love you
dark seraph
I do
my fondness
most awkward
for you
not for kind
you can’t
love me too
but love you
good god man
I do
ache
when I see you
crave
when I don’t
hate you
wild Eros
I do
He didn’t take it with him; hanging carcasses hold no pain. It multiplied by infinity then
latched onto those he left. Rancid globs worm into our souls and morph into lifetimes of
unbearable if onlys, what ifs, and whys.
Where is the love? My dear God, where was the love?
It was a moderate day. About 20’ below zero. No wind chill. He walked out of Money Mart, his adolescent son at his side. I could see their breath. He took his right hand glove off, placed his dirty thumb over his right nostril and blew a chunk of snot onto the salted sidewalk. His son honked and spit a gobber onto the adjacent snowbank. The chunk of snot irritated me, but then I realized that manufacturing another Money Mart customer was probably worse.
Focused on the pause, you could hear a thought drop; and I did.
I looked down and there, waiting for my eye, was a bobby pin.
I looked up to a sloppy knot, held together by a plastic hair clasp, and bobby pins.
Three discarded strands of silver were clinging to the back of her black wool coat.
Her corn cob face turned slightly, listening hard to her daughter’s hard poem.
I listened. I considered. The three hairs were named: Regret. Sorrow. Love.
I looked up again – closer. Blond remnants in a bed of silver – thick.
She had a lot more to come.
I looked around, bent down, picked up the bobby pin, and tucked it in my pocket.
Oh hope so bold, dark death has hold.
Traps passion’s light, the longest night.
Hate’s cage is raised and bound is faith.
Love’s healing flame, cruel waters bathe.
His gentle hands, an angel’s wings.
Bright smile he shares, day’s dawn.
Sincerity, it wins the key,
To lost love’s blazing memory.
Bold hope now sings on angel’s wings.
And dawn’s romance lights passion’s dance.
Faith’s glory free in harmony.
Love’s renaissance,
God’s gift to me.
My shoulders are aching. I don’t want to get up.
So many miles. Too many promises.
Their weight is upon me like a pillow of rocks.
I ask God to hold it over my face.
He doesn’t.
I get up.
My intent was to use a clever metaphor to tackle this particular subject. I was going to
use the Crimson King – still will use. It’s a truly beautiful tree. A species of the Norwayv
Maple, with deep red, almost purple leaves – crimson, like the name says. According to
the experts, it doesn’t fare well in Edmonton. I have one in my front yard. Healthy,
vibrant. Non-homogenous. Absolutely beautiful. A vital splotch of red in a sea of green.
A practically perfect metaphor.
Fags don’t fare very well here either. Many are dead. Others have fluttered off with their
light feet to Vancouver, or perhaps Toronto, drawn by others like them, yearning for
homogeneity.
Good riddance, I say. I hate faggots. Despise them. Fruits. Sissies. Pansies. Poor
excuses for men.
I walk in the dark with a hardened heart.
The cross that sustained me has morphed into a stake, stained with the blood of the
slaughtered innocent, the martyred ignorant and ripping reformations. My hands are
flayed by the slivers of this monstrosity. Yet I still hold it desperately, valiantly, to my
heart, for fear of exposing the haemorrhage to my soul.
I hold my faith on the edge of a blade. I am cold. Lonely. This dark hole is too deep. I
struggle to claw out of the blackness. More sludge drools into my eyes. Any light, a
vague memory. I bitterly rake at the crushing walls. Oblivion cascades upon me.
I stop – before even God is lost in this dark night.
I close my eyes. I go deep. I grasp the fertile soil – Inhale the feral scent. I feel the dark
heart. Her ancient beat throbs through my soul. Her memory reveals.
I fall to my knees. The echo of first-born offerings resounds through the eons. Abel.
Cain. Ishmael and Isaac. Jacob and Esau. Joseph. Moses. The sons of Egypt. And
finally, the son of man.
I consider the three great Passovers: The son of Abraham, the first-born of Israel, and the
family of man. And then I know. The wise men were not fooled by a fickle star.
I look up. The nail of heaven yields crimson tears.
I cry.
So much blood. Too much blood. Too many have cloaked it in a veil of self-
righteousness. It is not he who draws the blood.
Flat on my back, it is easier to look up. The pole star is brightest in the darkest night.
It’s easy; any monkey can do it. Just put one and one together, and you get three. Three
peas in a pod. A pod of monkeys floating out to sea. A sea of blood and tears under a
banana sun. A banana sundae on a Sunday afternoon, after church. The three of us
feeling guilty after a heavy sermon. Guilty for having so much. Monkeys don’t have
china cabinets.
And what’s our son going to do when he grows up? I suppose he’ll have two cars too.
Or maybe three. And a house. And maybe two or three little monkeys. And he’ll take
them to church too. Maybe this one? Where they’ll learn to hate mistakes and
differences. Where he’ll give his monkeys a few dollars to give away, and feel better for
a few days. Maybe he’ll see the sea and turn around?
Or, maybe he’ll love boy monkeys? Just put one and one together, and you get two.
Two peas in a pod. He won’t have any baby monkeys to get eaten by the church. And
the church won’t let him in. He’ll have his banana sundaes under a banana sun on
Sunday afternoons. But, maybe he’ll forgive people’s mistakes, and love their
differences?
