The gold scripts tell of a new task.
Of zeppelins and curls.
Hair pins and residuals.
Pour once, mix twice, and drink under a cold water fall.
Zero calls.
Hydrogen love.
The case marks make me feel like I don't belong. Your hair caresses my arm as I draw away from everything. Please choose a different course, discipline, hierarchy. While the barber waits unused and unmet, a smile creeps along anyway. Who walks by the window may not look any different as they leave.
Lists for my thirties.
Tear-stained serviettes.
Linking lives meet once and twice in spring.
A tadpole emerges in a pond,
My goggles glow emerald green.
12.29.2008
9.09.2008
Romance
Behind my eyeballs are tiny shapes curled up tight and weighing almost nothing. Their bodies slowly rise and lower with each oppressive breath. Patient. Sleeping. Dreamless.
They wake when the world is truly beautiful, transforming from quiet lumps to shivering wonders. Pressing their hands up against the expansive curving windows they stare excitedly at what's taking place.
A few choice words. Impossible constellations. Landscapes, painted. Hallowed spaces. Rock walls with fist cracks. Half-finished buildings. Rooftop views.
It's never for long, though.
With spent energy.
I smile and the corners of my eyes rise with my thoughts. Left wanting friends who hold hands when necessary, give hugs that mean something, and fall asleep in a tangled mess like dirty socks dumped together. Matching heartbeats and breaths. Inhale, exhale, resume.
Best wanted, missed, and remembered.
The little beasts return to their snoring, secure slumber. Governed by nothing, I won't let them die early.
It's you that I ask.
Please don't kill me.
They wake when the world is truly beautiful, transforming from quiet lumps to shivering wonders. Pressing their hands up against the expansive curving windows they stare excitedly at what's taking place.
A few choice words. Impossible constellations. Landscapes, painted. Hallowed spaces. Rock walls with fist cracks. Half-finished buildings. Rooftop views.
It's never for long, though.
With spent energy.
I smile and the corners of my eyes rise with my thoughts. Left wanting friends who hold hands when necessary, give hugs that mean something, and fall asleep in a tangled mess like dirty socks dumped together. Matching heartbeats and breaths. Inhale, exhale, resume.
Best wanted, missed, and remembered.
The little beasts return to their snoring, secure slumber. Governed by nothing, I won't let them die early.
It's you that I ask.
Please don't kill me.
8.17.2008
A borderline alcoholic welcomes a new world
A day's work, a day's disappointment. I'm not sure how it even started. However, the night left something promising. Towards town, we headed, past a fucking large airplane that claims to be the world's largest weather vane. Down along the airport, where American snowbirds and earlier practiced to the amusement of the rooted. Along the way one of our group of five dropped his wallet. "Jeff Addison, Jeff Addison!" an old, seemingly senile, old man cried out. While we did our best to ignore him, that was indeed the name of someone among us. As his belongings were returned, we learned this old man was also wise, who held fancy positions such as a lawyer, a member of the town council, and an unemployment counsellor. As a weird twist of events, he was a student at the Engineering building at our university, which shared the same name as our dormitory. The single, memorably, parting advice he gave all of us was, "You aren't hard enough to go to 98." As we were unsure of this place he as referring to, we only continued along our own way.
That night we visited only a few places. First we visited "Coasters." It was a small town hipster bar, with way more seats than it needed on a thursday night, a stage for a absent local band, and music that was way too loud. It was there that we paid for a pitcher of beer that, despite the cute waitress, was way too cheap for our student budge. Perhaps the most memorable part of that place was the free condoms in the bathroom. With beautiful local artwork on the front they reminded us, "Just because you're from Yukon, doesn't mean you can't get Aids." Not even the most remote, cold places of the earth can protect anyone.
From there we headed from the streets, desperate to find some place cheap to remind us of home. It was then that we stumbled across 98. It seemed to be on a forgotten dead-end road of town, with rusted cars and people milling about. Outside of the door, we hesitated, unsure if we were welcome or not. An aged woman outside warned us to keep our heads down and we'll be alright. Another, a welcoming soul, told us, "It's just a bar, come on in." And so we did. There, we found a long, crowded room, full of native americans. There were absolutely no seats for the 5 of us. To show more face than going in and out, we headed to the back of the bar. We heard cat calls, "Hey N'Sync!" "What are you doing in a native bar?!" and most kindly, "Who the fuck are you guest?" At the end of our bar, we saw our most likely allies, two old white men. Would they save us from a hostile crowd? Yeah right. We turned around and the mocking waitress asked us with a wink, "Leaving so soon?" Like hell we were. There weren't any seats, and we weren't asking for the price of a pitcher.
