Slugs into snails

Its nights like these
With her
I can lose my sense
Of time
So many nights broken
Despite our mutual
Perpetual fright
Of the sun
How we both dread the moment
It's over
And how we're always
The last one up
But when she leaves
Like this
Like she did tonight
my dog looks at me like she's going to speak my tongue
And My cat looks at me in a way so she doesn't have to.
It's a breath
And
I need it every so often

Beamings of a fire parrot

Morning glory:
how you
Hold your light.

Gladiola:
your frightening height.

I’ve no captures,
Of your might.

Sweet bewilder:
Carry my sight.

Solstice

Unwritten and unboring
Thumped on the thumb drum
Silent and unassuming
She's always been the one

Skinned knees over
Broken plastic
Laughter over static
sounds of Silence
Memories over that market
And the public toilets

Hurting to be read
Hurting more to be known
Unwritten
I can tell she edits
After it's published
I can't tell you the words but
My mind tinkers when
It's seen a new; and anyway
It's different and
Before it's noticed
So she thinks
As I do

Swapped paintings
And new beginnings
It was so very
hard to part
Without a picture
So I took one
Anyway

for my father in june

I sent you an email recently, thanking you for being who you've always been after reading a series of confessions from many who are without. I didn't get specific then, but I will now. I owe you everything for having always believed in me, pushing me, instilling the importance of a good stretch. Thank you for always painting me with a different brush, writing me letters, showing me the things you know I'll appreciate, loving my mind, and never running out of advice, (or martinis) to share. Thank you for teaching me to admit when I'm wrong, cry when I'm sad, and laugh until my guts hurt. Thank you for your sentimentality, our talks, our sits, our love of Cat Stevens; Thank you for always trying to understand, even when you don't. I love you.

Watching the house cat
outside in this green,
Pouncing at the dandelions,
Batting at the bees.
He is as young as this heat
but remains unleashed,
He is free in mind,
and able to reach.

She stays sprawled in the Sun
or the shade of the deck,
But she is tied at the back
and attached at the neck.
Is it the knowing of the length
she can crawl?
Does she know she can’t get far at all?

I am like her unless I am
Free to to reign,
To be without clocks
Or a time to claim.
Then i am the one, with less knead
Outdoors, collared without a line
To breach.
I like dandelions but not quite bees,
I’m not totally endless,
but I’m certainly unleashed.

How

it always hurt to know i was written

but now it hurts to not be read at all

but now in harsh, human construct

of communication and the way she pushed

me to the ground I've always stood on

under the hair now holier than i have ever had

I'm okay here, and

I'll see Her sometime, and Her too

and somehow triangles form from a single

dot and

and I'm not even sure how they happen

at all

some things i haven't been ready to say until now

1. We should have been together from the start.

2. I'm no longer hurt by her birdie photos and her incessant mouthings of the l-word

3. After seeing her again, I've realized she isn't hurt either.

4. For a time I thought I needed what has since left me, but now I know I am going to be okay, because:

i) like every spring we rekindle only this time permanence feels seemingly plausible

ii) i said we were bad for eachother but what i really meant is i'm bad for you too

iii) i said i was bad for you too but what i really meant was that we aren't bad for eachother, and i feel that influence is fueled by a wanting and needing and its not your fault i'm wanting and needing what you have access to, nor is it mine you are wanting and needing what i have access to. i am afraid when we feel this way we are letting the stigma we have tried so hard to discard seep back into our pores and are forgetting the experience we paid for. We are responsible for ourselves and we are far from denial

iv) i've really taken to heart a lot of the hurtful things she said and forgotten all the things she asked me to remember (see: "i thought you had more kindness in your heart")

v) She told me she needs resolution or she can't see his eyes and i compared it to something i felt last summer when one was talking about being dropped so rapidly she forgot she was doing much dropping herself.

vi) i really, really don't believe She is capable of a lie

vii) when i am with Her, it becomes seemingly obvious She is embodied truth

viii) when She reiterated, you are such a good person, i believed Her

ix) Her's is a struggle i'm willing to share

5) she is a complete and utter hypocrite. I hope she finds a mirror soon.

6) Years of lettered talk doesn't always end up in beauty

7) It isn't possible for someone to know too much about you, unless you've accidentally fallen under their spell.

8) When I say "you", I no longer mean You. Please understand I can't write to You anymore like I'd once said, and this will be the last time You will feel Yourself here.

9) I'm surprised I've mourned this long, but also that its over.

9) My father is proud of me.

10) I know what I am doing, and I hope it hurts.

May 16

Closed hearts keep smiles
This time last year was panting
Dripping from our pores
I'm still on this porch
Like last year talking of
Going into That room again
If it were
Just the three of us girls
We would have
But his logic seeped into us while we were in a state of constant sway
And we went again but not that day
After cuddled and held in all parts of us
I even rubbed his neck the night before
Here I sit dripped still
But in raindrops
And alone this time
The first picture she ever wore
In her back pocket
Hidden behind the shoes
In the front hall

INTERVIEW

5. Do you have any last advice or words of wisdom for aspiring artists?

Stop thinking.

Read more from an interview about painting I did with The Young Curator.