Sometimes, if I look closely enough you’re almost real. I imagine being inside you,
looking out, instead of outside looking in. I try to look at the world through your eyes.
Like, from where you’re standing, what do you see? Do you see the same as me? Do
you see me? I mean, really, really see me. Or am I kind of fuzzy and surreal? There, but
not really there? Easy to touch, but only on the outside?
Does blood rush to your cock when you watch that tall blond with the baseball cap, great
posture, and the chest that goes for days? Do you see the cougar watching you out of the
corner of her eye and force yourself not to look so she doesn’t get her hopes up? Do you
catch yourself looking too long at the French hunk’s crotch and see the look of confusion
on his face? Do you wonder how those little guys manage with such big wankers?
They’d have to pass out when they get horny, wouldn’t they? And why do some guys not
seem to care that they have a hard on in the change room? Like they’re proud or
something. Or maybe just gay and carefree.
Meth-heads do not good mothers make.
Said her life-long friend,
With two to the belly, and three to the head.
You’re camping. You’ve just had a shower in a public washroom and you’re standing in
front of the sink, thinking, “Should I shave? Or not?”
Then a 60’ish sort of guy walks in and starts flipping through the magazine rack.
Intently.
You know he’s going to sit for a long time. You start to imagine the sounds and the
stench. “Nope. No shave today.”
We shared a few moments, this young man and I.
This philosopher poet, with infinite eyes.
A crossing of hearts, a touching of minds.
We did this before, tender friends, other lives.
Kindred, my kindred, your force ever shines.
You’ve roused me again, old soul out of time.
Strolling down a cobblestone street in Edmonton’s downtown, on my way to a tasty
Vietnamese lunch at Doan’s, I spied a middle aged homeless man resting on a bench. His
eyes were closed – I remained cautiously optimistic. As I quietly walked by he opened
his sun leathered eyelids and he popped the question. “Sir, can you spare some change so
I can buy a hot dog at the vendor’s over there.” I pulled out a toonie and deposited it into
his dirty hand. I thought to myself, “I probably just gave him enough for his next bottle
of cherry-jack. Maybe next time, I’ll just offer to buy him a hot dog.”
Walking down the street on my way back from a tasty Vietnamese lunch at Doan’s, I saw
a classy blonde businesswoman walking towards me with the aforementioned homeless
person. I thought, “That’s curious, how does she know him?” As they walked by and
towards the hot dog vendor, I heard the man say, “Its really nice of you to buy me lunch.
Really nice of you.”
I thought to myself, “At least she helped him resolve his choice of what to do with my
toonie.” And then I thought, “I wonder how many hot dogs he has to eat to get enough
money for a bottle of cherry jack?”
A scent of lilac.
Deepest memories.
Mother’s favourite flower.
A scent of lilac.
Bittersweet.
Mother and spring.
He was a happy child.
He struggles to think
softly, simply, carefully
avoiding those hurtful heavy things
that crush the mind and soul:
no-answer questions,
circular philosophy,
and God.
My brother lives on skid row in Toronto.
I was a few months old when he stopped hearing heartbeats. Deaf as a doorknob at three.
He was five when they took him away. Locked him up in a land of dancing fingers. He became our weekend visitor. On Sunday afternoons he knocked the shit out of me, sometimes broke a bottle over my head, and taught me how to breathe with a pillow over my face.
According to Mom, my baby cry was God awful –
an ear-splitting wail that shook the house, and everybody in it. There was no splitting his ears after God baked his cochlea. No matter how hard he knocked, he could only see the sound of my tears.
He stayed the weekend visitor until he grew up. We stayed strangers after that. He moved to Toronto.
Meat-cutter by day, Dishwasher by night. He married a diabetic deaf girl who loved candy. Lost her foot.
Ate more candy. Lost her life.
He met a hooker at the hospital – He always wanted a hearing girl. She’s in and out of jail, and her pimp
knocks him around. He lost his apartment.
Won’t come home. Has a hearing girl.
Brother, dear brother –
If you could see the sound of my tears…
Can you imagine a time when four-year-old hemophiliacs were barred from public swimming pools? Can you imagine a time when you weren’t allowed to your family’s Christmas party because your Aunts and Uncles wouldn’t come if you did? Afraid they might catch it. Can you imagine a time when “He moved to Vancouver” was code for: “He died of AIDS.” Can you imagine a time when more than 50% of your friends died within a five-year span?
In retrospect, it is very hard to imagine.
Can you imagine having friends who fell in love for the first time in their life – falling in love with every fibre of their being, and discovering three months later that that person they loved so very much would be dead in a few years?
Can you imagine not being able to tell anyone? Can you imagine not being able to tell his mom and dad and his sisters and brothers that their wonderful son was dying, fearful for the rejection that might come?
Can you imagine not being able to talk to your straight friends about the only thing that mattered?
Can you imagine a world where a Princess receives accolades for not wearing gloves when she shakes the hand of a dying gay man?
Can you imagine finding out that the love of your life is dying and asking your bank for a $5,000 loan, so you can take him on one last vacation to southern British Columbia? Can you imagine being declined by that bank, and not being able to say why you needed that money? Can you imagine asking your father to co-sign that loan? And the joy and love you had for that father who said yes without asking a single question?
