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June 2025
Our Novels
June 26, 2025
With the glow of street lights and the rocket pop stained-glass sun catcher now dimly holding back the night settling in, I remember something so many miles away. Lifetimes away. It lays in the rubble of yesterday upon yesterday. So far. Out of reach. Wine glass read. Memory like a book. The novel is worn under its cover. Pages torn. Water damaged, musty and crinkled. This is what life is. Well lived in and almost worn out in spots. The photographs faded. It's from a country where youth leaves quickly when they can, and the old are left behind. Unattended, and unknown. Alone as the sun sets and the sky gives its body to the moon.
The Passing Miles
June 25, 2025
Snap judgment and drive off leaving it all behind mirror crack face never looking back blinded by sound shotgun rider BANG cut through the windshield and off they go. Crash and smash into the night highway with asphalt kisses against skin full speed empty save for the headlight awakening hi-vis eyes on the roadside winking guiding you on well outside the city limits where the past gets smaller and smaller mile by mile. Goodbye mirrors and shotguns. Farewell and don't wait up. I'm not coming back home.
Jonah Disappears Inside Walls
June 24, 2025
Your lips have been redacted, and speak no more about it. The rest are left to wonder as to what it was, but you won't tell. You know better than to give out secrets. The storm rages in your mind, and you know not to give warning that the roads are washed out and the bridge crumbled. The village becomes inhabited by ghosts who roam not knowing they're ghosts. You don't know you are, either. The way you drift residually from room to room like a wisp of threads forming slightly your form as you disappear into walls that were never there before, as you go about your business. This is what it's like to be addicted. You left your human body back in Winnipeg. It lies on a bed somewhere in an apartment. No food but a fridge full of liquor, and you astral project outside yourself to haunt every part of the place you were when you were not dependent. When you were free from this and what made you spiral down.
The Arrival
June 23, 2025
We could collide, and you could strip me of my strangerhood. Make me familiar to love and earth to sky. Ignite music through the silence of my wilderness. The pine trees shrouded in mist you burn it away with heat and light giving me visionary discipline. How can I be so lude to shame myself against your ethereal gaze. I bargain with fire before you to cleanse the dirty off my feathers, to make me pure enough to join you in flight. Then I will be a staircase climber during your nights, when the traffic is quiet and the citizens are asleep. I will walk the stone steps with my shirt open - a graceful offering for your swan sigh moan that I stir in the protection of your chest alabaster and heartbeat warmth.
The Act Of Burning
June 22, 2025
I held your hand on the edge of the flight of the electrical sky, streaks of sonic sound blasting through trees and igniting our flesh like a candle. We are wicks waiting to burn. Cast our light over this darkness that falls tonight on a city that is aflame and scorched under dark. Wildfire fast and wind fed fury. Destruction of ourselves in the rubble aftermath of corpses of trees burned down to the bone, and birds pick through what is left of their homes as we do with ours. They have less to lose than us. They don't hold possessions, as memory grips them in a state of hoarding things to make ourselves feel good and look good to others. Society cellmate and jail bait bank card cash. It's gone. How does it make you feel? Mournful or free? Hopefully the latter. The sky birds fly away to new hope. We stay devastated to the spot. No hope to replace what's lost. Our feathers too scorched to fly away.
Star Splatter
June 21, 2025
It's in your eyes, just in the corner of them, I see star splatter caught like glued on glitter dust from a child's drawing hanging on an elementary school wall. An innocent masterpiece. Ignored by high art but admired by the silent viewer who weeps into their pillow at night, whose heart is full of soul. That's what and who matters, after all. Beauty is not common. It only comes out in the imperfect, and the plastic manufactured lays by the wayside in walmart parking lots. Gazed upon by the mindless magazine faced watchers of trash TV. You pass uninfected. Graceful as the moon on a rippling lake. A swan among featherless pigeons who pick at the garbage cans and fight with the seagulls who out number. I am a poet, not the best one to capture you and mold you from word-clay with my novice pen and yet this is my only way to describe the star dust splatter of your eyes - two sapphires which haze down, under the weight of wine in the humid evening summer air. The sunlight dipping down over the harbour horizon, tracing its last finger down your face before night comes.
It's A Joke
June 20, 2025
jail broken earth - sky crashed wheel to head neck broke for cash hectic fast city whirl like the smile on a pretty girl who has a tornado on her inner landscape locked land locked her boy drowned in sand quick quick slow quick slow death down inside swallowed up puking mud with teeth confetti sprinkles on chocolate cake pearl white toothache in sweetness slaps silence of mute words silence spoken loudly against street light seeker surveillance blocked by dark first outside your blind spot taken down down the street ignore the DO NOT ENTER sign it means nothing go ahead DO IT blue shock collar job at work and work and work until your back breaks and your bank account is broke it's a joke laugh LAUGH they want you to they command you to
OBEY
Late afternoon thoughts in the fog
June 19 2025
Blackened corpse clouds rip the sky as they pass by on a late afternoon full of cinnamon spiced earth box of treasures vintage and tarnished brass plated. 1000 stories comes into the mind at the slight touch with fingertip brush, soft as the atmosphere's breath. Sigh soft in the ear, gentle pleasure so rough and pure. Clouds keep their tales secret. They speak only to sun and moon when their lights are on. I kiss deeply, taste his galaxy tongue. Drink the essence of him - the extension of the cinnamon earth as he steps out of the box. WE don't own anything we did not make ourselves. I made nothing and own nothing. You are the same. We only own ourselves and even that is debatable, here in the late afternoon with the now fog towing behind it the evening.
Sleeping On Waves
June 18, 2025
Audio static murmurs crackle sparks of distant lightening that happens further out over water and far over the ocean. I crashed into the bed, listening to the far off stations at the end of the day. Languages as vast as the music styles. Companions through the rainy night exotic and familiar caught between station speeches just off dial like EVP voices not quite coming through clearly from the ghost world. I imagine the DJs in their small booths, coffee next to them, dim lighting illuminated only by the equipment glows of dials and monitors. They're unaware of my presence here, an acknowledged eavesdropping here as I sleepily drift on their voice and music all night until morning.
Letting Go
June 17, 2025
The box in the corner of the living room is full and waiting in the hallway next to the front door. It's full of useless mementos of ghost photographs and empty candy boxes with plastic flowers glued on them, smelling faintly of dusty old cardboard and chocolate. You turn to the mirror across from you. It's empty. You either lost sight or lost yourself. The sun drops too fast from the sky, like a time-lapse film. You sleep on the sofa as shadows start to creep up your legs to cover your face, but you wake up before that happens. Make a coffee, and smoke a cigarette as you look through the lace curtains to the back door. You wait for the memento box in the hallway to be claimed by the donation takers, and you can finally stop nailing your heart to a brass cross on a hill that is gray and windy every night.
Kissing A Memory
June 16, 2025
The musty old record plays even with a scratch in it. I don't know why, but it does. I perch the needle on the song that pulls me back to the time when you were alive, and we would dance like fools around the living room of your old apartment until we collapse into each other laughing. That laugh, I swear, haunts this record. You are heard behind the notes, dancing under the veil of sound and light. Your hair, a black blizzard of raven feathers, whirling around you like a tornado. I kissed your strawberry lips in my memory and let you dance forever in the rain of music notes.
Over Coffee
June 15, 2025
Your name is mute. I can't speak it except in poetry, which it gets buried deep within symbols and drunk on the liquor of language. It can't help itself sometimes, and I believe it escapes my lips as I sleep. Your name then curls up like a cat on my pillow, dreaming next to me until it vanishes in the wash of morning light. I hold my pen like I hold my tongue. I won't speak your name in writing but save the precious word to speak in your ear some day when we are in a city where the sun and moon hold hands in the sky together, and a vein of a cloud opens up to sprinkle rain on the ground sounding like a million heart pulses. Let's get a coffee so I can finally say your name. It has to be set free from page lined cage and leap out of my mouth in sound breaking through mutism.
Stillness
June 14, 2025
The black dots of birds flocked-coiled in the air as if whirling on little marionette strings blowing around in the wind, swirling so far in the light gray sky until vanishing like a mirage over the building. Confetti for the evening writing piece that all day I struggled to find the perfect words or perfect images that can speak a story in images, but nothing is really speaking to me today. I guess it's okay. Sometimes it's good to be silent - even creativity as to sit calm in silence sometimes. The evening sun finally comes out of a cloud only to go to bed in an hour, but it's also just sitting silent this evening, enjoying the world around it. Not saying much today but calming observing me, and me observing it.
Night Drive
June 13, 2025
Sometimes the need to go on long drives comes to me, especially at night, where it's dark except for the glow of the dashboard and the travelling cast of street lights moving from front to back seat. The music on low playing a Tom Waits ballad playlist, or just the sound of CBC radio DJ playing some late night jazz, speaking sleepily into the mic. The sky looks like it moves when you drive. Like the outer rim of a rolling ball. It's hard to tell sometimes if you are driving towards or away from the stars, but the best part is when it looks like the moon is riding shotgun. It sings like Tom Waits about blind love and smuggling whiskey into midnight diners. There's a ghost in my back seat, coming along for the ride. He looks like you. We smile at each other in the rearview mirror like we know some inside secret between us.
Little Street Crow
June 12, 2025
She stood there in the shattered glass of freezing rain, wondering which way to go in her drunken haze. Which road will lead me home? What really does "home" mean? She can't remember what direction "home" is. It sure isn't anywhere that has her mother in it. Someone is yelling her name, followed by expletives. RUN! Run through the backstreets, forget about home right now, just run until you are out of their sights. Hunters look for prey as small as you! Run faster child! Make your way to the darkness of the park, where you can be part of the shadows there.
"Some day," she whispers, out of breath. Far in the back part of the park, where the bushes' leaves glint like silver razor blades in the distant street light. She's in all black. They don't see her.
"Some day," she whispers again, "I will not run. I will be as strong and tough as black iron. They don't know it, but I am an evolving animal whose wings are growing stronger and bigger under this leather jacket. Soon I'll be strong enough to fly out of this place. Higher than the hunters can reach me. I will find home again. They never catch me. Watch me now!"
Poetry In Tongues
June 11, 2025
There's no more poetry that can speak in tongues and know who you are within context of afternoon perfume of lilac deaths and birth of electrical wires connecting to touch our minds fingertips together and invisible soul hand enclose and I make a grave of distance under a tree, bury the miles for us to play guitar, drive around late into the night listening to music find a little space to curl into under a tree. I can feel your breath along with it, in tune, and comforting as the houses in the distance with their pipe smoking chimneys lacing the air cool and smoky.