“Mommy? You don’t just cry when you’re sad right? Because sometimes I look at Devon and I just love her so much I wanna cry tears of happy!”- Adam Sioui, May 1986

Brother, you are 29 Today. For 25 of those years, you have served as my older sibling; my rival, my nemesis, my partner-in-crime, my shoulder, my mentor, my birthday-buddy, my biggest fan and My Best Friend. From hearing Y’s voice in Ode to LA, to our unified ability to move our left baby toes, I am so unbelievably proud to have you as my brother. I love you. Happy Birthday.

Mom, you gave us life. That is so fucking insane.

Thank you for showing me first hand what it is to unconditionally love another human being. Thank you for accepting everything I throw at you and always doing your best to make sense of it. Thank you for always loving me even when it’s not easy. Thank you for my life.

Camaraderie of the hedgehog

it can be a sort of dilemma, so i've read. the poking and the stabbing from the rubbing and the getting-too-close. That all makes sense and I'd be lying if i said i wasn't one to swallow mouthfuls of too-bigs and grab hold of a hand as long as it would let me hold it. Its not a wonder anymore that i've gotten myself stabbed before and it is certainly no wonder that I've done my share of stabbing. But lately, I've kept myself locked up in this little room within a room with the colours of my mind (and colours I never knew existed, and colours that show themselves seemingly unannounced) and while i worry i may have used up my lifetime of doing in four short weeks; that i'm just going through the motions, I am still not worried because I know I will always go there. Whether he is with me or he is or he is, i feel a calm and I've said before I'm happiest when i don't notice time passing. This is especially true now. What is it called when i can feel time passing but i don't notice its hands, tick-tocking or the acid rising up in the throat forcing my heart to pound harder when I know its time to go home. I am always the last one up. I have always been the last, but here, right now, in this room within a room I don't mind. Cuddled by its bed-sheet'd wall hung by him and held by all sides with one I can really call a Best. That word! Best. So definite and set in stone. I haven't ever been one to throw that word around (love i use often, and mean it often, but love celebrates a fleeting; a happiness that never stays - as it should). I am not sure. Widened by the permanent yellow-green in her eyes and that jar of paint of the same she asked me to pick up because she knew I'd be stopping by the next day. Asking how it feels because she bled yesterday and knew it'd only be a matter of time before our bodies synced like they did that one time in the summer. That summer so long ago. Talk about Growth. Feeling un-censored and rather finished with living in such; feeling done with being the subject to your censors (and i'm sure you're tired of it too). Soon I'll be splayed on the grass in that tented city and I can't wait to hold hands with those who matter. Except Her, she'll be missed but I know I will continue to see her more than my own given hand-to-hold and that excites me. I've been missing women my whole life and I'm glad then when she says, "i'm going to do THIS!" and i say, "me too!" her only response is a laugh and sometimes chuckled, "I love you."

Laying

Sing not can't
Mindful of the streetcats
On Saturday morning after
Watching the sunrise
Over another beer
Locked door on the third
Calling for always
Little green and my body's own prison
Get me there
Take me there
Dematerialize my limbs and
Nails
Colour in hand
Head cocked sideways in a buzzing slump
Of flesh
Watching old favourites and faces
Of unfamiliarity
Get me there
Take me there
Get me to where I am
When mindful of
The streetcats

"it’s on but

i don’t know

whether i want

to be

her, fuck her

or borrow

her clothes."

from “the frightening truth about desire” by Daphne Gottlieb

winter never ceases

march 8 or 9th (i don't know)

i am feeling like im paused again

only after a time of constant going

i am still now, trapped in longings of ideas

and all encompassing stillness

when i'm spattering the smears of colours i don't realize

what i am saying and

when i say i am going what I mean is:

Usually, it doesn't last for longer than a few moments at a time.

But, when my limbs are rocking and my body is

buzzing

and the waves of the beef

are swelling my drums

i can hold it for much longer.

i never considered needing it but when i had it,

i was present and going

moving faster than i ever could have thought

and once it left i hadn't been

able to fill

it the same

and

my limbs aren't happy without a hand to hold

and my drums can't live without the laughter when it ended

i want to move again. for some reason, no matter how much i am aware of the doom of the grey when the sun tires of its north, i am always slammed into oblivion or a place that is so blatantly still, i can't even think of anything else to call it. I just know that I'm deep down under everywhere I want to be -- I don't even want to try and claw myself out.

And, Here at the bottom of still the last thing I'd like to do is knife a fucking rainbow.

What do you most miss about childhood?

"Knowing the world was limitless."

july 13 2010

amazing how the best times

are never recorded

at least not in the way

of scribbled placement;

pen to paper

little pilots and their fine black tips

i never used to write like this

rusty, wobbled shapes

remember when i was

the two

(do you?)

feelings of placement

feeling myself living

rather than watching

myself exist

so naturally stimulating

we literally felt high

and if i'd looked down

i may have seen myself

floating

explosions

erosions

and he hasn't come back

A/word

the pokings of the chives from last summer
are drenched with nicotine’d roots
and the incessant blow of the force
Of their arms

Just being.

Just Hi.
Just Hello.
Just resting.
Just enjoying.

