
The glass is no longer cold
It's grown hot
with small pieces of skin
that sat amongst
two month and one day old
The water waits
It wants not
what humans crave
as victim of the sun
Onlyto be left
Thursday, February 7, 2008
After a lark
with a stranger
it grows earthy in the room
and our bodies stretch out
Rich tones, dew shine, a draft
dries the sweat
a day laborer hammers the
brownstone across the street
It wakes us up
and I can’t help but think
there is somewhere
I was supposed to be
"You fool,” she laughs
“Those men don’t have enough money to be someone else”
It is quiet in the room
It has become so cold that I try to feign sleep
so I don’t have to
waking up in the afternoon
Monday, February 4, 2008
Meanwhile, Sal was putting up his Ziggy Stardust poster, predominantly displayed opposite the bedroom doors.
Griffin, armed with the front left cabinet door, passes him. ‘That’s tacky dude.’
‘You’re tacky.’ Sal elaborated, ‘Its a reminder that today is it. That you don’t get another today until tomorrow, but that’s another story.’ Sal would not consider the significance of this until much later, when his story was quite another indeed.
It was the sunset of summer, of one to be forgotten, of one where the destination is unimportant, but the path is everything. The past few months had succumbed to the post-adolescent changes. Griffin sat on the stoop with his feet on the fallen tree. He thought about that day in the park, after school let out. He thought of Tawny; the way her fingers fell across her lap during economics. About five weeks before that day in the park, he sat beside her. He would never forget those fingers and the eyes that met his when she noticed his staring; they hinted at innocence hidden behind an ulterior motive. Those deep eyes were made deeper by then black hair killed him in the park that day.
‘go up and talk to her man, don’t be a pussy’ Sal urged between long drags of a cheap cigar.
Griffin was never good at these things. Everyone always told him to ‘act naturally’, but he could never be himself at times like these. What is ‘natural’ anyway? We’re creatures of habit, but also of circumstantial behavior. What is natural is what pertains to the moment. At this moment he naturally wanted a stiff drink. No such luck, Griffin. He whistled a relevant alice cooper song in his head with his hands in his pockets.
Tawny was like his first kiss in his parent’s basement. Yeah, Tawny was like that, but at the same time she wasn’t. The opposite showed through; even throughout her consistency she imposed on herself, she held a surprising amount of spontaneity. The monster truck tshirts and yearlong construction boots did not scare him anymore, nor did they define her character to him, like it did for others. He pushed the cigarette into the gravel and threw it into the flowerpot his mother had given him. Like his first cigarette at 16, his last had tasted of the pressure of others. Pressure to conform, pressure to perform. Tawny seemed immune of this. He thought it was just the motion of putting his hand to his mouth, but he needed it now. Vitamin N. He laughed at this to make light of the situation, out loud, for there was noone to hear. He did this too much; Trying to balance things. But balance is not performing.