Can you imagine begging God every day to save the love of your life? For years? Can you imagine the road one must travel to find the God that would answer your prayers?
Can you imagine living in a world where 70% of the gay population in New York and San Francisco died over a five-year span?
Can you imagine a world where the vast majority of health care workers refused to care for your dying friends?
Can you imagine sitting at a bar and asking where your 21 year-old friend Jeff was, and the waiter answers: “Oh yeah. He shot himself cause he had AIDS.” Can you imagine watching the sweetest and nicest 19 year-old die alone in the hospital, because his family didn’t want to get IT?
Can you imagine what it would be like to imagine what it would be like for you when your partner is hospitalized one last time?
Can you imagine what it’s like to help your 20 year-old friends plan their funeral? Can you imagine how many times I listened to Celine Dione’s ‘Fly’?
Can you imagine what it’s like to watch your boss wipe the chair down you were sitting in, just the other day, and you feel your heart ache so very much, but you don’t know why until you write this?
Can you imagine what it feels like to be accused of being cold and heartless because I don’t seem to care that hundreds of people are dying from a new virus? That perhaps it might be because of the thousands and millions who died from another plague, and because I know what its like to be afraid of a disease that killed 100% of those it infected? Do you know how it feels when people jump away from me because my mask slipped off my nose?
Can you imagine what it feels like to be called heartless by a 22 year-old gay man who has no idea what a real plague is? A 22 year-old gay man who has no idea how hard and long the fight was to give him the rights he is so willing to give away? A 22 year-old gay man who doesn’t understand a world where gay people wore bags over their heads at gay pride parades?
Can you imagine why I might want to scream to everybody everyday: “Suck it up butter cup!”
It was awfully dark. An ancient scary dark where wounded and cornered animals take their last stand. A last stand that turns mice into core borne raging monsters. A dark corner where my remains were coiled into a ball so tight and small that even I couldn’t find them. A hiding place only someone like her could find and poke her judgment at until the monster bared its fangs. The remains of a mother loving son who’d rather die than bear the brimstone of her disappointment. Dead by his own hand and by the Christian need in her eyes. A son who couldn’t be the abomination she feared.
Sons can’t hate their mothers. So I hated them instead – hated them easy – smothering, judging facsimiles. I can’t hate her this much. I won’t hate her this much. That’s why I married my mother. I hated him enough. But I also loved him enough. And I trusted him enough to get over it. I gave up my life for him too. But he likes me the way I am. And so I forgive – forgive the Christians – forgive her – forgive myself. Wrapped in his arms – slowly, painfully, dreadfully slowly – I’ve stepped away from the corner and out of that Bates Motel.
I have a handsome house, made of hope and happy glass.
I roam from room to room, round with silver, gold and brass.
I have a thoughtful friend. Paid a visit twice or thrice.
A frightful friend he is. Speaks in dreams on murky nights.
Sitting comfy on my porch swing, we look out upon his world.
He tells of unbound wonder, my easy thoughts a twirl.
I ask him please, inside with me, I have lots of pretty things.
He says, “Your rooms are so exclusive, come out instead, you’ll see.”
His rudeness is a shock to me. I say goodbye and go inside.
Holding close my coloured memory, I roam from room to room.
In one some pretty trinkets, to kneel in hallowed air.
A room for full immersion; a separate three for days of prayer.
From o’er the world on eagle’s wings, my painted friend persists.
He speaks of faith unbroken, a together life unspoken.
Where they hug the sun’s rise, climb the moon’s light.
All feel the bees sigh, where all as one, all is right.
I ask him please, inside with me, I have lots of pretty things.
“I can’t fill your barren rooms,” he thrusts, “I have a living key.”
Your house: Abomination! Wailing walls of butchered creeds.
Foundation’s split asunder. Inside you cannot see.
Words of hate and desolation, in stone, crooked carved.
This cross you bear, it drools with blood, and scores your cleaving heart.
Come out of it, forsaken child, for you its deadly haunted.
You will rot in separation. It has no room to offer.
You will never see through empty memory
Stained shut stuck glass hypocrisy.
Must you love a house that hates you?
His rudeness is a shock to me. I close my eyes and go inside,
to hungry hope and bitter promise.
Frozen inside the closed kitchen window
the young mother mimes
a stunning shriek
as the followed red ball
tumbles
onto the street
and into the path
of the bright white car.
Somewhere, between nothing and nowhere, an alluring, azure river of legendary consequence shimmered and glimmered into being. Sufficiently enticed, I faithfully built a canoe from an altar of first-born offerings, then set myself adrift. Almost immediately, this splendid endowment was ripped in two. One quarrelled through a land of disenchanted desert princes, the other through milk and honey and sacrificial lambs. These bloody beginnings were equally compelling, but I opted for the righteous when it declared itself the chosen. This long suffering river of such good intentions soon faced a mountain of nearly noble notions and flipped over a great chasm. With all its wailing and gnashing, it was completely, unfathomably, impassable – a brutally suicidal crossing. I chose to portage around this fundamental rift, and discovered that this wonder had ruptured into two once again. I joined the shinier, more exclusive. It was an arduous choice, requiring fantastic leaps of faith. But, this river was extraordinary, all a glitter with miracles and everlasting promises, in exchange for faithful full immersion. Lemming-like, without hindsight, or forethought, or basically any thought at all, I crossed my heart and jumped in. Incredibly, this crimson testament to humanity began twisting and slicing its way through new lands and haughty high ground, splintering exponentially. I went down one false promise after another until I finally gave up on bloody endings, paddled to shore and forged my own path toward the sun.