I'm Never A Victim
June 10, 2025
The city was so big it was smothering, so I kicked down some walls to make room to breathe. The city is loud and fast, but I am louder, and I can outrun it. I knew every artery of the city's downtown core. All the places to hide into and cut through like I was a knife through the skin of the city coming straight at the heart of it. It was never going to crush my bones. I knew the best corridors to sleep in, and escape the rain. I knew where to climb up into and hide when things got too rough. It pays to be nimble and small. I was like a small animal who knew how to hide in the night from predators. Street wise old woman at 18. A bird that flew from its nest too soon. I knew I would learn to fly if I really had to. Fear makes you do the unbelievable, like the woman who finds the strength to move a car out of the way of a train to save her children. I know how to save myself when things are hard. I know I'm tough as nails. Iron strong shell, so the soft inside can't be harmed. Ever!
Flowing Under Ice
June 9, 2025
We both flow like water flows downward, and I move down you, limited by body but not spirit. I share my spirit electricity with you, like lightening in the night sky with the roar of the thunder after. The ice melt and flow of liquid under its glass. I am that to you. River under ice under you and I melt in the ice blue twin moon of your eyes and I would rather drown in this than live on the surface separated from this rhythm of water and moon give and take. Here when we both flow in unison. Crystal clear water reflecting the sterling silver flashes of lightening through the dark blue sky.
Dreaming While Awake
June 8, 2025
Snail lace silk gleam on stone fences that vines climb up like fingers to reach to the top to lift itself up to the sunlight warmth this afternoon when the humid air lays sleepily over the city in lazy heat. I dream on the steps, looking over the street scene, with snippets of conversations wave in and out of the people strolling like slice of life snapshots. Something of apple in the air comes by, crisp against the thick air. I am taken back to the crab apple trees that grew along the sides of the trail between two houses on my way to school as a child. Too sour to eat, but fun to throw. The scent so crisp on September mornings. I remember the letters at the top of the chalk board, colourful and cheerful animals in glitter around the room hanging from the ceiling like they are flying over head. I snap back to present day. My coffee is empty. I go inside and feel the cool soothe of the air conditioner on this slow Sunday evening, too hot for outside dreaming.
The Act Of Giving And Taking Breath
June 7, 2025
There is not much left once the dogs take what's theirs. Wash it off in the river and eat the leftovers. Static fills your eyes and pours out like an overturned wine glass, distorting the world around you. You get to your knees and howl in a heated fog of breath in the cold air. You are no better than the scavengers you shoot at. You hate your own kind. You now have to make amends with the mud. Its fingers fill your mouth, pulling you down in a drowning ritual. You are brought back home to the soil and become a nest for the worms to curl up in, so they can sleep and dream of catching their breaths tomorrow on the surface level, as you lose yours in return.
To A Lover
For S.T
June 6, 2025
Let me be the flame over you that ignites your night, save you from burning too far but push you just enough with gentle domination. You are too sober. I am the honeyed liquor, and whatever is broken is healed. I pull your reins off you. You are fully free. Not held back or restrained. You're empty in your strangerhood and become a jewel created from the ashes, blue and glittering. A stone beast, newly ancient and awoken. You know how to move the moon, and move me along the moon's pull, to feed my flame to scorch to soothe you. I am fire and you are air. We feed each other and entwine and separate, only to crash back into each other as you drown in my fire wave. We have no need for chains. We are linked in our freedom. When you need fire, you always return to burn away the ache.
The radio plays on under the moon
June 5, 2025
The night is as quiet as a silent 2am phone call, only a song playing low on the shortwave, and your Babylon kiss and sapphire eye glimmer that cuts through the night in the dim room's corner. Come here. Unravel me. I love how you smell like rain on stone. The moon gleams over your shoulder with an opulent glow like a spotlight. Daytime you is past history. Night you is my favourite you, all wrapped in black velvet, and you press into my French silk like iron, steel sheen glistening in the ever watching moon's eye through the window across the room by the radio where the night DJ plays another record.
Sun Streaks
June 4, 2025
Consider it a new habit to look at the sun, and sun floating seeing through spots of light streaks over eye lenses like scratches. You see it now in the dark if you close your eyes. It's there. Spots of light. Though the sun is here, the wind of this place is cold and eats through the sun. It's the sea's fault as it swallows boats whole in the distance. I speak to the fish, they know the future and consult wise oracles in old shopping carts now covered in seaweed like winding fingers pulling them into the soil. The ivory swans don't go here. The eels snap them. The shells cracked and left blank blood over rocks that they scatter in. I look to the sun again. I instruct you to do the same. Spider vein light streaks the sky and our eyes. We both go blind.
Thoughts On A bike Commute
June 3, 2025
Oil breaks the water slick rainbow on black pavement. I slice through it with my bike tire like cake icing swish through the urban scene where people cough covid statistics and home sick cars lack out warnings from their radio mouths air raid siren howls out the windows warning us of what? Everything. Everything is a warning these days. Should I be more afraid than I am? Maybe. But I figure if a bomb was going to hit us, I have no control over stopping it. I can control how I react. Take a deep breath, count from 10 to 1, then put on my sunglasses for the fluff of mushroom clouds. Death is quick by fear eats one away slowly until you become the host for the fear parasite, spreading it everywhere. No news casting fear sensationalizer, or politician will take my joy. In this economy, joy is all we can really own.
Reaching The Shore
June 2, 2025
Like an ocean splashing itself against the jagged rocks full force in a storm, I crash over you and under you, either way it's an awakening each time to my eyes that open to view you like this moon entity both alien and familiar and milk white against the black velvet of night silken mist air. You are fleeting. Like a candle flame in a storm. The same storm that had me crash into your shore. I was never a lost child, others only assumed I was. I knew where I was going. I knew it was somewhere just beyond this road. To a place by the ocean. Where I was to listen for fish voices and collect shells that could whisper the future if I listened hard enough. The mermaids told me of you. They knew your love. They advised me to carry a larimar if I needed to swim away from you fast. But I fell into you, ocean to earth, and I lost my knowledge of how to breathe underwater.
The Poet's Pen
June 1, 2025
I feel I can't write poetry anymore. I give up on language that gives up on me. The pen is empty, though the ink is full. I write for no one, but I hope everyone will read it. The Poet is always a contradiction to them and everyone else as well. So how can the pen in their hand know what to even write? How can it take control? It's obvious. It moves on as possessed by automatic writing guided by spirits or moves on alone like a nomad across the paper, determine to make something of itself. The sun now sets outside the window. The light shifts on the journal's paper, changing the words contrasting meaning and shape. It takes on something far away from what the pen wrote. The page has the last say. The mouth of the journal closes and silence falls over the room. The poet reaches for another sip of wine. Looks to the water and dreams of what could be on the other side of it. The sun drops like a coin into a slot over the ocean's horizon. The journal of the poet's eyes close and they dream of one day being independant from pen and paper.
Go back to the top of the page.
May 2025
For A Horse
May 31, 2025
Empty scenery with no image background is laid bare on the ground in the mud. Your back bent too much, and it breaks and points to the sky like a finger points as a point is to be made, but nothing is said by you. A dark, faded mark of a chain that was around your ankles whispers your tale of whom owned you before, and you now struggle to function free. No one calls you idle as you run into the imageless backgrounds of wind and blank white sky fog veil with veins of lightening snapping in the distance cutting it like wet icing. You are manic in your freedom. It's too much for your senses to take. You soon ache for ownership to tie you down at her side. You can't function without it. But do not come to my side, placing your chain in my hand or displaying your snapped break bone skyward. You have to learn to run free. I will not claim you wild horse. I only want you for a night ride over the background where sterling silver streaks the sky and rain pools in your collar bone like a small goblet for me to drink from.
Ride The Waves
May 30, 2025
Zap out of it the electrical wave new waves through mind and ear around the radio waves in the air waves of sea of riding wave currents continental shift over the ocean to cross wires to you and the moon connection sweeps us like arms towards it. You said that the moss on the rocks tell you how to remove yourself from the forest safely. You taught me that. You knew the earth well. Understood currents and waves, and we were nothing but fish in the eyes of God. I spoke to you with language bathed in lilac breath perfumes which smells sweeter at wilting passing. The night conceals it and we both go to sleep with the summer.
Zero
Flip back the paper clock ripping numbers down to double zero, round zero, like two eyes, round like life's circle and representing nothing - zero - empty - silence within that circle and if you dare speak, do it wisely as it will echo back to you. No silence here, unfortunately. No zeros keeping silence in the sky, where helicopters patrol their daily exercises, slightly vibrating the house and birds protesting in the blue vastness. Even the clouds are sighing too loud today as they scrape across the sky in grinding crunch and droning. Shut up! All of you! Do like time does at it's zero spacers at the hours when everything stops to take a breath for a minute until it flips to 01.
The Silent Tale
May 28, 2025
Don't speak like that. Speak without words. Locks need to shatter to open up the door. When you are ready, step through and empty your wallet of the picture that fades along the centre where someone who stands over you watching, perhaps in the room when you read this. Close this! Keep it as secret as a kiss that I gave you when you were deep in my milky river, and your eyes were heavy with dreaming. You better empty that from your eyes and not wear me on your body as you leave my doorway. It's loud outside here, and you need to hold onto this tale and especially how it ends. Hold onto its words underneath of silence.
Wanting The Lights To Turn On
May 27, 2025
Who is that person who looks like you in a plain coffin laying in the beautiful memory of pain, and the telephone calls that failed to reach out and connect. Two daughters who burned into the walls as shadow ghosts who will flicker like dark flames out of the corner of our eyes in quiet afternoons when we think we are alone. The wet earth was dug a mouth to swallow you up. You are part of a wind racked field. I look at the open sky with its shutters drawn and the light off, indicating nobody is home right now. I walk back down the road, turning back in hopes, I see a light flick on in your window.
New God
May 26, 2025
We are like corpses, dressed in robes of eternal dreams. These days are slow time movements of wall clocks we dream in reverse but hour hands pull us forward embraced and encased in awakening moon phases where we race towards it like little moths who never really make it all the way to the light that they mistake for God's face. I turn towards you so placed against tree backgrounds vague edges of night birds within who hide in non-sight of shadows and dark sky who don't fly but keep watch as the city sleeps all wine empty sadness within dream landscapes until sun pulls the shutters of eyes to the golden arms to brush off the remanence of dreams from the corner of eyes like too much glitter over glue from a child's homemade cards. Your eyes take on the night with their blue electricity laser emanating and focused on me, so drowsy and deep. Blue lapis set in opal shimmering stones. You know how to me weak a little when you smile in the night porch moonlight where moths mistake you for their new god.