Honesty is a hard one
And like I answered earlier
with that table-talk game
kindness is easier

(for me at least)

i have to go home
but i love you
and will see you soon

If you told me you could only love a lover i would understand you

I can only love a lover or
A brother
some people can take in so many
they are filled over
the brim

and i am not
one of those people

i am an often-constant
he could attest to this
fire ants in the 6th month
plaid hats in the 7th
shuttering and finding more hats
thereafter
truth

Just Hi.
Just Hello.
Just resting.
Just enjoying.

Just being.

i've lost it

and i know i'm not getting it back

i've lost you

and i know i'm not getting you back

one not to know (revised)

I've always been one to know

what the truth may be
but moreover I tend

to avoid confrontation.

Though maybe
my fault is that i simply
just can't handle
tangibility,

and i'm grasping

to remain the right-brained

wanderer i was

my dead tonkinese cat

in her basket in the car

Wrapped in the blanket y knitted for her time.

So sure we were she'd go before
she'd have to,

yet y's hands gave up

the needles long before

her fur cased the rock

that lay atop of it

I opened the van door to the wicker

covered in her scent,
if death is supposed

to smell then
it smelled a lot

like wood

the basket itself

held together

with frayed twist-ties
yet i couldn't stop thinking

about the noisy car-door

I touched the red yarn she was kept in and

I thought she may be stiff,

though I pondered her lively

it wasn't long before i was asked

to say goodbye

a ball of joints and fur,

and her cloudy left eye

(blinded she was from birth, or a scratch,

my mom's first pet,
I've always had a thought it was the reason she chose her)

I knew that she was gone anyway,

and "Forever" is how i answered

when

the younger neighbour had asked

for how long

she was going to be sleeping

Perhaps she thought the reason

we bury them in blankets

was to render her a kitten

once more, or twice or forever,

how magical to think we could keep

such friends

by every once and again

putting them to sleep
in their beds

(and

putting them to sleep

really meant

putting them to sleep)

I knew she wasn't there
anymore,
and that's the first time
i've felt Forever
and
when it happens now
it feels
just like
that.

Santa Claus at the bottom of the stairs,

On the eve when I'd hear

the hoof-prints on the roof

scrambled out of bed after hearing the chimney doors closing

(or opening),
Hearing a

Cough like my dad's.

He Coughs like my dad!

I thought.

Waiting at the top of the balcony

covered in pink carpet; trimmed with

stained wood
hiding behind a poinsettia

the moment to glance

I knew I had it,

Knowing I'll know the truth

if I choose to want it

Thinking the most i'd get from

a moment like this is

not that I'd know one way

or the other,

But that I may be the only child in the world

who gets to see; six year old

bragging rights

and six year old

pretension

i thought i was the only one

who still believed

anyway

After the cough and

the absence on the right side of the bed,

it should have been enough
to draw, but I chose to listen
to him anyway,

ruffling around,
throat-clearing uncanny and
nibbling on cookies
(carrots for the reindeer)
i didn't look, and i still believed
i didn't want to betray
him i think,
out his secret
or perhaps i just didn't

want to be wrong,

or perhaps i just

wanted to keep

believing.

much later
when i saw her

hide
the elf on the top of the fridge,
i jumped back around the corner,
watched my mirrored chin
tremble,
and then (even still)
i went
to

go find it.

and that's the first time
i've felt that

i'm losing my green

and
when it happens now
it feels
nothing

like that

my reaction to people

is not unlike my reaction to insects

when the sheer inkling of another beating heart,

when overcome with a sense

of sharing the air,

the sight of

scurried bodies or stock still

silhouettes

sends me off my feet

screaming my way into

the other direction

unbroken heart (cookie)

We walked out the door to the brisk, blueness of wintered sidewalk, carrying on our morning routine. When we got to the bakery, I walked in first while he lagged behind, smoking outside. Normally he fetches our coffee in the morning; he's able to jump out of the warmth faster than I can on most days, but for some reason today the trend was different. If He's there, they know our order, (a Large and Medium, please!) but because I'm usually two steps behind, how could they translate I was the Large Coffee drinker. While I was cream-and-sugaring the coffees, He walked in, offering a hand as he passed me a lid for my cup. We've been working well together, lately, a friend told us. We hadn't thought about it, but I guess thats the beauty of Content. You only have time for retrospect when you're feeling shafted. They're right though, we hadn't noticed that we stopped treading water and were now surfing steadily along side eachother. Choosing the right battles, embracing everyday. We were about to leave when the Barista behind the counter asked Him if he would like anything else.

"No thank you," he replied, "We're good with just the coffees."

"How about a broken sugar cookie?"

"Sure!"

That night we got home after work and sprawled ourselves along the cushions, emptying the stuff that we accumulated in our bags that day.

"Here's that broken cookie," He said, as he lifted a crumpled white paper bag out of his backpack. He laid it on the ottoman, and I picked it up, carefully removing it from its wrapping, inspecting it.

"This sure doesn't look broken,"

"Hey, yeah, its not." He replied.

"Maybe she gave it to you because she has a crush on you!"

"Or, maybe she gave it to me to give to you!"