And so, it is written.
I construct a wretched hovel,
A cold and musty lair.
I feed her meager rations,
A bland and moldy fare.
Winter’s bleakness is her blanket,
Winter’s frigid grim her feed.
Bitter milk I always contemplate,
But yield to famished greed.
From dreadful slumber, icy’s cling,
Cold heart aroused in each new spring.
Marvelous, extraordinaire,
Spring in Sunnybrook upon the air.
The crest and fall inflicts such ache.
Their need I see compels.
Her sights are set and with a thrush,
I’m to this pit of hell.
Springs are short in Sunnybrook.
The wounds are quick and deep.
The crying veins they must sustain,
Over winter’s ‘spansive creep.
A dance of death, a dance of life.
I know I ask too much.
The agony for but a taste,
And she endures with just enough.
I wait and pray for early buds,
Stinging memories suppressed.
Yet always fall approaches,
Dead leaves her winter dress.
Such fertile soil she has.
Incessant scent is strong.
I cannot live without her.
I can’t survive her song.
First letting on the farm,
A darling bud I was.
First icicle the sharpest,
Dread burning never thaws.
Icy cage releases,
And raises back again.
The crinkled leaves disintegrate,
And serve her foul despair.
.
I can’t give her what she needs.
She won’t give me what I crave.
Scent of lilac will entangle,
And I’ll perish in its wake.
With longing hours of winter,
Virginia Woolf was killed.
Her philistine the victor.
My Goliath could be still.
I shudder with her splendor.
I suffer as she aches.
Her pounding is deliberate.
Perhaps I should awake?
With scent on breeze I grasp,
This special flush of spring.
Again a splendid tree.
Once more an offering.
Inspires through winter’s grim,
This binding a foundation.
As David’s love for Jonathan,
Noble bond a revelation.
A double love for me it is.
Both deep and true they are.
One is to them disturbing,
The other they require.
A double loss I cannot bear,
So the ardent I’ll suppress.
The sanctioned I advance;
This love they will accept.
Brother, father, knave and king.
Mentor, novice – loyalties.
Ineffable, intense, to a man this bonding thing.
Deep roots sustain through winter’s keep.
This tree of life was always there.
A love less lonely to receive.
I couldn’t see it standing fair.
She gives enough, I take enough.
My content is what she fancies.
First icy drops and sharpness dulls.
Our spirit soars in rapture.
I have a handsome house,
Made of hope and happy glass.
I roam from room to room,
Round with silver, gold and brass.
I have a thoughtful friend,
Paid a visit twice or thrice.
A frightful friend he is,
Speaks in dreams on murky nights.
Sitting comfy on my porch swing,
We look out upon his world.
He tells of living wonder,
My easy thoughts a twirl.
I ask him please, inside with me,
I have lots of pretty things.
Your rooms are so exclusive,
Come out instead, you’ll see.
His rudeness is a shock to me.
I say goodbye and go inside.
Holding close my coloured memory,
I roam from room to room.
In one some pretty trinkets,
To kneel in hallowed air.
A room for full immersion;
A separate three for days of prayer.
O’er the world on eagle’s wings,
Again my friend has called.
He speaks of life unbroken,
All together bound unspoken.
I ask him please, inside with me,
I have lots of pretty things.
I can’t fill your barren rooms, he thrusts,
I have a living key.
Your house abomination;
Wailing walls of butchered creeds.
Foundation’s split asunder,
Inside you cannot see.
Words of hate and desolation;
In stone, crooked carved.
This cross you bear, it drools with blood,
And scores your cleaving heart.
Come out of her, forsaken child,
You are not abomination.
She has no room to offer.
For you she’s deadly haunted.
You will never see
Through empty memory
Stained shut stuck glass hypocrisy.
Must you love a house that hates you?
His rudeness is a shock to me.
I close my eyes and go inside
Through doors of hope and sadly wanting.
Your desperate fingers crying clear.
The soundless signs we did not hear.
Forever silent lonely tears,
So deafening, oh brother dear.
An odd feeling it was. Watching Brenna stroke the top of Sheema’s shadow beard head. Open affection. Same sex. Offered. Accepted.
A wanting feeling it was. Green. A discontented yearning for something prohibited. A prohibited, yet essential affection.
Just like Dad, they pull away when I get too close; when I cross that invisible barrier. A construct I cannot see, but hard and cold as ice.
They get hard watching women make love. Their bodies know the yearning. For something prohibited, yet essential.
He used to swing me in his arms and let me rub my cheeks against his sandpaper chin. But I got older.
On Thanksgiving Day, Dad and I accidentally wandered onto hazardous terrain. We quickly changed the subject to hockey.