Connection
May 25, 2025
Stone maul the poem of ice encasing rock and plant lost moment of warmth to melt you melt and liquify me with a touchless touch empty but whole and invisible but touchable locked and key defence I'm under and over at the same time and through you and in you and outside of you and I and you link and dial the number of the moonbeam shower to wash us in all night with no need for sheets to retreat away from the night air and nothing to take and nothing to give away just you and eye candy sweet to vision and taste hold steady now the show is about to begin against the wall cast in a spotlight of moon light and street lights through windows.
Howl Baby Howl
May 24, 2025
He's as cracked as an ice sheet fallen victim to spring. The empty bowl of his mind lost a story line and has to be filled up again with rain and weed and everything in between. Slap stick follies of the jammed parking meter, walking canes in between cars like metal children who play with your time. He comes out of the apartment building all Drugstore Cowboy swagger stance hotter than a dumpster fire and wild like a rabid stray dog on his last chance to live. Hey baby, he howls at the moon over the city nightlife that flat lines 7am every Monday morning coffee black rush hour hangover.
Lion Heart Crush
May 23, 2025
I fell into your wounded shot gun shot socket eyes and your whiskey tough mouth that would sell up any dream for a fuck off the lights love you wild roaring lion in my bed you never could tame this lion tamer whip crack smack you with morning light. I let you off your leash, and you let me off mine and we both ran into the highway free into the on coming traffic at full stop crash and burning up to ashes that I let the wind blow me away like a crematorium in a tornado to carry me miles and miles away from here. Goodbye, you cowardly lion.
A Picnic For Sleeping Animals
May 22, 2025
I want to become the endless light where you are so you can feel safe walking the dangerous hills and tame the wolves that snarl at your feet. Your body has no new graves dug for it, and I will promise to feed desire like it has an open throat to sew back up the blood that weeps. We both dance like light in the mind and dark in the sun. When you go to sleep on the grass and I sit beside you watching the sun through the leaves trickle down in fluttering splashes across your jaw. I roll over in this comfortable dirt and sleep beside you like two nomads with no home, but our home is within the arms of each other. Empty glasses of wine and discarded bread for the squirrels and birds. The perfume of wildflower heads that shake in the breeze. Your beating centre keeps the seconds moving when we wake to the sound of barking dogs.
Evening At The Harbour
May 21, 2025
Lights twinkle over the harbour and the city sparkles in the water when the people here empty themselves of ache that paves the sidewalks so full of thoughts and rhythm of feet beats moved to a new location is what I heard from the window's gossip that the café closed, and the chairs perched on table tops like upside down birds with feet in the air stiff with death. A saxophone drive-by car makes a sacrifice to my ears and a liar out of silence, breaking its soft light-as-air membrane to splash its heart on the cross of the church down the street who prays for all our sins as plastic Jesus looks on sleepy eyed and hungry.
The Mercy Cage
May 20, 2025
Within a skeletal cage of mercy, I draw in a breath and exhale, exiled valentine's of the old-fashioned kind to the rose buds and moss. They have hunted down the poetess. The final closure of rhythm words in a book, falling silent as the brook that no longer babbles like Yates. I exposed myself naked in verses for all the world to see. I stand proud in my nudity until I shone like a glowing ghost against the night shift world. The cobalt shadows at your ankles like a shackle binding you to ordinary life. Hey, stop hunting me and come live with me, in bohemique fashion. Be free in this mercy cage. Be free to be free with me. The sea will whisper the final tale to the stars that someone like me, and you, could exist as one under moss and sand. You be the clothing to my nudity. I am the nude for your desire and word art. It's soon to be dawn now. Let's cover up with moss and sleep until the moon rises again.
To Know A Stranger
(I wronte less then 5 minutes for this one beacause I love how it sounded within only 2 mintues left.)
May 19, 2025
I kicked out the windscreen and went through the glass head first, and crashed into the solitude from violence when silence starts and noise ends. Where you lost sight of me, and I of you, and we pass just as two strangers on the other side of the moon, where we turn opposite directions and not look back at each other. Yesterday no longer exists with us in it. It's a landscape of where you can never find footing to walk upon, so feel the concrete stability now in the NOW that there's no more yesterdays and the moon has no more shadow and I lost your name in an old phone book that only lists disconnected numbers.
Animal Connections
May 18, 2025
It's hard to let go when you want something to live on forever. You are in your sunset. Soon, night will take over, and you will vanish into the shadows, leaving me to wonder if being with you for years was just a dream that I awoke from. But I know you were there. The pain is real and tears can't lie. Sadly, life is a package that we will love and suffer the loss. It's what happens. So it's the reason we have to love with all our power and never hold back. Experience the most beautiful, unconditional love of a pet, and know that a new pet will love us, and we will love them just as much. It's so hard to put into words the connection between us as the soul of a beloved pet. The loss hurts, but the beauty of the love we experience makes it all worth the heartbreak.
Walking In Dreams
May 17, 2025
I will always fall into a dream of lilac scents and chimney smoke streets cool on the air and rain damp concrete earthy and ozonic, where ever I am at. These are the walks that ache in nostalgia from time travelling smells that wash me from this moment to your house and your presence at the yellow table with fire place smoke coming through the window with the lilac trees outside. We would sip coffees and play poker until late into the night. Smoking a joint while listening to Brave New Waves that carried us through the night with a cool soundtrack to fill the comfortable silences and the curling smoke caught in the top of the table lamp. All of a sudden I'm back to the present walking down this evening street living on with you underground where you grow memory roots like the lightening shapes that are sparking in my mind, taking me back to a home that no longer exists.
Caught Off Guard
May 16, 2025
I don't know what to call it, but I was lost in thought on the music of birds and helicopters, when I saw your eyes inside the eye sockets of a stranger passing by who I swore was you, or you used them as a vessel to walk by inside peering out at me, lost in thoughts not of you until now. Cloud ships sail the sky and I move with them to walk a path to you and not your imposters who roam these streets or the taste of air like tea and sea and your lips that taste like wet stone that flavours my daydreams and breaks my heart strings like the strings on a trashed violin too worn to sing to you.
Me And My Shadow
May 15, 2025
If you keep the sunlight in your sights, you'll never be lost. You keep the time with your shadow, I was taught by you. The alternate shadow me, growing taller as the day fades. I knew she was a good guide. I always wondered what I would do in the nighttime, when she is no longer at my side, and where does she go? What does she do? I backed out of the doors backwards, reverse my speech to get to know her better. Alternative friend who is me but not me. Her breath absent, as there's no need for what makes humans frail. She will perish though with me. When I can no longer stand and walk or push my body to the sun like a flesh plant awakening for photosynthesis, and I uproot myself to move forward and roots make no difference to me as I know where it is I come from. Roots can be re-rooted and shadows can live again when the sunlight returns. Daylight is as sure as life is lead, time moving forward is a given. We sleep and rise until we can no longer do so. Until that time comes, stretch to the sun, and love your shadows who move in perpetual time stretching across the sidewalks into grass and rippling over rocks.
Dreamscape Tsunami
May 14, 2025
Hold yourself softly when the night takes you in and the black birds keep watch from their nests. The glass reflective stale air creations of lost dreams and corridors of dreamscape mazes you fall into and get lost in until you gasp for breath when shaken awake. You don't awake from the dream though, you fall back into it and find your way back to the main road, and you drive like hell away from mirror faced people who reflect your scream back at you. The tap drips like a heart beat keeping time to your filmstrip, majestic REM movements like a dance out of soft focus filters. The world is calm again. You smell of rain and lilacs when I met you inside the dream. I caress your jawline and whisper something to you that you don't hear, and I also forget when I wake up laying next to you. Did we dream the same dream? Did we make love in our sleep? Is this all still a dream, or are we really awake? I take a deep breath, close my eyes and go back under with you, deep in the wave of moonlight that comes like a tsunami through the window over our bed.
Sky Saws
May 13, 2025
I remember your old Ford truck and the laughs we had in that old thing. The way we would ride around all night talking about how we would rock the world, and we would park in the ballpark and I would hop on the hood and tell you stories about the stars that were little circular saws that cut through the night. We can't touch them. They will slice our fingers off. You knew how to press your hand into my chest to caress my soul, and I fell in love with you momentarily when you would say my name in my ear and I would push you away with playful fear of love. You were gone too soon. You've taken your place in the sky around those circular saws. You burned like a Phoenix who burned out. The truck's radio told the news that a boy at the corner of this and that street was shot, and his blood fed the streets cracks hungry for awakenings at his life's expense.
Soul Oil
May 12, 2025
Soul oil slick and gone opened on the road you spill tears down all the way out of this city and get on the highway out of here. Cycle fast. You can get away. Your legs are strong to run. RUN. Silence moves forward and voice takes a seat. The ace of cups falls over, and the wand is in your hand. The night breathes over your mouth and I wish it was me. It speaks in your ear it's longing, at least it does something for me without me having to say anything. I move away and be come anything, something. Move from this body to the heart of sky birds that live on clouds and talk to god. I hear the buzz of the world below, and it makes no sense to me to go back. But I do for you. Just to see you smile makes everything worth it in the end. The way the sun flicks flames in your hair and the forest mingles with your cologne. We are lovers of a different level. Something far past flesh and orgasm. It's sky violins and earth bass line soul. Soul oil slick and slide into the arms of each other like children. Laugh as though we never held someone before. This is playtime between two fabulous animals that are too good for the human world.
You Were There
May 11, 2025
Old newspaper print is out of print time function without your story in it. I asked the street's oldest buildings if they remember you coming by here - they do not. The library once contained your soul, but it got lost in the change over from card to digital. The homeless men begging only remember shoes and not faces, so they didn't know. I know you were here. Your name rhymes with many things and lives in the breaths of bird songs and taxi cab door slams at noon time. My pictures have you in their frames, as does my heart. You walked along these streets, sat on those stone steps, setting off dreams to air.