With that, we left looking for a kinder, more gentle place. Where else could that be found, with a few pit stops, than Boston Pizza? It was there that we found better food, along with cheaper beer, than Coaster's and probably any of the other bars in Whitehorse. The waitresses were nice, if not pretty, the lighting was clean, and as if to reassure us we had two officers in a booth near by. I had to fulfill the task of the tab among us, racking up quite a bit for a night. We received helpful tips for places to stay on the way, including the natural Liard Springs.
At closing time, feeling well and finished, our pockets drained, we headed up the hill, past the Alaskan highway, back to home base. There was one last stop to be made. The clay cliffs, which we had so casually walked down the stairs of, we had to climb back up. Not being ones to take the easy route, all of us clambered up the dry dusty hillside. With no looking back attitudes, dirt under our nails and hasty grabs for seemingly anchored holds, all of us safely made it to the top. It was there where we would all find our night's rewards.
It is above the town of Whitehorse, with an incredible view of a small proud town. There, was where we knew it was time to lit our Cigars. They were purchased two weeks earlier for pricey sums of twenty dollars each in a cigar shop in Vancouver. Hoarded carefully in a back seat pocket in the van, we knew they awaited an appropriate time, a time when they were needed. It was no when else but atop a vantage point that represented the whole trip that we had taken. Superfluous words were spoken among us, as we lit all our cigars on a windswept cliff. Each puff tasted of the promised Cuban tobacco, which was savoured so much more from the place where we were. In a drunken haze, nothing spoke more to any of us than the smoke in the air that lasted so short. With our embers dying out, we quietly retreated towards sleep, inside ourselves. Barely a car passed by as we crossed the Alaskan highway. Just a few minutes later I was in the blue volkswagen van that was my nightly home. In the pitch black, with an itchy wool blanket blocking out the Yukon cold, I knew that I was in love.
That night we visited only a few places. First we visited "Coasters." It was a small town hipster bar, with way more seats than it needed on a thursday night, a stage for a absent local band, and music that was way too loud. It was there that we paid for a pitcher of beer that, despite the cute waitress, was way too cheap for our student budge. Perhaps the most memorable part of that place was the free condoms in the bathroom. With beautiful local artwork on the front they reminded us, "Just because you're from Yukon, doesn't mean you can't get Aids." Not even the most remote, cold places of the earth can protect anyone.
From there we headed from the streets, desperate to find some place cheap to remind us of home. It was then that we stumbled across 98. It seemed to be on a forgotten dead-end road of town, with rusted cars and people milling about. Outside of the door, we hesitated, unsure if we were welcome or not. An aged woman outside warned us to keep our heads down and we'll be alright. Another, a welcoming soul, told us, "It's just a bar, come on in." And so we did. There, we found a long, crowded room, full of native americans. There were absolutely no seats for the 5 of us. To show more face than going in and out, we headed to the back of the bar. We heard cat calls, "Hey N'Sync!" "What are you doing in a native bar?!" and most kindly, "Who the fuck are you guest?" At the end of our bar, we saw our most likely allies, two old white men. Would they save us from a hostile crowd? Yeah right. We turned around and the mocking waitress asked us with a wink, "Leaving so soon?" Like hell we were. There weren't any seats, and we weren't asking for the price of a pitcher.
With that, we left looking for a kinder, more gentle place. Where else could that be found, with a few pit stops, than Boston Pizza? It was there that we found better food, along with cheaper beer, than Coaster's and probably any of the other bars in Whitehorse. The waitresses were nice, if not pretty, the lighting was clean, and as if to reassure us we had two officers in a booth near by. I had to fulfill the task of the tab among us, racking up quite a bit for a night. We received helpful tips for places to stay on the way, including the natural Liard Springs.
At closing time, feeling well and finished, our pockets drained, we headed up the hill, past the Alaskan highway, back to home base. There was one last stop to be made. The clay cliffs, which we had so casually walked down the stairs of, we had to climb back up. Not being ones to take the easy route, all of us clambered up the dry dusty hillside. With no looking back attitudes, dirt under our nails and hasty grabs for seemingly anchored holds, all of us safely made it to the top. It was there where we would all find our night's rewards.
It is above the town of Whitehorse, with an incredible view of a small proud town. There, was where we knew it was time to lit our Cigars. They were purchased two weeks earlier for pricey sums of twenty dollars each in a cigar shop in Vancouver. Hoarded carefully in a back seat pocket in the van, we knew they awaited an appropriate time, a time when they were needed. It was no when else but atop a vantage point that represented the whole trip that we had taken. Superfluous words were spoken among us, as we lit all our cigars on a windswept cliff. Each puff tasted of the promised Cuban tobacco, which was savoured so much more from the place where we were. In a drunken haze, nothing spoke more to any of us than the smoke in the air that lasted so short. With our embers dying out, we quietly retreated towards sleep, inside ourselves. Barely a car passed by as we crossed the Alaskan highway. Just a few minutes later I was in the blue volkswagen van that was my nightly home. In the pitch black, with an itchy wool blanket blocking out the Yukon cold, I knew that I was in love.