Odd that we deny this affection. Essential, yet prohibited. Terrified of being measured lesser.
We won’t challenge this construction, but there is no lesser, nor greater love.
I used to think ten burpees were pretty hard to do – and ten perfect burpees almost impossible. Down to your hands, kick out your feet, kick in your feet, jump up, then down to your hands again. AGAIN! She yells. I want to cry like a baby – and I do - but only on the inside. Burpees are perhaps the worst kind of torture ever invented. I want to swear at her, but I don’t because she might make it worse. I gasp in another chest full of air and I keep going – ignoring my aching back and hands. Every freeking joint in my body screams – but she screams louder – AGAIN!
Burpees – fricking burpees – Let’s just call a spade a spade – they’re barphees. She made me do fifty five of them in combination with ten jumping jacks tonight – barphees for sure.
Michelle’s Bootcamp runs its course in the Blair Oko Golf Academy. There are twenty six stairs up to the second floor of the Kinsmen Sports Centre. Some of us call it the Stairway to Hell. Trust me, there are exactly twenty six stairs up to the Blair Oko Golf Academy. On a good day, she makes us climb them only fifty five times. Fifty five is her magic number. Ten to the n minus one. 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. Add them up and you get fifty five. Fifty five times twenty six equals one thousand four hundred and thirty stairs. I know every flaw and scuff on those stairs. Smarties stains have been at the bottom of the stairs for three weeks now – a kind reminder of the chocolate I couldn’t eat over Halloween. Twenty six stairs –imagine Reagan’s distraught mother’s trip up the stairs to her possessed daughter’s bedroom – consider the terror and dread in her mother’s heart as she reached the top – if you can imagine this, you just might come close to understanding what these stairs have come to mean. I walk up these stairs two or three times a week, not knowing what’s in store for me next. How many barphees this week? I pray there won’t be barphees – but like most prayers, nobody seems to listen. How many tuck jumps? Can my fifty year old shins handle another tuck jump? My poor fricking shins. Nobody else complains about their shins.
She brought us a rope the other day. She must have been reincarnated from one of those Monks from the Spanish Inquisition. She is extremely creative. Like a ship’s figurehead she stands on the weights that hold the rope down, arms on her hips, blond hair tied in a pony tail, a fierce look in her eyes daring you to quit. And I am on the other end of the rope, twenty feet away, pulling it up and down with both hands, trying to make it wave, while standing in a squat position. And I never quit, but she yells at me to keep going anyway. One, two, three – oh God, isn’t it sixty seconds yet – four, five six. My legs and shoulders have never felt this king of pain. KEEP GOING MURRAY! She screams. Fifteen seconds – she promises. I count down. But, fifteen seconds is never REALLY fifteen seconds for Michelle. After twenty five seconds she finally, thankfully yells, SWITCH! She doesn’t seem to care that my arms feel like they’ve been stretched to twice their length.
She even has a torture chamber – it’s in her basement. She has all sorts of clever gadgets here. A couple of straps hang from a beam in the ceiling – they’re designed to pull your arms out of their sockets. I look forward to squats now. Even lunges aren’t so bad. I tried to negotiate with her the other day – one hundred mountain climbers in exchange for fourteen barphees. Nope – she said. My heart sank. Ten sets of fourteen barphees, fourteen kettle ball swings, fourteen dips and four stairs – I should have reported her to the police.
The large elastic bands she makes us use could be the worst invention of all. Try running while a healthy two hundred pound male holds you back with one of these bands, using every ounce of strength he has, like it’s some sort of competition. I felt like punching him.
Sometimes the whole world stands still, my mouth dries up, and it doesn’t matter how much I breathe because I know there will never be enough air. I know now what a second wind really is – it’s when you realize you’re going to die, so you quit breathing hard cause there’s no point.
But, when I make it to the end of the hour, one minute at time, sometimes one breath at a time, I get a strange, unfamiliar feeling. Even though I always finish last, sometimes even ten minutes behind, I feel like I’ve done something extraordinary – like I’ve really, really accomplished something. It’s the first time in my entire life that I have felt proud of my body. It actually works. And despite the announcements by some previously unknown body parts, sometimes I go home and I feel really, really happy. And then when I sleep longer than half an hour at a time (and every now and then right through the night), and when I realize that I can’t remember the last time I had reflux, and I discover that all the clothes I’ve ever worn don’t fit anymore (even the ones I saved for when or if I ever got skinny again), I think to myself, “Bring it on Michelle, BRING IT ON!”
I had a dream. And in this dream...
I was sitting on a shore. Across the water I see my friend in a canoe. It is that friend I dream about sometimes – the young man with very bright eyes who is sometimes an old man too. My friend paddles up to shore and he takes me for a ride. As we float down the river, I caress the gentle waves with my fingers and we get lost in creative conversation.
I ask my friend, “Is it time?”
He answers, “Yes, my son. It is time.”
I begin to cry. “But I’ve been here so very long. It feels so safe.” Then I think a bit more, and I say “But it has been awfully lonely.”
Then I remember ‘before’ when I walked among them. I felt the breeze on my skin and the sun’s warmth on my face. I was joyful then. I remember floating on the breeze – happy and carefree.