"Awwwwwwww!"

Deciding we should share the cookie, i broke it down the middle and handed the big half to Him (just to be nice).

"Nah, I'm good," He said halfheartedly as He motioned for me to eat it.

"Don't mind if i do." We resumed our places on the cushions while i picked at the heart shaped cookie, flipping through channels mindlessly until we retired for the night. We fell asleep that evening sprawled in our respective positions, barely touching eachother but definitely touching eachother, like every night. And then, drifting in and out of consciousness on the brink of tomorrow, He whispered to me matter-of-factly, "Hey, it was Valentines day."

yaya

There is a box upstairs at the bottom of my bed. M tells me its filed with old notes, and photographs from her childhood. She left it there because she knows I have an excruciating fixation for old dialogue; lost mementos. She knows I wish I could touch the 60's like she did, feel the breeze of the next decade wrap its locks around my shoulders, tube topped bikinis and a pool filled with blue so fresh in hindsight its waddings seemed new despite being filled over a month before. I flip through square, matted photographs the size of my palm. Fresh faces of family friends attached to little tan bodies, forming themselves into cannonballs, mouths on brown bottles, wooden lawn chairs sprawled next to a spread of chips and cheese, and M. She's thrown over the shoulder of a handsome, longhaired being. His smile speaks to me as he smirks at the lens holding her over his shoulder; her left hand twisted behind her to keep the bottom of her white bathing suit up. I can hear this image. The tiles of the patio looked the same then as they did as far back as I can remember. I feel the grains of sand on my shoeless foot and smell the anthills around the dandelions. I can look beyond the pool, see the clothesline collapsed in the far corner of the yard. I've never been over there. I'm amazed at how large the yard is, and how little of it my hands have touched. There was never any need.
I find a stack of letters and open the first one. Y is speaking of the kitchen renovation and the colour of the new carpeting. Shag Green. They're building a sauna, too. Like the Yard, I've never seen inside the sauna. I could tell you the number of creases in the wood, the number of nails in the pane, but I have no idea what its like to step inside, look out from in. I can see inside the kitchen window stained with years, look onto the stove and remember that it is newer than the walls that surround it. I can see the stacks of papers piled onto the table next to the bricked divider. I can remember when I discovered it was olive green. Beyond the olive table is the Room, the bane of our imaginations, filled with treasures only a childish mind could relish. It'd been nearly ten years since we were at the house, but when we finally did go, we congregated in the Room. Sure enough, A found a typewriter beside an old photograph of Y which he was promptly encouraged to keep. Beyond the Room, there is another Room. Padlocked and dusted (perhaps more so than the rest of the house), I'm fairly convinced that door hadn't been opened since I attempted as a child. I can recall opening its hinges many years before, hearing its creak, and its cobwebs so mature they draped like stuff only made to look like them. In its blackness hung a lamp, to the corner of the wooden stairs void of footsteps for over a decade. This time, we decsended. More cobwebs. Mason Jars filled with tobacco liquid. A bicycle nearly consumed with rust, knitting needles. Canned food. Photographs. Frames. Camera equipment.
I read dozens of letters, most are addressed to her, and I'm shocked at her age in them. She's younger than me. The rest of them are addressed to A, and It dawns on me how little I could have known her. It makes me wish I believed in an After, makes me remember sheepishly considering her a life without her (Just to see how i'd imagine it), and I couldn't. At the time, I even laughed, it was so preposterous! I prided my young self on my ability to represent feelings I'd never before felt, imagine scenarios I'd expect to react - but this, I couldn't. I remember the moment I did. She'd just been with me in the living room, talking to me. I can't recall our conversation, only her back leaving me. Walking from the sunken pink carpet, onto the squared hardwood, to the detailed linoleum floor of the kitchen, I tried (and failed) to imagine it, but I could only get as far as her sitting above me, repeating, "Oh, Sweetheart," as she looked down at me trying to communicate with her grandmother who just wasn't there.
I sat on Her couch - barely gaping like his on the right - in front of the fishtank, now dry and void of any life - except bacteria - a far cry from the ocean'd microcosm that housed the plecostumus' and the red tailed shark. I wondered if he ever sits on this side, wondered if he ever has the curious mind like I do when thinking of the four walls of the sauna I've never seen from inside. Living someone's eyes for a moment, or - trying to- is he eager to see even the box from that angle? Pretend for a moment she is playfully rolling cigarettes over on his side? Does he imagine her print on the dolls on the chesterfield, along the banister? Can he even look at a cartooned green frog without succumbing to his lumped throat? Does he run the tap in the bathroom after he's gone? Does it hurt too much for him to even try?
Through the letters and photographs I find a keychain. Plastic, lettered, hearted and cauterized. It spells my name but doesn't feel like it belongs to me. I hold it, rolling its letters around the twine, inspect its blemishes - its heart now a circle; its D practically squared.