I am a Woman
May 10, 2025
I am armour soft and sensually tough, open your mouth and take me into your words and I will open up and swallow you life giver - earth shaker. I am a taker and a giver and I take you and give you away, velveteen and oil mixed wet slick sick of time that runs out, let's wind the arms back and back in my arms I nurture and dominate gently and speak poetry through desired breaths and I hex in a low hiss. A man can't create alone, you need me to give it life, here on one hand is a dove and the other a sword. Give or take. I can do both. I can play like a little girl and I can fuck like a slut. You choose which. You better choose wisely. Brew hex you in twine wrapped heart cut bleeding on my apple I bite it and spit it in the face of snakes, and grow life from the seeds. I will take your rib and create the universe with it in my image. Give it a name so it can breathe. I can kneel to you, down past your stomach, until the earth and I are one entity. The vines grow over my thighs and around my curves. Moss in my mouth, and I topple you like a dictator's monument in protest in one movement. I am a queen and a witch. I am an angel and a whore. I am a life giver and life taker. I can fight with love and I can fight with war. I am mother and daughter. Sister and teacher. Lover and robber. I am hard and graceful. I am a woman.
Against The Wind
May 9, 2025
Trees shiver in the wind this evening and candles blow out of existence, so we have to navigate through the dark. But we're not afraid. We've been here before and seen those monsters in the darkness before. We know how to run. Our legs are strong, and our bravery powerful. We have been known to run all night long until the sun lights our way, and we get out of here. You can't catch us. We're too fast for you. We don't shiver in the cold wind like trees. We don't need candles to see. We run defiantly against the wind. We don't ever slow down. You can't catch us. I dare you. Go ahead and try. When you look at us, we vanish in the speed. You'll never catch up.
Mothering Time
May 8, 2025
Time, what have you brought to me today? What brings you here to my lap to lay your head down and have me nurture you YOU you who are what turns my age, and calls me in the night when I think my breath had stopped to find it was just a dream. The heart beat of you throughout the seconds, moving me forward throughout the day. Why does your tears gloss my thigh now? What has happened? Please don't run away and speed up, slow down. Take it easy. Come here and let me hold you for a moment. Just to take a moment to stand still. Quiet. Now that the sun sleeps and I weep for you in place of you, and what you lost and what the fear of moving forward can bring to this world. I'll take this weariness off your shoulders until you can stand strong again. Let me move for you while you rest. Let me be the one who bares your burden for you until you finished your crying.
The Swans
May 7, 2025
The swans march gracefully through the gardens with dignified elegance that peacocks envy and pigeons scorn. They know they are special and know their value as they walk around the water lilies as we coo in hushed murmurs as they walk past. Little spirits of the garden, ghost birds. Eyes like black glass seed beads like black onyx shards on pure white cotton snow faces. They step into the pond like little tissue paper birds made with the most delicate fingers until they blend into the fog like spectors more ethereal than earth bound birds. Gallant and royal we lower our eyes as the regaly walk past. Unworthy and silent breathless.
Walk Away
May 6, 2025
The queen who you walk beside. Does she know where your feet travel to? The locked door keeps your secret, and the scent of her fades as you walk alone. The crows know where you fly to. They know you come to my door, for conversation and coffee, looking for more. The smile betrays your mind. I know what you want. I watched you checking the clock. I watched you watch me and I fill your coffee cup and put on another record, as you speak to me about films like you are making love to me. I nod and watch the clock and the crow outside the window. As the evening fades, your time is up. Walk away. Walk away. For all three of our sakes.
May 5, 2025 (No writing piece because of a sick day)
Lost For Words
May 4, 2025
I am at a loss as to what to write this evening. Staring down at the white void that is bringing no inspiration or language to me. I think of the week of gray skies and the lack of sun and usually rain sparks reflective creativity, but not this evening. My mind is as dull as the sky, and my mind drains down like rain to leave an empty space. I suppose emptiness is good for meditation and focus, but there's no focus here. Just aching to write something - anything that could be worthy to be on paper. Nothing leaks from these fingers. No ink. No words. No thoughts. An empty zen of sorts, that is too unmotivated to bother with enlightenment. Maybe I'm tired, maybe I'm missing someone, or maybe I'm in a creative stand-still I can't walk out of right now. Either way, you have to write something, anything, to keep at least the smallest spark alive to prove you are alive.
Carried Away Wishes
May 3, 2025
Cat groan can clank and scatter out of a backyard through the fence and down the street looking for the food of destiny and coming up empty. There is a hum from the shipyards of workers on the night shift, fuelled by light and coffee and the cool air of a Spring night off the water. Something is turning in the harbour's heart, The song of the city both word and note empty. Moving over closer to the edge, I see flickers of surface fish close to the tops of the murky water, like the answers coming up in a magic 8-ball, shimmering in the street light like little wishing coins before the pull your dreams back down to the depths with them, to hide your wishes away between rock and trash on the floor.
Past Now and Future
May 2, 2025
Grey blue and white ripple sky like torn cotton coming to a close over my eyes plucked with poverty of you and the fingers I have ached to the bone for your hand inside them. But they are as empty as a nighttime street in a sleepy town that nobody locks their doors and go to bed at 9pm. Time makes beggars out of everyone. Begging for what's past, begging to know the future, begging to live in the now and forget all the bullshit. My skull is time's planter that it whispers seeds of optimism for its future and slams the ache of the past with a pulling of roots that need to be weeded out. I look down at my empty hands. Empty of you. Empty of time and wonder who will make them wealthy again in the future. What is his name and how will he find his way into my hands? He's coming though, and he's just a soul's breath around the corner.
Laying Down Dreams
May 1, 2025
Sometimes I get too ahead of myself and perch my dreams on your lips long before nighttime brings R.E.Mmmmmmm I am a woman dying of thirst for a man who is dying of hunger. We are moving through the streets frantic with rain, and you're calling an Uber to get us back to your place to drip my name from your mouth in tongues and the skipping record is left unattended, for a while at least. Lost in fur locked away and inside dream deep and let it move you through the rest of the night as I lull you speaking French in your ear, the streets humming a tune of lazy cars and trucks on their destination out of town to somewhere away from here, chasing their own dreams, maybe. But mine are safe in my mind and emptied on your mouth glossed glistening in the street light through the window from outside, stretching its back onto the floor to touch the table legs.
April 2025
The Path Of Dandelions
April 30, 2025
Wrapped in lace curtains which are as yellow stained as aged sunlight, you drift so mesmeric over grass so green that emeralds blush. The lake in the distance of you that has water from the past where the devil would speak from the depths of it called you back home, at least the riots stopped and fire is used for cooking and making love in, and not destruction words do that now. Sustained ink that scribbles life locked in words inside a book that is torn at the cover so you can't see the title anymore, so you have to make it up. So I must say quickly before I go, that whoever reads that book will know the story of me and you and that lake that slipped us back in time for a full summer. Dust of dandelions float buy showing us the direction the air is moving. Let's go that way.
The Story Of Two Wanderers
April 29, 2025
You live in mighty silence, fragrant and dark, but you are all in white against the night. Lovers of your lovers grow envious of you and die in the arms of swords. I did my best to stay beside you all night, but I had to move on. You understood why, as we are both wanderers on the journey to find our soulmates. Down in the lighted city that twinkles and sparks against the sky, we part ways at the intersection. I am not ashamed to say I sort of loved you for a while. I sometimes flip your name over my tongue at nights that have that soft glow and isn't framed by bronze and bone, and the moon, who needs no legend, looks on. Where ever you lay now, I hope you lay with the one you searched so long for in a home you have built by your mind and hand.
Candy Glass
April 28, 2025
Sometimes we don't know better and mistake glass for candy. We end up bleeding over our "I love yous" and "good mornings" until they are so red, they are mistaken for anger. The blood moves from mouth to hands, and so we keep to ourselves in dark shadows of buildings, not to let it show. With no soap and water, how do we wash it away? Solution: Keep our mouths shut and our hands in our pockets. Don't make eye contact with anyone. If we were to wash, would it wash away our words down the sink? We will only speak silence then, or transparent words that are never noticed, which is worse than silence. Give me another tongue then to speak another language, to renew my words to something fresh that I can form new speeches, and speak directly to you in your native mouth letters that are not red, but tranquil blues. We can also form a language anew. Talk to each other with a soft focus talk whispered between glass barriers that crack through. Cover our mouths. Do not eat. Cover our throats for words that cut deep.
Dancing Through It All
April 27, 2025
Shake it off, and sober up the thoughts that fleck through the mind like sparks that ignite the mundane. This is the time to dance, even in the hell fire. Move through it. You will find you are fire-resistant and strong if you will it. The crews may take away the trees until the forests all are nude as playboy earth crushed women, and shrink under the sky's pervert moon eyes. They will grow again, like hair flows down their back once before. Breathe their oxygen and live. Give us life. Give us breath enough to keep dancing barefoot, gently over your belly. My pen sparks on this page with both the fear of war and the power of throwing over oppression. Fight like hell while you dance in between to keep yourself sane. It's a swirl of opposite paradoxes twisting together. Opposites cancel out each other in an explosion of light that purifies our eyes' sight.
Trying To Get Home
April 26, 2025
Snap judgments and snap decisions lead you nowhere you had to be when the car lights went out and lost indicator lights leaving no sense of direction, you ditched the car and ran, rand for your life that had no direction until you lost yourself in the forest highways and dreamed in different men's arms that love could find you one day, but not today, as you had no sense of direction on where to find it and lost your way home. All roads look the same eventually, which can be disorientating and confusing, thinking this is the right road to be on. But blurry signs lead you out of town and out of gas on trucker hooker highway, lost and vulnerable like a night rabbit on a busy street trying not to get hit or preyed upon when you just want to go home. So you dance for you to pay your way out of town. It's the toll you had to give. You run to get on that greyhound bus and sleep finally in a safer place half the way's ride all the way back home to Montréal.
The Next Chapter
April 25, 2025
Pearlescence swans so royal carve out the lake like tissue paper hooks curved dreamily. The liquorice flowers hang on the other side as the black velvet sky smiles its nighttime cool over the sleepy park. Trees hanging their hair down for the day, and we make love to nothing but this poem, and this mead, and a memory. Music weeps for me as I turn over a page in the soul book of lost breaths that captured moments long lost to the crumbs of time. Scattered in the wind torn book pages of a story of a lover left with her arms in poverty, absent of him resting his lips to her collarbone and body sighs into sleep so close to a soft ghost with soft focus eye lens to the window as the moon lights them both like white swans against the blackness of sheets.
The story left blank, as it's just a thought that has not happened yet. Maybe something to come to pass in the following chapters where sensual longing rests against its sought home in the curve of his neck - her dire lips.