It was a gentle breeze at first – warm. But it became stronger. It blew me in all sorts of directions, except where I wanted to go. And my tiny wings couldn’t hold me. That was when I came here. This safe – but lonely – yes – very lonely place.
“If I paddle to the shore and walk upon the sand, will they know who I am?” I ask.
“Of course they will!” he says, “Your smile will light the way.”
“What colour will they be?” I ask.
“Don’t you know?” he replies.
I think for a second, “YES! They are orange! Orange as dazzling warm!” Then I worry, “Will they carry me even in the strongest breeze?”
He answers, “Oh my dear, dear son, don’t you remember? I gave you two sets of wings. The ones you had before are stronger now – they will carry you. Your new wings are much, much larger, for they will carry others.”
The Bank Ultra Lounge
A Rhode’s Scholar he was. Recommended by Prince Charles himself. And a member of the armed forces too, an ex-general no less. At first we thought he was pompous. Then we thought he was sad. A few minutes later we started to worry. Definitely delusional. Perhaps a bit pathological. A whole lot scary. We were relieved when he got up to go to the washroom and didn’t come back. Didn’t pay for his wine, but we didn’t care.
The Red Star Pub
I barely noticed her (I’ll call her Flicka) as I turned down the stairs to the Red Star Pub. Flicka was short, wore her wild hair in one of those messy ponytails, sported a white winter coat and big boots, and had crazy eyes. She was hounding some poor soul for money. At least she was too busy for me.
Andy Michaelson, of the Poet’s Ink ilk, was about five minutes in when Flicka pranced into the bar. “I like your turban”, she yelled to the tall, odd looking Seik, wearing a full length denim skirt (a bit off kilter for sure). Come to think of it, there were a number of people who seemed a bit off kilter – not like they were weird or something, maybe like they were having a bad year or two and didn’t care that they belonged in an alternate universe. We tried to ignore her as she started up a conversation with anyone brave enough to look at her. Within about two minutes, the bouncer grabbed her by the arm and helped our out of the Red Star Pub as she whinnied colorful expletives. The bouncer virtually lifted her off the ground, as her feet kept moving, like the front legs of a horse standing on its hind legs.
I listened to some more poetry. A few minutes later, my friend was back on the stairs where she stopped potential patrons of the Red Star to ask them for some much needed financial assistance. They would look in the saloon, turn their head sideways, wondering why strange people were in their bar watching someone reciting at a mike, and then with two very good reasons, they’d scurry off.
Every now and then I would look up and see Flicka trot onto the road, towards Carousel Photo Finishing, wave her arms in the air, stop before getting hit by a car, and then trot back for the next passers by.
Quasimotto started reciting something about the homeless. I realized at this precise moment that God has a wicked sense of humour. My friend Flicka came galloping down the stairs to visit with the smokers (one happening to be aforementioned turban man). And then, with no particular intention what so ever, she pulled her white scarf up over her mouth (just like Jessie James). Standing with the smokers she wasn’t as conspicuous, so as the potential patrons ventured down she would pounce out to greet them. I started to giggle. I was somewhat embarrassed, as Quasi was reciting serious stuff (perhaps something more about the homeless). The potential patrons would turn around and attempt to escape, but she’d gallop after them. Back and forth, back and forth, in the foreground of Carousel, Photo Finishing. Then I giggle some more.
At this point, to my utter disbelief, Mr. Rhodes Scholar shows up. He lights a cigarette and starts chatting with a strange looking friend of Mr. Turban. They must have hit it off, because not fifteen minutes later, they walk off together into the night. Two lost souls with some temporary comfort, perhaps.
Later as I’m driving home, about four blocks away from the Red Star Pub, I see Flicka prancing and skipping down the street, a wild Palomino on her way to greener pastures.
At home in bed with my Shitzu, Maltese, Polmeranian puppy licking my face and my Siberian husky insisting on his endless belly scratch, I wonder at the magic of poetry in motion.
The sun sneaks across the horizon, as it will in June.
Its dying light stains the sky crimson.
Crepuscular tendrils slip through the sheers and into our bedroom.
His sun sparkled tears trickle onto my skin.
“Positive”, he whispers.
POSITIVE! I scream (but only inside).
I wrap my arms around him.
His tears burn into my unguarded heart. Bore into my soul.
I have no immunity to this.
My blood curdles.
I die first.
All turned, through you. An effervescent, spectroscopic polyhedron. Through you, I discovered the magic of the sun.
All transformed, through you. A kaleidoscope of Oz. Ethereal. Spectral. Rock solid.
Even so and also, like the sun catching rain – ephemeral. Too ephemeral.
Now I wait in my dreams. And sometimes you come. Ethereal. Effervescent. Spectral.
Like the morning mist. But each time – less. Evanescent.
Time sludges by. Holding onto you becomes more and more like holding onto water – like catching rain. One dreadful day, they’ll find me chasing rainbows.
Sleek silken form, golden tress does adorn.
Elegant mien, azure glance rests in frame.
Softly expressed, word intensely affects.
A cogent delusive distraction.
Masculine. Bold. Sable sensual mold.
Relentless and rare princely cast.
Arousing, possessing, intense.
Ferocious and futile attraction.