I don't know my age, but I'm younger than ten, and older than five. There's an event going on at school. Track and Field. It feels different. I'm frantic, running around the building, searching. Never one to step out of line, I start to cry when the bell rings realizing I'm without something I started my day with. I can't speak. I'm afraid of being seen while I sob. I notice E's hair next to the window in the classroom. It reaches her hips, sandy blonde, thick. Not a hair out of place. She's concerned.
"She needs to find something," she volunteered to the teachers worried look. "It means a lot to her and she lost it."
This is the beginning of what I can only describe as My Ailment. I lose things every day. I may find them again later, after I've stopped panicking, and, given up on searching, and most of the time these things are small. But on this day, I'd really done it.
"What's it look like?" Mrs. N asks me.
"It's a keychain.... its got... letters on it....and a heart....it says, 'Yaya'."
"Yaya...whats that?" She asked, forgetting I was about to implode.
"Can i please go look for it?" I pleaded with her.
Mrs. N conducted her class like she did her life, I'm guessing, because she let us do whatever we want all year. "You like art? You can paint all day! You like math? Here's the textbook." The only thing she ever insisted was that we were doing something, and she was keen on Australia so we seemed to gravitate toward that anytime there was a need for formal instruction. She also liked math games and flashcards, which is I think why my math skills are limited to the first eleven times tables.
I scoured the school. Perimeter'd the grass of the field. Our school was noted for its generous outdoors; unlike our intown counterparts whose playtime consisted of a cemented chain link recess, we had a lush yard filled with organized soccer, several monkey bars, and designated ball hockey/hackey sack areas. Normally i was glad to be able to find a spot in the yard where no one on earth could see me, but now, I berated this area for having even more space to lose this precious trinket.
"Don't worry, we'll find it. I'll help you." E reiterates, and I believe she is as hopeful as she seems. I'd always instinctively surrounded myself around less-than-scattered brains; and I'm not ashamed to say they've pulled me out of my self inflicted ruts too many times to count. I remember thinking she looked so angelic; her freckles bouncing off her face in the sun formed a new pattern every day, and her blue eyes matched her golden hair so perfectly, standing next to her I didn't have to tell anyone I didn't share her bewitching aura. I've always felt a strange inkling to embrace those willing to help me, and never let go. I could kiss their lips for as long as they'd let me. There have been times when I've felt True Love, sprouting from a circumstance that showed me kindness isn't always so hard to come by.

I never found it, and at the time I thought I would never forget the feeling. I haven't, because I still lose things, and I've lost things that are as irreplaceable and priceless as that. I remember things, but not until I discovered my own etched seven piece ornament in the box of forgotten mementos did I realize how lost these memories indeed were. In that box of paper and knick knacks, that keychain was the only memory I can remember suppressing, the only memory I'd created for myself. My mother and I bought Y that keychain from a place and time I don't recall, for no particular reason that I remember. It was pay-by-the-charm, and we kept it small with just the letters and the hearts. Friendship bracelets were big in those days, and after she was gone I remember thinking she wore out long before the chain could gradually slip away like it was supposed to. I remember thinking I had nothing else tangible her hands had touched, forgetting the polish she painted on my nails, forgetting that every moment of mine slumbered or awake in my own existence is a simple, extraordinary reaction to her's.

Coat tales

This jacket isn't warm by any means but it's soaked in the streets of praha
Each block patterned uniquely with each hand laid stone
The pocket still has the bonbon the stranger gave me
Lost in translation and lost from his room
Viennas courtyard terraces held up by white goddesses and their dust left on the shoulders of my jacket when I perched
Protected by serpents and bulgy eyed men
The pickled smell of the christkindlmarkt and
Its giant sour creamed potatoes
He and I agree we remember the sidewalks of Berlin blanketed in snow
But the only white we were seeing was the streamline of clouds and the paleness of their beautiful faces in the autumn light
The spirals of Amsterdam and the colour of it's constant-- like looking through a blue glass while under a canopy
That could also be the level at which we stood below the sea and that I was
Looking through my lashes
Most of the time
In London's stoned gates I didn't need it's use
The sun shone so brightly we sweat through our first layers
We were so high on new we didn't feel the rain either
I wish i could feel it again
Like I can smell it in this jacket