Untitled
April 24, 2025
Rhythm of the atmosphere swirling and extracting pineapple sunlight and coconut flowers white with stuck on dew drop sugar this is the evening so bright the sunset coming soon to splash over the blue changing it to purple and crimson and darker blue like the harbour light glass blue and your eyes sapphire blue glitter the world comes to their attention and melts into the earth like popsicles on the hottest day in summer. You are the strawberry milk for the soul. Birds little hearts beat to all this evening's music, the chime of the neighbour's wind chimes she bought from a trip to Chinatown, the incense on my porch of damp wood and grass, this is a moment of peace in a chaotic world. I hold onto these moments much more closely now, before the wind rips them from my hand.
Going Underground
April 23, 2025
I hear the sounds of roots going deeper underground we all need to know the underground service level is too boring the safe sounds don't make you think too deeply meant to keep you numb and dumbed down Easy consumption without thought Nobody wants to challenge themselves any more junk food for the mind until it bloats twice it's size I can't live like that. You shouldn't either. You and I should go deep where roots go reaching deeper for nourishment and growth experience with me the challenge and see the art for the mind's sake.
He Changes
April 22, 2025
Soil is hungry for your sleep. Sink down into it like a woman's body warm for you. The roots tell of your tale of falling and whisper it through the wires. The gray blue skin of flowers shake into your hair and cover your eyes. I wish you well on your rebirth when you shed one skin for a new one. Change your name and address and close off all contact with earthly beings for a while until your metamorphosis is complete. The dawn will call your name, and I'll hear it whisper of your coming in my ear. When you peel the lapis out of your eyes and exchange it for emerald, and I have to change my rings to coordinate your vibe. The wheel in the centre of your body moves you forward until it rusts in place, and you fall again to the words of roots and soil.
Cocoon Heart
April 21, 2025
She used the pole as a punchline for the way her life turned out in her controlled wildness. She worked with what she had, and it for the most part turned out well. Nothing lost is nothing gained - she knew that so well. She still knows how to rock the nights and soothe the days into sleepy daydream states and carnival laughter glossing a wounded heart of old breaks and scratches. She swore to never love again when she saw blue eyes or smelled THAT cologne. The nights were long, but she learned how to do without to save her soul and heart and never let herself down again. This is the pain, and this is the love, and this is what life is about when you pull back the veil. She doesn't regret it any more. Once she released it, it is beautiful melancholic joy that tears her up at night and makes her thankful she is alive and know how to love and take her chances and how to gain respect now with gentle dominance. Her divine femininity is hers to hold dear, until someone becomes that soul to give it as the ultimate gift. Until then, she will gather herself with her head high, and move forward leaving joy as she goes, and as she comes towards the evening, coming upon you or him, she will sleep knowing that somewhere she is inside somebody's closed up cocoon heart until fate allows her to hatch before them.
The Lost Locket
April 20, 2025
I have no altar for your music, and our purpose of solitude has fallen to deaf ears that no longer speak to us. Sometimes being on our own is good for some matters. When the footsteps in the sand equals two under the guiding hand of the moon to wave pulling strings to sky like a kite, and some gull lost its song to the night, it was a while ago, but seems like yesterday. I loved you only like a poet could. Loving you only for inspiration. Empty as wine glasses on the table when the clock turns its hands to hold onto 10pm, the sky empties itself with rain and the trees hang their heads with wet hair heavy over the porch where I lost a locket from my chain 5 years back. It's now sprouted a bush of memories, flowering each spring and dying as summer ends. The melancholia of ending summer petal-fall forgetfulness.
The Sun Window
April 19, 2025
Slates of gray over green slice of floor, building door to let you in and climb the stairs to the window of the sun. Turn on the shortwave there and look down at the world below. Bombs and sex, both exploding simultaneously. Birth opens her eyes as Death closes his, and it's a bitter-sweet harmony, like kissing a lover's lips during a goodbye. Now isn't forever. Tomorrow is as dormant as a stone. It will probably do us better with the Nowness of everything. Alive. Breathe. Stretch to the sun out of all the city's windows. C'mon now people - you can do it! I believe in you! Life shouldn't be a snapped trap, even in the madness of it all, you have sun and windows as surely as eyes have tears.
Let's Ride With It
April 18, 2025
I'm soon to be making it to an age you never got to live to. I thought it would never happen in a million years when I was little in your hand and your long waist length hair cascaded over me when you gave me hugs. After you, at age 46, you flew to the sky like a bird, out of your body and I believe you live somewhere behind the sun now in your new form. I thought for many years I never would live to surpass your age. I thought a similar fate would happen to me, and a couple of times it almost did, similarly. But something kept me here. I know what it is. I've been thinking about you for weeks now, and as I now move into my 48th year in a couple of months, and I am here to live the life you never got to live. To be that old woman who dreams in the sunlight like a sunflower pushed to kiss its golden rays. To be the one who makes children smile at her grandmotherly smile from her front porch. I grow old for both of us now Mama, and we're going to live it to the fullest you through I. Let's ride, with you in the passenger seat enjoying the scenery with me at the wheel.
Life and Time
April 17, 2025
Needle eye poke through the ground zero cause and effect affecting you and the timing of transit and ticket booth whiners who groan about the cost of tickets to ride and I don't care says the girl behind the counter count down to take off and get off for a long weekend brew news and sing the blues for me baby with your liquor laced words to sew up my heart wound with the blinking needle eye opened to new possibilities and turning door knobs know jobs that pay money to another's hands, and you pay the tax axing cut down tree's limbs slaughter for paper you write on Mother of Word Invention I am so pregnant with word children I give birth all over this page/tree flesh. Soon they will grow old and pay mortgage and settle for comfortable boring sex with dust covered ghost crumbled individual rights make you right. The revolution happening under dinner tables turn to the clock and make excuses to leave table cloth stains the wine you whine and complain about it for a week. Life. We all have to live it with at least with a siren swirl of optimism and fight the good fight.
Good Night
April 16, 2025
Spirit mucus in your heart beat murmur casualties of your tongue in mouth's poison shot and organ melts a tune to the fire. The final place you were was no more. You're playing with danger and anger erupts like volcanos through the wake of your feet falls on concrete cracks. You seep in them, like melted ice cream, the core of what you knew you were and what you become is eroding. You wonder where she is. Where she went. She left you and hides away under leaves and root. Your heart pins and needles cushion for the world. You turn to ice at the core of the fire sphere of the earth. You will sleep for thousands of years. You then will wake to the final breath of earth when the moon moved away and the sun is a rock you used to know by name. Good night, dark one. Good night, light one. Goodnight, clear one who stirs and talks in their sleep.
3
Unreflecting Mirrors Of Time Lost Lovers
April 15, 2025
You have worn out the overused mirror so it no longer works now and has fallen empty and tainted gray with vacancy like an overcast sky that you can't even notice a cloud. One carbon sheet covering us like a blanket of dampness. Don't you know what happens when you call off the dogs and the soldiers who march for you fall asleep? I meet you just over the hill and past the lake. You use the lake as a mirror, and you see yourself as yourself. I promise to lure the elephants through the nude keyhole's eye to thread the impossibilities into a shirt you wear with pride and scorn. Opening the chest and the rib crack back of book spines, the page gasps it's sentences and drips off the pages into an inky puddle on the floor between you and me. This is the story that won't get written about. The story of two lost lovers, undiscovered to time. The clock unwound, and we cease to exist any other way.
Night Station
April 14, 2025
Looking glass of sky eye reflecting I and you and us - we merge and part over the night field and with playlist ears we hear the music musings set to our own station of night jazz blasting Zorn and, the Nurse With Wound keeps the Current 93 deep tunes out of cuts of droning synth keys and speak tones of air atmosphere of sound. We french kiss candy caramel from me to you and this is our songs tonight. Your hair like the staff holding common time with the breeze takes to the sky like a brown forest that my fingers dance in. Then the silence in between the songs gives us time to breathe and sip a coffee before the next song takes us away again. Who needs to travel to some faraway lands when we have this field, this radio set to our very own night station, coffee in a thermos, and your company.
Midnight Cottage
April 13, 2025
Ghosts wish in the midnight cottage with taps of tapping water, and someone forgot to close the door to the woodland animals who curl in corners and dream little dreams. The abandoned lived in home of lost memories. Nobody has been here in ages. Curtains sun stained and crumbling floor. The night finds it a burden to have to blow into and around corners. Birds find shelter in its roof. Children used to play here. Their echoes of laughter playing with a smiling old grandfather who is now gone to the wind and the children live on the other side of the country crunching numbers as adults of industry. The sun remembers though as it still dips in as always through the windows and splashing over the old abandoned dresser and sofa now a bed for dusty spirits and insects snuggle in the wholes as the family did. There's a sad serenity here, as it stands abandoned by everyone but the earth.
Will I?
April 12, 2025
Moving past sighing silos and peach dotted trees, the whirlwind of sky and ground winding past the truck like scenery divers taking me far past city lines where only vagabonds and truckers travel this time of night fueling themselves on strong coffee and fire-lust dreams that are caught in their eyes. Which way will this road go? To you or back to me? Would I choose myself again, or take that step to come to you with my broken wings and tarnished halo and make mad love to you at the sound of rain and crows? Will I talk and walk backwards to the time when silence in sleep said so much next to you, while music played across the dark room from a late night sleepy radio DJ some obscure love song I've never heard before about two run away lovers who ran from themselves, and each other all the way across provinces on dark highways with empty passenger seats but a ghost hitchhiker in their backseats?
She's Found A Way
April 11, 2025
Within the jail of a moment she knew that the time she spent in a prison of an embrace and a sea wrecked bed on the shore of nothing more than wilderness and howls of wind and wings, she knew she couldn't turn back. This is the way she goes forward. Make it through. Rough it out. Things will be ok, or she will die trying to make something out of dirt. The escape was made at least, and she could finally close that memory box and put it in an attic of a house she moved from. Someone will open it someday. Whoever moves in after her. They will wonder on the memories of another and whatever happened to them. Her notes will tell the tale in vague details that will always leave the reader to wonder about it. She has a way of saying so much in nonexisting lingo. She's as soft as a ghost now on your thoughts. She is no longer part of your shadow. She took to the sea and never looked back.
The Word You Keep To Time
April 10, 2025
This is just time hoarding and pig complaints of words lost down the drain, falling into the sewers. Quickly gather the last couple of them and hide them away in a grandfather clock, your sacred talk before all is lost. Keep them out of sight, especially THAT word, until time will tell your tale. Your tail caught in the door. Break it off, you don't need it anymore, you have language. There's no need for your body-encasement. Hound dog howling wind protests all the way down the street that it is not included in your words. It kicks over signs full of words all the way down the street. You don't care. You know your words' worth, and you soar out of your body tomb and look down on the world and see all the words. Not yours. You have given it to time to keep. Time will tell it when time is right. Your word is all you got now up here. Your rituals are on your lips and your eyes bleeding sparkles ruby down taste of salt and metal. Warm and corrosive. It touches words. One drip breaks them apart on the page like little bomb drops, spreading apart their colours until they are all broken down to their one true meaning.