Sleek silken form, his eyes do adorn.
Our gaunt longing has no satisfaction.
Dazzled magic ardent sand, flecked with age kilned coal.
Fine gilded rose a gift.
This angel kind to have and hold.
Forged in the heart of ValOdin, for an ever caring oath.
Together new, together dreams, young wonder love sublime.
Scorched by fiend so vile, so brief our precious time.
Wilting blooms and wasting vines, heaving tears and pleading cries.
Heaven’s sent to life’s defence. Nightmare blemished innocence.
Core born wail of sorrow heard, for poisoned spring elixir.
Blood for blood to healing woe, a scapegoat is the toll.
Scalded heart the proxy, tested faith the price for time.
Torch of gold and diamond glass, guiding light divine.
Young mistletoe, so blindly thrown, its aim we all must suffer.
But if I could, I would embark on Hermod’s grave endeavour.
I’d grant cruel Thanks a reason; She’d weep lakes in Hel for you.
Through sacred flames of sorrow, we walk a privileged path.
To fount of inspiration, in an ever living land.
Through sacred flames of sorrow, we learn our worth and life.
Oh brilliant star of Asgard, your light will ever shine.
The seed of a weed caught on a breeze and landed on innocence. I could not burn this raider out.
My scars are closely held. They make me stronger.
They are not for the mildly curious. Their beauty is bone deep; their roots as tenacious as a Canadian thistle.
Though a crude replacement for what I’ve lost, they guard a brutal wound.
If you’re here to add some callouses then take a hike, I’m strong enough.
You cannot excise this beast with some boyish tinkering. And forceps will only increase the injury.
Your fondling could be pleasing to certain scar tissue on my body, but a temporary kindness would be too cruel. I will not be circumcised a third time.
You terrify me. I could trust you. But how long can you hold my heart?
I have a son who I love so truly.
He never knew this and this is dumb.
When he was young he worked so hard.
For all of this he never knew I loved him so truly.
I must of been truly dumb.
He went to school and did so well.
I still didn’t tell him I loved him so truly.
He still doesn’t know this and that’s truly dumb.
For all of the good things he gave me so truly.
That made me so proud and I mean that truly.
I never told him I loved him so truly.
I still can’t do this and that’s truly dumb.
I still remember him as a baby when he was so cute.
His hair was so curly and his voice so strong.
As soon as I saw him I knew I loved him truly.
I never showed him that and that was truly dumb.
As he grew older and no one listened,
His voice got softer and no one listened.
Now he has grown up and is doing so well.
He’s still so smart as I knew so truly.
His hair is still curly and he looks so proud.
I still love him truly. He still doesn’t know,
And that’s truly dumb.
I think I finally woke up after a long time.
I finally listened to what I already knew truly.
That I was always so proud of him as my son.
I still haven’t told him I love him truly.
Truly, that’s so dumb.
I don’t know if I will ever tell him I love him truly.
That must mean I’m truly dumb.
Attending to the needy is a Christian tradition.
Practiced primarily at Christmas, it enables us to tolerate those less fortunate, like those street corner stutterers – skid row ambassadors selling newspapers and calendars for ten dollars.
Upon them we can bestow our Christian compassion. Makes us feel better – needed – perhaps even a bit godly. Normally tucked behind invisible tsunamis of apathy, we notice them in December. We buy the crappy newspaper and calendar, then cross the street and drop two hundred dollars on Christmas presents at ‘When Pigs Fly’.
It will take a few days after Christmas for their intrusion to fade. But, they’ll be around next Christmas, or survivors like them, to replenish that goodly feeling.
When pigs fly we might consider them out of season.
When pigs fly we won’t need a tsunami to discover our hearts.
Take u, and i, where u equals you, and i equals me. Is the function (u,i) a valid combination? Lets tackle this perplexity with some relatively straightforward logic. Take Einstein’s E = m c , combine it with the theory of relativity, quantum mechanics and the disconcerting uncertainty principle, suspend your disbelief, and reality takes a twist, opening the door to infinity, which in relation to the variable i is one hell of a loopy concept.
The unpredictability of u and i is innate, nothing is what it seems, and i can’t always get what i wants.
Did you know that if u travelled at the speed of light, u would be everywhere? Sounds like a wet dream.
If i moves toward u, halving the distance with each step, i will touch infinity when i touches u. But since infinity is undefined, if i keeps meeting u half way, and u never moves, i would never reach u. In reality, if i ever did touch u, it was only in i’s mind. Either way, i will be reaching for u forever.
As directed by u, i has taken a flying leap, and i made it quantum.
What would happen if u and i did all of this at the speed of light? Could i figure out a way to use the word ‘ephemeral’?
If you divide i into u, we equal one. Infinity divided by infinity equals one. Substituting one, for i into u, means that each of u and i equals infinity. On the other hand, infinity less infinity equals zero. Or, u and i less u equals zero. Ultimately, u and i equal infinity, only when u and i are together. It’s axiomatic. No wonder i feels so empty. Infinity to zero in the blink of an eye.
Disappointment = infinity – u.
How will i ever accept that the function (u,i) is invalid?
If i and u keep dividing in two, i would live forever, without u. (That’s a thought and a half. No wonder bacteria are so smart.)