its good to be not dead

i am like the plastic bag that flutters in the tree above me

somewhere deep within the bones that case my widest shape, there is a pulse not unlike the plastic bag trapped at the tallest branch of the tree hovering across the street. It quivers fitfully from the gushes that breathe through its piercings; an echo of mourning or, perhaps, a celebratory squeal from atop the neighbourhood's tallest. Often I find I'm trapped in my own hole-y casing fluttering against the elements that oppress the man-made inklings of freedom, yet frequently I feel more barked and rooted underneath the cemented floor that ensures my noble stance. Too often I feel like the former less celebrated, but panicked. A want to escape, but knowing if I do, i'll be picked up by the outdoor vacuum and discarded like my brothers and sisters who sit atop the pile of mulch. Countless times i've handled sticky six-pack bindings only to rip the holes before finding a container that the birds can't open. This started as an obsession to save the seagulls. For them my temples have always pulsed as I fed them crumbs of blue mould (we'd always buy too much food on holidays), feeling like a whisperer of sorts, they'd circle around me while my lemon-streaked hair blew against the pink on my shoulders; I carried a yellow fur puppet in my spare hand, or a plastic bird balancing on its beak at my fingertip. My love of them is not unlike my love of the place I fed them. Like the uncanny smell of the sand, and the learning that I was smelling Cigarettes, like the many Eagles and Wings that litter the strip, To the pistols that are condoned as long as they aren't disclosed, like the colours and the green paper and the only natural element being the salt in the water, I was in love with something that wasn't ever there, or rather, only existed in my mind. I am sure (100%) that i was scoffed at despite my age, despite the size of my hazels glowing from underneath my bifocal'd retinas. I'm still amazed at her ability to stand there with me, glistening bodies baked brown, marinated in oil, hunched bag ladies hiding with the lizards in the lush. Even throwing the crumbs with me. I seem (and still to this day) to be the only with a spot in my own red pump for them, I have never quite understood why something thats resorted to eating garbage could be so hated, after all, I know of a few beloved four-legged's that've enjoyed a bloody garbage snack. To this day even, not a single one has ever felt the need to soil my sweater or hair. I've heard its supposed to be a sign of good luck when you're shit on from above, but I like to think its their personal choice. I, (like everyone, at times, i am sure) long for my six year old self, void of the knowings of the elder, creating my own ideas for that scar on her neck. Convinced that the cures for the terminal were there if we just removed our glasses and looked beyond our near-sighted shortcomings; the therapies that i'd concoct in my own funky corked dollar store bottles. Food colouring and hand soap with water. The other night was something, I could tell by the way he said my name he was convicted. I am sure for him its hard not to be. For him its easy to announce his admiration. For him its easy to be liked, and to like. And with him she's become more buoyant, if thats even possible. She's always had a way of balancing which I've always admired. She's always been convincing, too. Similar things have been said to me so I'm not sure of the shapes in her head, but then again, I'm not even sure of mine. I miss her, though. We are all just fluttering atop the hardness void of colour. I'm not sure why it takes that much distilled sugar for me to admit certain things, to feel my strings reach the ceiling again - I am just so scared that someone else will do the tilting. I want to be around only when my mind is forcing me out of the house, yet your confessions of truth for one another, while special - i know, keep me locked up in this closet for longer than i'd like to admit. So badly do I want to be rooted, barked, be the one to have trap the flutters - More often than sputtering around in the breeze. I'm afraid of heights so much so that me knees buckle if i so much as imagine a ledge and I will scream if you walk too close. My body breathes naturally (thankfully), unlike those dolphins that chose their end, I just wish i knew how the tree keeps its brittles from breaking, and how that bag got stuck up there in the first place.

Confessions v.1.5

If I want to be truthful I can say,
In this moment:

He was just born
She just died
He just fell in love
She just lost her mother
Her father
Their brother
She just lost her friend
Her dog
His cat
He just made a life
She ended another's

If want to be truthful I can say,
in this moment:

None of these things have happened to me

Things I Should Have Said

Orillia

Watching frost melt
Being grateful for its mild

seeing a ground bare of such this time
Last week
A body of water unfrozen to say the least
It's amazing to feel any gratitude at all
At least for the weather
For them id be shocked if it ever ceased
Now there is something
So tied and all-encompassing
Something about that invisible string
That binds us tight enough so
I don't even need to be around to hear
I want you around for a long time
And
I want to be around too feel it's weight
In a pile in the hardened parking lot
Passers- by unburdened by the loss of sight
Nor sound
Yet they kept on walking
Anyway

years

two hundred, today

and when i'm asked of when it was

that i have ever felt so calm

i'll say when time is frozen

lain awakened by the dawn.

pushed down through distant slumbers

a voice i speak out loud

a silent speck spanned through orange rooms

back when i'd snore a crowd.

When she laid across the masses

eyes on the ceiling too

i was half awake and half asleep

but her words they made it through:

you are speaking in coherence;

are you searching for a song?

are you asking me a question?

am i where i should belong?

i've been thinking a lot about arteries

plaque'd barricade with no air

i've been thinking a lot about bodies

cracked open; merely bare

i've been bending my fingers backwards

knuckled bones entrapped with skin

i've been hearing the call of the catbird

blinded screams of mistaken hymn

i've been swimming a lot in beaming

eyes widened in the snow

i've been hoping a lot for a teaming

of a quite, distant mellow

2/5

she told me while we walked

behind them along the stoned roads

next to the stoned faces

among the cafes selling such

stones

right after he said she's different with me

a side only birthed when our hair's entangled

once every year or so

(now)