The meaning of...
Harbour Night
April 9, 2025
The stars are like sky T-th white and shinning silver slivers. Moonlight like thick cream pouring into the harbour water, dark velvet of it. Beautiful division rolling and breathing between two cities and the two bridges' arms holding us all together. The docks and rocks and locked boats and coast guards drinks coffee afloat with ship feet floating on water. It's quiet as I hear someone cough on one of the ships. The hum of spacious traffic drones as background noise. Fish and lilacs in the air. No cares on a quiet night on the water front facing the city's ambiance and solitude like we are the only city in existence for one night, and everyone is at peace with human and animal.
Ice Death Grip
April 8, 2025
Bell smooth cool breeze iced over garden flowers frostbit as winter's hand strangled stems just budding bruised into bent crippling iced like sugar sprinkled crusted. It came back for that last kill when you least expected it to. When just yesterday the sun's warmth let your guard down, not expecting this assault. Blacked slush gasoline crush coughing splashed over the sidewalk waiters taking notice of time on all devices for the bus to carry them to safety from winter's battery. Wheel focus on ground skidding wet slippery asphalt block out this day. It was a mirage of snow, and spring time still exists. I know it does. It will come back and save us from the icy death grip of winter death.
Complacent
April 7, 2025
What do you do when the novelty of punch card time is no longer quaint, and hair in the eyes stings your sight. Even the blind see in other ways. You don't. You are locked away in a safe, knowing nothing outside your world. Play it safe and be good. Don't take chances. Don't challenge the system. Don't rock the boat. Don't speak over a monotone. Empty talk are not just sounds, they're silence using words. You sing silence perfectly. Money is not everything when it's empty-handed. The bank is full of shit, and you are rolling in it. Kissing all the wrong asses until your herpes hurt soul runs dry and blows like gutter dust off the curb of an empty street, nobody wants to walk down. Foreclosed homes are homeless and businesses sell absence behind locked doors and under tables, hands exchange bills and corruption from the top. You may not have done the deed, but you felt the need to play "nice" and not let your voice out of its prison. You are a nice, complacent, kept in your place. God is taking notes.
Unknown Breakfast
April 6, 2025
I don't remember where I was or why, but it was a restaurant for breakfast with my mama and (aunt) Jeanie. I remember the little jam and marmalade in little packets for my toast that came on the plate. The sun seemed to be what my little mind focused on the most. Shining through pretty salt and pepper shakers and glinting in my aunt Jeanie's black hair and shimmering in her tea. They both talked about something important, as they never went out for no reason. Why was I not in school that day? I can't hear the conversation through my memory. I can't ask my child self to stop eating toast and jam and colouring the place mat to know what is going on. Not that she would know. Funny how, out of all the times in my childhood I must have been at a restaurant, this one outing remains so vivid.
Never Finish
April 5, 2025
We made it to the finish line. Muscles ache and I can't catch my breath. I made it through, for past the obstacles that stood in the way. Every shattered glass in my foot, every door jammed shut I crow barred it open refusing to be shut out. I fought so and ran so far until my muscles burned like fire through me in protest. I knew I had to, or nobody would hand me anything. I ran and jumped over the barricades. I refused to be a shy rooted flower. I wanted to spread over the fields like a wild flower wild fire. Never standing still. Stride with strive with stride until I made it past the finish line, and yet I'm still going. Never finished, regardless who much I ache. It is the ache that pushes me on.
April Snow
April 4, 2025
Snow in April is like a death mask of earth when budding trees shiver under ornate flakes, and it makes a white page so blank on the streets. It quickly dissolves by the next day by the spring rain washing the memory away quickly like it never happened like a drunk washes their memory with liquor. I struggle on the sidewalk in my spring heels, too stubborn to resurrect boots and look towards the sun that rose afterwards, scorning it for it's lying warmth. However, the ozonic air is apple crisp that smells like pure water, top note to springs root and mud base notes both blend like the perfect perfume I would pay so much money for.
The Moon Daughters
April 3, 2025
Glass hit crashed smashed into dust flew on the air in a gust of wind from the east. It had cinnamon smells and lilac words moving through it. I heard your name mentioned in it. It said that you forgot who you were. That's sad. You know who you are, and you are the one who drank coffee until dawn and ran like a wolf through this street and that. Cracked glass dust in your nostrils, blowing it out like a cartoon bull. We ran all the way to the top of the hill, which slept like a grass animal dreaming of humans like a wisp of clouds that covers the moon. I told you to kiss the earth with your feet, and you did. And the moment the music started to play, we ran away to dance in the street below under the neon cross that would tell people their fortunes for $5 and your innocence shone like a hi-vis pearl that caught a car’s high beams in the night haze. You were magnificent. Now what you knew and I knew, we both still do. You rock the soul shimmer and shimmy down with tambourine heart beats. I follow in with harmony hip shakes and finger cymbals, symbolizing our feminine cascades of hair and perfume. We are sisters born from the moon, bohemian babes, and we will always glow and cast light on everyone's Saturday nights.
Cloud Roots
April 2, 2025
Uprooted chalk clouds groan their journeys through the sky making its crosstown journey growing gray with age as they make it over to you and that clay coin you keep at your side you are waiting for the rain to wash the dirt off your feet from walking barefoot on earth the city is so dirty you know, for such pure steps. It will soil them sooner or later, making them eventually grow roots, and you become plant-like but human all the same. Come to my front steps. I will grab a basin and wash your feet. Cleaning city dirt from them. Nurturing your roots. Your hands are mirrors for my looking into myself. The osmosis of your kiss, the sun warm of your skin. We will meet again. When the rain passes, and the sun comes out.
Harbour mornings
April 1, 2025
Don't trip into the trap that is right in front of you, also know where the cracks are so you don't fall into them. Sun comes out of the nighttime like a sleepy woman pulling up the blinds and looking into the awakening street below with coffee in her hand. I see the harbour has put another ship in its hair as it clips it up into places and the men get out of it carrying cubes of goods and the city coughs on its cigarette, welcoming them with a handshake and a pat on the shoulder. Pirate bones rattling just under the surface of the water like percussions instruments of the doc side busker jamming along on his guitar making sure to keep their eye on the cracks in the wood to not fall in or lose his coins down there to the pirates to clutch up and steal.
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March 2025
Word Birth
March 31, 2025
This child, empty child, nothing pours out of it anymore but words and the buds of plants that never bloomed. You unscrew the top and let it all pour into the harbour to get washed out to sea and count your blessings on your left hand. 1, 2, 3, and away the wind blows them. You should have closed your hand to count. It's windy today and the rain hits you hard in the back of the head like a bunch of little hammers hoping to crack through to you. You see the break in the traffic and run fast. The grease rainbow swirled streets know you by name. Know the address you exist in. See you off to work with a kiss and a sigh. Like a wife hungry for more than you and what you don't do. Type cast words falling from leaves, dripping into the grass. Your last word you wrote that was your name crashed into the earth like lead into the soil, and you hope it will one day give birth to you from seed to bud, and someone will throw you into the harbour to let you find your way to the sea. Sail on baby. Sail away.
Off The Curb
March 30, 2025
Yellow crack in the paint with coffee cup gutter trap leaf gunked blocked rain water flood forward through the past this flood on the side of footsteps in fancy shoes on donated feet tired to be on the go without stopping. Holes swiss cheesed the sole's soul into almost nothing, so toes can look out to the world like worms in apples. This fast paced afternoon full of traffic sounds amidst the rain fall gentle tapping in the stream of the sidewalk side by the café with its rivers past us to finally find a grate to fall into underground where it echoes peacefully the sound of water and rat chirping up a mess.
Park Pipe Dreams
March 29, 2025
The child of the sky tilts her head down to look at herself in the mirror of the lake until a cannonball rock splashes from human hands distorts her face to ripples like soundwaves through the air waves of clock radios that mimic human voices about weather and politics, that I want to shut out for the time being to let my mind breath on this afternoon oxygen of blues and grass green visual harmony like everything is peaceful with the world like if warmongers pet lambs and doves shoot out of guns and tyrants fall into a forever slumber only causing destruction in their own dream worlds, so the world can be awake in silence and not drinking their poisoned rhetoric. Their thrones and guns melt like popsicles in summer's dead heat. Children will know what childhood is, and we adults work together to turn the karmic wheels for the greater good of the world collectively.
Canticle
March 28, 2025
I and you empty the record of black reflective sheen, us as shadows over the turntable to drink in the music air around us. This is soothing and moving from noon until moonlight casts through the window to aluminate the glass of wine and time more so than ever stops and splits open the divide of soul to soul and eye to eye and you and I and the prayer that touches touch open hand to embrace the dance of snaking twists and slinking silky silver light from the window to touch your face with a scythe slice opening you up to take in the hymn of one on one moments such as this when the world is quiet except for the record playing its tune and the needle crackling in between breaths. Your igloo blue eyes ice blue ice in my drink and fire in your water you and I and eye to eye and third eye awakes to the canticle of not its own but our shared experience of song and wine.
The Centre Of The Earth
March 27, 2025
Opening secret tunnels into the empty world around the universe is some sort of diplomat craving. Winding staircase down deep subconsciousness breathes there, into the swirl of snow like stars that makes the sky that was above now seem below. Empty the wine glass of the earth. Get down into the core of it. You find your higher self there making time, creating new experiences for you. The earth's computer you find all this was here hundreds of centuries ago. You, me, everyone breathes from our souls down here. The oxygen moves up from this root to us above ground.
Summer Children
March 26, 2025
Sidewalk chalk drawing colourful imaginations dreamed over the concrete to add some joy in people's steps. The sunny sun, and the cat that mews jumps over the moon with the cows and the hopscotch skip rope peppermint scented and fruit loop crunch hula hoops spin down the street to crash out in the lawn of boy's toys and play guns that fire bubbles in your face you are the summer children. You are careless and free flowers in the hair of violet and yellow like sun chalk and water colour water splashes in the sky with a paintbrush and tangled long hair wisps like dragonfly speeches flutter away over the grass and back to the swamp behind the apartment building of life and lives well under the watch of parental eyes in the windows peering out to get air from the hot kitchen lunches. The Kool-aid comes purple and orange. Empty pictures like frames of memories are always nostalgic when filled with thoughts like this.