7.18.2008
Merryweather Gents
While the flowers bloom, a hidden necessity drives us all. Despite all our outward groaning, a delivery, a punch, an awakening, can leave us all to wonder. Take a step past all the sleepy willows and tired towns. The cowering bamboozle beyond the boors. Brilliance. Brilliance. The moon blinds the unprotected souls, the unharvested, the languishing, the unripe. A call calls the capable. Come! Come! Carry us to a kingdom with princesses who have tassels on their hats and peasants who smell of meadows and lilies! Hunts consist of a party gathering in the woods and drinking tea. Nay, nay, a guest would frown, then grin, laugh, and comply. Whose fault but no one, that the boar keeps far from a group of formidable chaps with strong cheek bones, strong eyebrows, strong arms, and blinding smiles? There is no reason to go further.
6.16.2008
6.10.2008
5.28.2008
Brooms and Wickerware
Joint fulcrums.
Listed worlds.
Hardhats and gospel singers.
Freezing faucets and baseball bat spines.
Golden horseshoes that never miss.
Floating actresses that touch on every word.
Join, hold hands, go through the motions. Lift and spill the honeydew juice, glistening in the window sun that illuminates dusty air. Join together the lives that lost a little less that the rest of us. Batten down.
Hold still.
Lose it all and smell the broom.
Listed worlds.
Hardhats and gospel singers.
Freezing faucets and baseball bat spines.
Golden horseshoes that never miss.
Floating actresses that touch on every word.
Join, hold hands, go through the motions. Lift and spill the honeydew juice, glistening in the window sun that illuminates dusty air. Join together the lives that lost a little less that the rest of us. Batten down.
Hold still.
Lose it all and smell the broom.
4.26.2008
Between the smokes and the beers
Just beyond the barrier
between when it ends and when it begins
we find ourselves standing
before a gate
that leads to between you and I and
any that we choose.
Lost between the stalks and traps
we don't find ourselves in the places
that we want to be.
The trees and branches separate us
from the sun, the blue skies
that we long for.
Play sports.
Watch TV.
Drink Beer.
Pass out in a lonely bed, hoping for a better night,
when,
"some girl will find me for what I'm worth."
With eyes glued to my forehead, rolled back into whites.
Not even staring at the ceiling anymore,
because,
how much is it worth, anyway?
between when it ends and when it begins
we find ourselves standing
before a gate
that leads to between you and I and
any that we choose.
Lost between the stalks and traps
we don't find ourselves in the places
that we want to be.
The trees and branches separate us
from the sun, the blue skies
that we long for.
Play sports.
Watch TV.
Drink Beer.
Pass out in a lonely bed, hoping for a better night,
when,
"some girl will find me for what I'm worth."
With eyes glued to my forehead, rolled back into whites.
Not even staring at the ceiling anymore,
because,
how much is it worth, anyway?
4.12.2008
Mindscape
I don't want to sleep.
My dreams have been terrible.
They involve no one I love,
what kind of place is that?
The skyscrapers in my mindscape
seem to keep going
they're so hard to scale
without moving up.
The orange tan glow
of your cheeks in the skyline
remind me I'm not home
and may never be.
Wax keeps burning,
oozing into the ocean.
Let the fish swim in
the cooling liquid.
Let everyone see how much I love
Let everyone know how much I don't
Let everyone become more than me.
My dreams have been terrible.
They involve no one I love,
what kind of place is that?
The skyscrapers in my mindscape
seem to keep going
they're so hard to scale
without moving up.
The orange tan glow
of your cheeks in the skyline
remind me I'm not home
and may never be.
Wax keeps burning,
oozing into the ocean.
Let the fish swim in
the cooling liquid.
Let everyone see how much I love
Let everyone know how much I don't
Let everyone become more than me.
3.31.2008
Just because the dancers laugh and the singers sing, doesn't mean I have to. Listen to the previews of intense poetics and last a little longer. This is a bountiful season with times to pass. Awhile ago we all thought it wasn't going to last, but it has. Just join and think and leave and know. Don't bother to remember since it's so easy to forget. Live righteous and beyond anything else. Forget forget forget that you haven't written, nor thought, nor felt, nor gotten much else done in the last twenty months. Is it really worth it to sacrifice happiness to never be sad? Joint balconies and beckoning stars, life of sin, debauchery, listlessness. Dawn, Don, Done. Follow through on what you say, coming from me that is. Just tonight and just before, don't forget to close the door. Glissando, glide, glitter, graceless, goodnight.
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