and tangle it does; our strands are so similar

she starts with words

stretches in sentences

hand written usually in a park

on a bench

with a book

and a pen

she said it is tremendously cliched, tedious

she just thinks she has to

so she does it anyway

then she asked me

unpublished but aware of my pining

not to be shiny or gloried but

to be heard

or at least, perhaps more accurately,

to have the strength to want to speak

silently

implanted with colour and thickness

or simple words we've all written

i've no desire to move my lips

let alone hear sound come out

id' much rather have a simmer

stewing in my own marinade

nozzled at my bitten nails

an accurate portrayal of my mind's own missive

sounding the way soda cuts

when you crack it open and

chug it down

swimming

i can morph into

what it is you thought i was

or what you always wished i could be

tweaked into that doe eyed wanderer

stooged into thinking there is a permanent

warm red womb

what wrapped me

felt like a new i could keep forever

like every new we're clouded by

its intoxicating nature

like drunk plans in the evening

we're all just chasing that buzz

and most of the time we can't keep up

wake up in the light in a bed

at least

just not too sure what got you there

we could hold again like that

or we could

disappear and meet

underwater in the deep-end

this time

you wouldn't know this about me but

i am a really great swimmer

i will hold your head above water

and compress your chest if need be

i'll keep the O's moving

and we'll all hope for minor swelling

perpetually dreaming i am

pushing to be what i am not

the difference between us i think

is this

you think you already are what you wish

to be

and i know that

i am not

just yet

i can hope and wish for it

but really it seems to happen on its own

and i read something she said recently

weighted me in all its simplistic sopping glory

there's no need to focus

that when it comes for whatever reason (its good)

and to be thankful

and thats all you need to thrive

i don't need a god and

often i am prided i don't

but when i hear words combined only how

i wish i could

and her eyes behind

the sound that spilled them

i sure am glad that she's speaking them

and that i have her to

assure me

134 days ago

Sat and waited
Wrote about nerves to distract
My brain
Thought of the face
I was about to see
The feeling I was gonna feel
As a result of
It
I knew the way his face moved
Before id seen it and
Admired it years before
I'm sure he knew I existed
I could never have guessed
The fight I was in for
Nor the volume of hurt
Drip from my face
Visible to everyone who'd
Look at it
I could never have guessed
The fight that was in me and
How madly I could love
Something
I could never have guessed
Just how it would become
And how long I can wake
Up to the same body
Tossing when
I am void of it
"arriving in cobourg."
Hands sweat and heart pounds
I feel sick but and ugly
But I wouldn't ever trade
That feeling for anything
A blue Mercedes
Sits and waits
"you're right," he said
"you do avoid the eyes,"
A foot apart always and
A kiss on my back
The comfort only came
Four and one half years
to the date
Here i sit in this same box-seat
Only he's beside me
Or in the one over
It's busy this week
I guess

I, curmudgeon

Pleased to meet you

Imperious eyes forced through miles
My mind's feeble but strong enough
To see them when they're vacant
Pushed to corners of your
Prided beard
Pieces of my own scattered
Like an interment in the cross-signs

One/one-one/one-won

Tilted;
Or the horizontal story
I dreamt days ago about a birth again
Forgot we actually had one coming
Baby boy born on a day of ones
Again with that
Name I could own
Funny to think about a lifetime
Knowing someone
You haven't yet met

I keep thinking of her and
How when she drifts
Shes awoken by a living dream
Smiling, I'm sure
If she has the strength
Like the burst of a purr in the slumbered cat
On my pillow
I know when I see her
I'll be awed like I always am
Something about the
Creation gets me staring
They should all be crowned
I
Drip
In
Yours
I don't known if i could ever look
At one of my own
Without a wail of
Sweet happy

Can't sleep and she's here
Now
I thought I missed my window
The purred breath halted
But i hear her eyes on me and
The sounds he makes while he is dreaming

Watching the tree
Is not a way to keep your eyes dry
But slowly I realize where I'm coming
From
And why he can cry so easy
Sometimes this big mess is
Just So pretty
And so unbearably sad
It's a miracle i can forget
Stop reeling in
Pretty
Or sad
And actually manage
to leave my pile
In the morning

On most days, anyway.

Hi, scout.

EXCERPTS OF TRUISMS (1978-1983)

"A SINGLE EVENT CAN HAVE INFINITELY MANY INTERPRETATIONS
A STRONG SENSE OF DUTY IMPRISONS YOU
ALL THINGS ARE DELICATELY INTERCONNECTED

AMBITION IS JUST AS DANGEROUS AS COMPLACENCY

AMBIVALENCE CAN RUIN YOUR LIFE

AN ELITE IS INEVITABLE

ANGER OR HATE CAN BE A USEFUL MOTIVATING FORCE

BEING JUDGMENTAL IS A SIGN OF LIFE

BEING SURE OF YOURSELF MEANS YOU'RE A FOOL


CALM IS MORE CONDUCTIVE TO CREATIVITY THAN IS ANXIETY
CATEGORIZING FEAR IS CALMING
CONFUSING YOURSELF IS A WAY TO STAY HONEST
DISGUST IS THE APPROPRIATE RESPONSE TO MOST SITUATIONS
DISORGANIZATION IS A KIND OF ANESTHESIA

DRAMA OFTEN OBSCURES THE REAL ISSUES

DREAMING WHILE AWAKE IS A FRIGHTENING CONTRADICTION

ELABORATION IS A FORM OF POLLUTION


ENJOY YOURSELF BECAUSE YOU CAN'T CHANGE ANYTHING ANYWAY


EVERY ACHIEVEMENT REQUIRES A SACRIFICE
EVERYONE'S WORK IS EQUALLY IMPORTANT
EVERYTHING THAT'S INTERESTING IS NEW
EXPIRING FOR LOVE IS BEAUTIFUL BUT STUPID

EXPRESSING ANGER IS NECESSARY

EXTREME SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS LEADS TO PERVERSION