The Stand Off (Not part of the daily prompt book, just something that came out of the subconciousness.)
March 25, 2025
Shotgun-gun shy snap back pull BOOM through the licorice sky and into the atmosphere, this is what comes from you and your presence with one gleam of your eye steel blue smile shot into the heart and head, and we all gasp and drop dead with you walking past shotgun snap back pull back barrel tracks on the ground I'm not your prey, and I'm not your hunted hunter. You can't catch me to kill me with your silver bullet smile and your blue gun smoke blue eyes and your killer touch of blood on your hands finger dripping red poppies off them like you are some sort of hero of hearts attack and black out you are gone down the road and turned down the corner to were the record girls go. I hear them drop with their purses throwing up cosmetics from death smiles red gloss full lip service to the city queens who trash dig out their hearts from when you shot by and the quick blue bleach of disintegrating hair scatters to the wind. You can't hit me. I'm bulletproof. I know your game, I know your rules or your lack of them. I shot you a smile back. Teasing warfare, who will give in and crumble like a city blown away by smiles and glances of your blue steel eyes and my green grenade eyes.
The Eye Museum
March 24, 2025
Driving down a dirt road, off the beaten path, was a museum that looked neglected for years, or maybe decades. It was the museum of eyes. Hundreds of eyes peered out of walls when you walked in. Not in paintings or jars, but living, moving eyes all along the walls from top to bottom. Green, blue, brown, cataract, exotic violet, all looking. Pupils narrowing in, focusing on you as you stand there, transfixed, almost hearing the building breathe like a living thing. The floor vibrating, a pulse beat under your feet that you could feel through your shoes. This was left abandoned for a reason. You back out never wanting to think of this place, but once you witnessed it, you see those many eyes everywhere, in every face that passed you on the street. You needed answers. You searched the libraries and online archives for any clue as to what the place was, but find nothing. Who was such a museum's curator? Did it even have one? Was if its own curator? Does it now hold your eyes on a wall spaces? Will it soon come for your sight?
Crumpled Post Card Of Childhood Home
March 23, 2025
The old gray faucet that was almost too high to reach on the wall. We were so happy when we were tall enough to reach it and the cool water came rushing out to pool up in the ground's indent below it. My brother and I would splash in its coolness all afternoon, with the soft silk of the wet grass below the water. The rocks painted blue at one point were the best to climb, sit, jump off and run around. The flat one on the other end for rest and a table. The days seemed to never end and the heat of the sun would never stop. A beautiful memory of a home so care free. Though to a point. There was heartache there as well. Clashes between family, the pain of death and a coming of age me who ran so far away into the night from the carefree splashing under the garden faucet, the popsicles from ice cream truck summers, with a flurry of blinding tears as rushing as the yard water. With the heartbreak of my mother's loss, that tainted the soot of sorrow over the postcard perfect memory of childhood. The sun iced over for many years. Not rising for a long time. However, the sun did eventually rise again and thaw the lonely rocks.
The Crime
March 22, 2025
The bed was a mess like someone had a struggle. The clothing on the floor could mean someone had been looking for something. There are parts that look too clean. Maybe hiding some evidence there in the corner. We should use the luminal spray for blood around there. The window looks to the front of the house, so they had a clean view of the street to see when the get-away car came to pick her up, and speed her out of the city. Too bad for her. We caught her first. If you find nothing in here incriminating, place something under the bed. We need to nail her with something before the day is done.
The Lover
This is where she sleeps. I can smell her perfume in the sheets so full of exotic spice with a hint of sweet vanilla. Her signature. I run my fingers over her clothing that too smells like her. They hold her essence and spirit in her bohemian style. She wore this vintage shirt the other day that made her look like some time traveler stuck in the modern era. Out of place but comfortable with it. Here are her scented body oils and her jewelry that also holds her very spirit. Everything here speaks of her in every corner, from the bohemian clothing, oils, candles, and bedding of satin and fur.
Goodbye Between Shadows
March 21, 2025
I awoke to see my shadow walking out of the door in the time just before dawn, or, I think it was my shadow. The figure inked down the steps as I followed it. I quickly slipped into my shoes and jacket to follow it out of the door. I found it cross the street to meet another shadow there. She reached out to embrace the other figure and cry on it's shoulder. I never heard any words exchanged between the two of them. but I knew this was a beginning to an end of something between them. I felt her heartbreak, and I felt his, as the both disappeared as the dawn was coming up, fading them both away into the morning.
The Silent Word
March 20, 2025
Even the empty grove knows what happened when you bent at the knees in mud and silence grows so loud you were deafened by it. The information flows, but not only eyes can be blind. Words bestowed towards the sky shattered its glass fast it breaks through to climb the ladder to the moon, the words knew they had to escape silence's snare hands that were coming to grab it tight and shove it back inside the mouths of the mute. It glows on, the moon, still as it is and will always be. The flow of the seas knows its tow of soft power. Flooding light illuminates the shimmer of crystalline words, nearly transparent, pulling them back. Taking back what silence stole from the world that revolves on, uncaring of human turmoil. It rotates on abandoning us all the same.
Escape
March 19, 2025
That isn't the way you move away from her. You have to do it quick and stealthy, and you can get free from it all. The moon and I will keep the secret. Run under the shadows and underwater where you won't be detected except from uncaring radars and soft creatures who reside there. Emerge cleansed and come to me like a broken candle snapped from the middle, you can be remade by melting. Let me melt you where you are broken. Let me unfold you like a blanket. Then rest here for the night. Heal from that journey you made. I clean your wings with scented oils, and you now will know what it is to be healed from the candle break. Fire burns you back to purity. Nothing broken is a lost cause. Everything can heal given time. You will heal. You will fly again. But right now, rest here in the silk of me. Call this home for a little while longer, until the street lights close their eyes and the sun lifts it veil to shine her golden face in your iced eye. Then you can stop knowing me as a lover and make your way through this world anew and wildly pure. Teach the other ravens what it is like to mend broken wax and sail the sky and reverse the bruises of love that fell empty and void.
The Lion and the Mouse
March 18, 2025
You grasp at lion tails, who give you a smile that is laced with a rumour of peace. The vastness of the area you lay in is getting smaller. You can't hide from the lion's jaws or hold it's murderous paw as a pillow to rest your head on. You have to jump and run. RUN. Make your way through the jungle night under emerald leaves so much bigger than you. The moon will keep your secret, little one. Hurry! Get away until you find a hole in a mound to burrow into. You will be safe for a little while. It's too hard to live now. It's full of danger, and you have to find your little home to hide into until the roaring has stopped. Live out your days quiet, and not making a sound until it's safe to sing again. There will come that day. Just wait it out. It may be far in the distance on the space of the clock, but the arm will come around and point at you, and it will be time again. You will face the sun and ignore the shadow behind. It will hold no more power over you any more. Don't look back. Don't ever repeat what happened. Never trip over what is now behind you. Know the history. And speak of what the lion did to the one who tried to lay his head on it's paw for comfort.
The Crash
March 17, 2025
The grass lacy with a string of stream being pulled through it weaving in and out and the sky grey above it looks like a water colour brush too wet drawn above us. The tree hangs down its hair over us and just a sprinkle of rain gets through. You spoke to me in the language of swans, and I spoke in ravens. We knew when we saw each other we were something different from before us, we knew it would be a thrill to come crashing together and make a beautiful wreck. The flames that would come out of it would ignite the grey out of this sky and generate enough energy to light the city up all night long. We embedded our wires together and raced through the rain, feeling it as opposed to getting wet by it. You dashed off your regalness, and I elevated my language for you a bit. We at least were then on an even enough level to smash ourselves up together.
Dream Haze
March 16, 2025
I don't want your dream to end without a poem to prove it. The sepia of the haze over the old swamp with the proud cat tail plants that dash softly in the breeze, the sun rays stretching their fingers down to the grass along the amber water. You fan away a mosquito, and it's lazily buzzing away, the dragonfly looking on with his eyes as shopping cart silver and emerald shimmer dashing off. I can feel the heat of summer from your dream just by you sleeping next to me. The filmstrip projecting from your mind through the dark night in iridescence transparency. I take part in your nostalgia and share in the comfort. I sleep close to share the dream. You are a shadow against the moon light from the window, your chest the warm beat of life I close my eyes next to you to maybe dream your dreams, and have them mingle in with mine of playdough lions, and plastic trees and the wave of your colongue painting the air around me like a potion making me fall deeper into your arms and the swirl of dreams whirl on the feather light fingers of the night fog outside in the streets, that also take away the final remenance of snow disolving into the ground until next year.
Train Ride
March 15, 2025
Come to me torn by sin I was taught to fight to save my skin though trained from sun showers and trains I found you again at my side now sinless as it burned off in the sun regain what you had and opened again tracks carry train snakes through to the back roads of this country where you don't see them and the rain hides again we connect and disconnect and reconnect as one through sin and sinless and painless and pain sin comes on always when you wish it not to and the sun burns and rain washes the ashes again you and I connect again the sane and insane and refrain the train ride through painful crashes it rewinds out of like a tape and escape the wreckage of the sin that comes and goes and skin silken on my bones luxurious and soft you touch and caress we embrace and twice again the sin comes and rain washes away making love on the train that serpents through the night tracks I pull you into me and the crash happened again and rewind again to make it through sin as we are above it we are not governed by such words and it ascends us high where the rain is born to not be burdened by earthly sin labels and the cables are snapped and we crash down through the rain and we become rain in the night falling crashing on sinners' ashes to make them clean again long enough to sin again and the cycle continues on the night train out of here
Lovers In War
March 14, 2025
our feet touch the cold marble floor as we run past the arch and into the streets. We ran to the river to wash our faces in, and birds flew out of the earth far away from roofs and wires. The crack of the sun came through the trees, and you moved the veil of my hair out of my face like I was your bride, and we embraced amongst exposed tree roots and animals. I told you the world will be at peace. I knew it wasn't going to be true. You knew I was a liar for that, as we both know gun barrels can't be used as flower planters and the sky is not going to be free from bullets and blood paint. I just at least wanted to kiss you once before the war, as I may not be able to afterwards. The fire in the street started. The explosions ended buildings, and we melt under the oil from the throne. But what will be told for generations is how two lovers made love when the world was still at war.