In this event, the eternity of i would not be a desired outcome.
The probability given x (that if i owns three dogs), and y (one will cough up somewhere in the house on any given day) is now the same as the probability of u puking all over i.
The chances of u are infinite. The chances that i met u before are infinite. The chances of u puking all over me are infinite.
The only three tests i ever failed were statistics, physics and u. A multiple choice test with infinite choices of u, means i had no chance of guessing right.
Is the function (u,i) a valid combination in any possibility?
The derivatives of the function (u, i) are infinite. The combinations of u and i are infinite. The permutations of our combinations equal the function of the derivatives of u and i, unless they’re gay.
Every choice i make is the exponential birth of the exponential growth of infinite other choices. What a computation. Imagine the implications.
i could spend eternity trying to determine where i went wrong.
If we could take a statistically valid sample of planets in the universe to see if life existed, then the results would probably conclude with 95% confidence that life does not exist. So, statistically speaking, u and i don’t exist, and all of this is irrelevant.
Chances are I’m wrong. As i shrinks to less than one, exponentially, the probability is infinitely greater than 100%.
Because of u, the cosmic force of the function of us is inert.
These computations are profound, as is my desperation.
u might question my rationale, but statistics can be used to prove anything.
There is no wind. No light. Nothing to hold in this barren ergosphere.
There’s a dead boy on the other side. At least I think he’s dead.
Buckled under the weight of self-loathing and denial.
Smothered out his light.
He is a dark star.
In this dark event of my singular end, I remain forever suspended.
I invented this lonely space, between.
I cannot go forward. I don’t know who I am.
And there is no road back to the light.
There are some effects from which we cannot run.
Shiny knick-knacks hover, just beyond the horizon.
They tantalize my margins.
Others, less fortunate, cross the line.
I cannot live on borrowed suns – the darkness takes them in.
Past and present tangle in this impossibility.
I am unravelled.
To thwart this continuum I must confront my reality.
Could I cross the line? Embrace the me that was to be?
Perhaps, on the other side of darkness,
there is another space,
another time,
a universe
for me?
It can be brittally cold on the prairies.
Mind breaking.
Heart sticking to the road kind of cold.
Cold enough to crack your soul.
Today, in the heart of the bible belt, it is snowing, the wind is blowing.
The cold snow whistles round and over the winding windrows.
Ghostly angels form and fade.
I stumble in the dim glow of the orange streetlight.
Hollowed and trodden, my hope is scraped into grimy piles of snow, crusted and brown; then scooped away onto infected mountains that take until July to thaw down to festering piles of salt and sand.
The insular nights seep bleakly into each other.
The hateful cold is entrenched, I fear.
Summer’s promise no longer warms the bashed and weary heart of my soul.
The lonely alleys beckon – a permafrost to quench this cruel faith.
My chilled heart slows, then stops dead,
frozen solid in the shadows of a prairie god.
“Wow, what a trip! That was even better than the last one. Did I win?”
I look over at the huge screen, hanging high above the audience. My score flashes up. One thousand, three hundred and ninety seven. The crowd roars. I can’t believe it. It’s the highest score ever. What a life. I raise my arms in the air and cheer. Then suddenly, the crowd is silent. Something’s wrong.
I look back at the screen. In big flashing red letters is the unthinkable word –
DISQUALIFIED. Disqualified? How could I be disqualified? I know all the rules. I didn’t break any rules. I spent lifetimes on this. To lose it all because of some stupid rule. It’s not possible. This can’t be.
I look up again. In smaller letters, “Violation of rule #1,723,489,277”. Ah ha, I say. It is a mistake. I open my rule book and confirm what I already know. There are in fact only 1,723,489,276 rules. I yell at the judges, “This is a mistake. Your systems have malfunctioned. Rule #1,723,489,277 does not exist.”
The youngest judge on the panel rises. His image, one of a very old man. He raises his arms to calm the audience. Then he speaks:
“My dear son, rule #1,723,489,277 most definitely does exist. We created it just the other day, in anticipation of your return.”
“This is nonsense!” I scream. “You cannot change the rules in the middle of the game.”
“We most certainly can,” replied the judge. “Refer to rule #809: Any player with an unfair advantage can be disqualified in accordance with rule #11, by a majority vote of the judging panel.”
“I did not have an unfair advantage, and I certainly did not cheat!” I yell. “I discovered my purpose, I pursued my purpose, and I achieved my purpose. I made a positive difference to the lives of six trillion, four hundred and two billion, nine hundred and fifty five million, three thousand, seven hundred and sixty one life forms, earning me the unprecedented bonus of one thousand points.”
“All that is true.” Replied the judge. “However, rule #1,723,489,277 states: A player’s primary objective is to achieve their purpose, except when that purpose is to find God. For if the player with such an objective achieved this purpose, they would become conscious of the fact they were playing a game, thereby acquiring an unfair advantage over all other players, and therefore, such a player must be disqualified.”
“I see.” I say.
The judge continues. “Being the benevolent bunch that we are, we understand that the consequences to you can be perceived as quite harsh. Therefore, this panel has honoured your name by declaring rule #1,723,489,277 the Jesus Rule.”