FAITHFULNESS IS A SOCIAL NOT A BIOLOGICAL LAW
FAKE OR REAL INDIFFERENCE IS A POWERFUL PERSONAL WEAPON


GO ALL OUT IN ROMANCE AND LET THE CHIPS FALL WHERE THEY MAY
GOING WITH THE FLOW IS SOOTHING BUT RISKY
GOOD DEEDS EVENTUALLY ARE REWARDED
GOVERNMENT IS A BURDEN ON THE PEOPLE


IDEALS ARE REPLACED BY CONVENTIONAL GOALS AT A CERTAIN AGE
IF YOU HAVE MANY DESIRES YOUR LIFE WILL BE INTERESTING
IF YOU LIVE SIMPLY THERE IS NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT
IGNORING ENEMIES IS THE BEST WAY TO FIGHT

ILLNESS IS A STATE OF MIND


IT IS HEROIC TO TRY TO STOP TIME

IT IS MAN'S FATE TO OUTSMART HIMSELF
IT'S BETTER TO BE A GOOD PERSON THAN A FAMOUS PERSON
IT'S BETTER TO BE LONELY THAN TO BE WITH INFERIOR PEOPLE

IT'S BETTER TO BE NAIVE THAN JADED

IT'S BETTER TO STUDY THE LIVING FACT THAN TO ANALYZE HISTORY
IT'S JUST AN ACCIDENT THAT YOUR PARENTS ARE YOUR PARENTS


LOOKING BACK IS THE FIRST SIGN OF AGING AND DECAY
OFTEN YOU SHOULD ACT LIKE YOU ARE SEXLESS
OLD FRIENDS ARE BETTER LEFT IN THE PAST



PAIN CAN BE A VERY POSITIVE THING



PEOPLE ARE NUTS IF THEY THINK THEY ARE IMPORTANT
PEOPLE ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT THEY DO UNLESS THEY ARE INSANE
PEOPLE WHO DON'T WORK WITH THEIR HANDS ARE PARASITES
PEOPLE WHO GO CRAZY ARE TOO SENSITIVE
PEOPLE WON'T BEHAVE IF THEY HAVE NOTHING TO LOSE


POTENTIAL COUNTS FOR NOTHING UNTIL IT'S REALIZED
PRIVATE PROPERTY CREATED CRIME
PUSH YOURSELF TO THE LIMIT AS OFTEN AS POSSIBLE

RAISE BOYS AND GIRLS THE SAME WAY


RESOLUTIONS SERVE TO EASE OUR CONSCIENCE
REVOLUTION BEGINS WITH CHANGES IN THE INDIVIDUAL

ROMANTIC LOVE WAS INVENTED TO MANIPULATE WOMEN


SALVATION CAN'T BE BOUGHT AND SOLD
SELF-AWARENESS CAN BE CRIPPLING
SELF-CONTEMPT CAN DO MORE HARM THAN GOOD
SELFISHNESS IS THE MOST BASIC MOTIVATION
SELFLESSNESS IS THE HIGHEST ACHIEVEMENT
SEPARATISM IS THE WAY TO A NEW BEGINNING


SIN IS A MEANS OF SOCIAL CONTROL

SOLITUDE IS ENRICHING
STRONG EMOTIONAL ATTACHMENT STEMS FROM BASIC INSECURITY
STUPID PEOPLE SHOULDN'T BREED

TALKING IS USED TO HIDE ONE'S INABILITY TO ACT
THE FAMILY IS LIVING ON BORROWED TIME
THE IDIOSYNCRATIC HAS LOST ITS AUTHORITY

THE MOST PROFOUND THINGS ARE INEXPRESSIBLE

THE MUNDANE IS TO BE CHERISHED
THE NEW IS NOTHING BUT A RESTATEMENT OF THE OLD
THE ONLY WAY TO BE PURE IS TO STAY BY YOURSELF
THE SUM OF YOUR ACTIONS DETERMINES WHAT YOU ARE

THE UNATTAINABLE IS INVARIABLE ATTRACTIVE


THERE'S NOTHING EXCEPT WHAT YOU SENSE
THINKING TOO MUCH CAN ONLY CAUSE PROBLEMS
TRUE FREEDOM IS FRIGHTFUL
UNIQUE THINGS MUST BE THE MOST VALUABLE
WHEN SOMETHING TERRIBLE HAPPENS PEOPLE WAKE UP
WISHING THINGS AWAY IS NOT EFFECTIVE
WITH PERSEVERANCE YOU CAN DISCOVER ANY TRUTH

WORDS TEND TO BE INADEQUATE

WORRYING CAN HELP YOU PREPARE
YOU ARE A VICTIM OF THE RULES YOU LIVE BY
YOU CAN'T FOOL OTHERS IF YOU'RE FOOLING YOURSELF


YOU MUST BE INTIMATE WITH A TOKEN FEW


YOU MUST KNOW WHERE YOU STOP AND THE WORLD BEGINS
YOUR ACTIONS AE POINTLESS IF NO ONE NOTICES
YOUR OLDEST FEARS ARE THE WORST ONES"

---JENNY HOLZER, Truisms (1978-1983)