Crow Snow: For Jeanie
March 13, 2025
I remember that day when a snow of crows fell over your porch like a breath of god blowing them from the power wires. You told me it was an omen of something to come. A month later you passed on, and I wondered, and I still wonder, if that was the omen you spoke of. Did you use it to tell me of your illness without actually saying the word cancer? I regretted for the longest time seeing the phone ring with your number, but I was rushing out of the door for work, letting the answering machine pick it up. You never left a message that day. It would have been the last time your fingers spoke my number. I like to believe you live on in crows now. You become part of the flock that casts omens to those whose souls you now take to the place behind the sun, with your silver shined black wings reflecting the heaven's glow.
Salt Water Highway
March 12, 2025
sea salted highways that flow through the city takes you out of here as the world flies past the window of the truck like a filmstrip projected against the windows. Nothing left behind but rusted tools and too many accounts of lost time and money. The world moved on without you as you find nothing left in your bandana but dirt and your mind which has racing horses in dust inside it. They can't get out, so you drive on with them galloping, pulling you forward as your time goes backwards. The winding of clocks too tight with broken springs now stay in one place and their hands don't point to you or to anything in particular. Get free from here. This town of cracks and dust and rusted edges that has no gold left in it. The power of the mines and the factories lay barren as a dried up desert. You will find work somewhere. You always do. Gallop like a wild horse to another province and work on the boats if you follow the salt water highway and get yourself out of the flat lands. Far away from here, with broken homes and monuments discarded documents ripped up in puddles of mud.
Connection
March 11, 2025
It's somewhere between my needs and need, when I look eastward from the east and look into the blue and blue and blue so much deepness over there where I lay hands and feet soon and touch the eyes blue sky and the land green connection our land and sea. Our land and sky open it up and slide between the fissures of velvet skin land green and blue sky falls in touch you and you touching I and sky is now green and land is blue I hover over your blue sky as wide as the sea and my green eyes met with blue sea green and eyes and I connect its vibrations of the blue notes of green tune and land is green and eyes are green and blue is new to sky and land and green fields brushes its grassy fingers into the sky's face and the eyes met with eyes and hands met with lands and connect with minds over land and sea green and blue watch us now as we make something new and splash over our land and fill in the sea to walk on to meet on and connect eye to I and I to eye and you to me and hands on sea and land on hands and feel the connection of mind vibrations of souls.
Voices of Vegetation
March 10, 2025
Let's sing for nothing because we can. Let's open up every garden fence in this city and step inside each loneliness and cure everything with a kiss. The time is of renewal and this is the season for it. Time to throw off heavy duvets and cover the earth with crisp light sheets as linen as a gentle breath. Winter's tyranny will dissolve like vapour in the air with a sun kiss. Winter souls as black as hair break quickly as a young woman's heart. The fluttering crows in city vaults are set free to pick at the worms from these souls and hearts. I stretch my roots deep in the womb of earth. I grow my hair long. I deepen my wrinkles. Crone in the child of spring with the moon's hook inside my green eyes. Your silver grass entombed in winter ice, and my nude warmth over you, melts you to grow from your own water. I kiss you awake, Green Man. Walk to the valley for a drink. Make the winter retreat further back over the hills, until it is as small as a pebble. This is the time for growth. Plants stretch to the sky with a yawn. Spools of weeds grow above those who lay about 6 centimetres under the soil, little plants waiting for the right time to show up in the rejuvenation of spring rain showers.
The Crash Birth Of Angels
March 9, 2025
She was unmade so she could be washed in the lake like an angel that fell in mud. She didn't hesitate, and at first just wanted the touch of his hand on her back. His warmth to her cold skin. All new angels are as cold as corpses, you see. She didn't ask for anything more than that touch on her back. He put the mist veil over her face. Everything was visioned through the haze. Wine stained her lips and the surrounding mist that hung in the air like immobile fog. This was the time she was grateful for the flames that singed wings and made them melt like wax to her flesh. But like every mud and fire birth, you grow old as time goes on. She broke off feathers and didn't bother growing them back. She winced at the touch of his hand to her back like it was poison on the skin. She took off her veil to see outside the haze and took flight on what was left of her wings. The air took her hesitantly until she was unable to glide on the air any longer and plunged into the ocean like a rock. He tasted mud in his mouth years after her flight.
A Crow Is Missing From My Horoscope
March 8, 2025
My horoscope is starving without the listing of Him in it, as it just tells vaguely of finances and general luck. I can't wait to see the signals in the constellations, and the city people will call me a foolish Bohemian for counting the streaks of stars in the sky. Somebody's coughing outside the window tore my sleep apart, and I didn't know who was on the other end of the dream's telephone as it was cutting out. I thought it was the voice of HIM, but I may have been wrong. HE didn't appear in my horoscope, and it's now just a bunch of withered words that fell off the newspaper page and onto the floor, blending in with the dust. I know this Gemini will find her Sagittarius, and we will fit our minds together like a missing piece of a puzzle and we both will run scared of the connection because that's how our signs are. I heard the sound of the crows over the water. I heard them in a sequence of backwards calls. I know they lost their nests and are searching for somewhere new to rest. I ask them to come to nest in my arms, and they will bring me shiny gifts for my generosity. I will let HIM rest as a crow in my arms. A white crow who needs a new nest. I will know who he is by scent and eye gleams and disconnect and run, like mad, back over the harbour to my own nest.
The Crone And The Clock
March 7, 2025
When you reach a certain age, your backbone wines like an air raid siren. The damp in the corridors of joints that drill up the bone. I am not afraid of aging. Allowing my grey hair to glint, I welcome the road map of my face to show where I've been and where I'm going. I don't like the ache in the bones and heart that comes now and then, when the rain comes, and the sun is cold, and my hands remember the times of those who held them. I speak in whispers to animals that come to my feet. I count the numbers on the clock too much. I create, break, heal, and love every bit of the steps I can make down the street to the park to sit and meditate over the lake. I am experiencing freedom of skin and mind. Memories like snapshots of hard times and good ones. I guess it was all worth it in the end. I draw creatively on the heartbreaks and the joy and going forward, embrace the uncertainty as long as I can still feel the cool of stone beneath my feet and my hands are not too crippled to write poetry to the wind.
You Called Me By Name
March 6, 2025
What did I do in the orchard with your name? I hide it inside abstracts under trees and glaze my perfume over your lips to keep them silent. Don't speak it. Don't say your name to me. Don't call me by name. I cast stones, and count beads, and curse the sun that burned you to ashes in my bed. You never survive the night as you lay gasping, saying you don't want to leave. Shhhhhhhh....don't speak my name and I won't speak yours. I smell your absence in my bedsheets and, and crumble up your absence as bird food to scatter in the park for pigeons to take your name and hide it in their nests, while crows take mine the other way. I list you in index cards in old fashioned libraries held by stubborn librarians who refuse to change. I write your name in a book in the dustiest part on the bottom shelf. You are in the last book on that shelf that nobody has ever checked out. No eyes will read your letters. It will hold silent your syllables. That night, you spread me like a book from that library, and I trace my finger down your spine. Tapping out in brail your name. I don't say it. I keep it to myself and confess it only in symbols in poetry nobody reads. However, you howl my name last night to the moon. You bend over gardens and write it with the hair of roots. You taste my perfume on your mouth after you speak my name. I call you only a lover, but you keep calling me by my name.
He's Not There
March 5, 2025
Angels empty their wings of feathers and do not look for him under monuments, as they know he's not there. The time wheel cracked at the 8 mark, and the pond's drained the sky to capture the moon inside it. The sky knows only dark now. The stones have shuffled down the hill to drink up the moon. Filters through them to put it inside the earth's keepsake box. I swear the air smells like his aftershave as the stones shuffle past me and back to their fields. They don't bother with humans, only drink up the moon in the water. The rain slick grass between my toes, I run barefoot to escape the smell of him. He's everywhere and nowhere. I can't pull him from my thoughts like the moon gets pulled from the sky. This is mad love when you forget your will at someone's touch, and know a glance could entrap you as his moon in his pond that the stones will come down to drink you away into the earth.
The Inebriated Writer
March 4, 2025
Again I look at you here, blank page. I think you are mocking me again for another night. You stare up at me, silent and white. Daring me to feel lost with this pen in my hand like I've never written a word in my life. You tease me so much lately. I thirst to write, and you tant me into making my mind not work with the hand that is so eager to tell stories of my life and love and past loves and losses and wins. So many lifetimes in one life that has such stories about perseverance through pain that is bagging to be known yet how do I write about that? How do I write about my fear of love and my fear of losing and how I lost love to distances and deaths and how when it seems, there's no way to go on, I do. Because life is like that. It has perfect moments, and it's so fucked up, but knowing that there is light that comes each day pulls you on. I want to tell it all, and I do in an abstract way. Who needs social media when you have a pen and paper and poetry in your heart. But it's hard to get out some days when you look at a sheet of paper in your notebook who has been your confidant since a child, laugh at you and say, no way, you're not writing anything tonight. I'm cutting you off like a drunk at a bar. I stumble out of the notebook's barroom door, down the street and stumble into my home after trying to find the right key for the lock for 15 minutes of inebriated cursing and double vision, to finally lay down and go to sleep on the hallway floor.
Something About Nothing
March 3, 2025
When you are stuck looking at a blank page and wondering what to write, it is like the silence of the page has to be filled with something. I search my mind for something deep and profound today, but it's coming out blank. I have lots of little visions in my mind, like the time I was out with him and the snow flurries were dashing around the streets and one flake melted on his lips with such erotic beauty, I begged in my mind to be that melting snow. Or the time I was walking down the street at night and fog was everywhere and swirling in the wind under street lamps that made it look like the city was filled with phantoms that moaned under the illumination before slipping away from its light to go back in the shadows of the after world's darkness. Or the time I tasted blue freezie for the first time under a hot sun as a child that seemed like the world of adult cares were not even a concept. The only thing I wanted in life was to eat more blue freezies and wear my mother's pretty shoes which were so big on my little feet, and wear her pink lipstick which looked like candy icing so frosted. I never know what to write in times like this. When my mind is blank, and I see the page silent until I realize, writing about nothing is at least something.
The Language Of Breath
March 2, 2025
Prisms dance over the wall flashing light the moon so bright and the breathing window flutters the curtains over the drilling ache in my shoulder, reminding me of age and the animals circle my house waiting to feast. They howl to the sky that looks on, not speaking the language to know. Twinkling chimes on the porch whispers their incantations and I write this as you breathe and speak outside my window and I wonder if one day I will invite you in, and will write next to you as you breathe over my shoulder into my neck, and you will know my language as now we only speak in abstracts and tongues and eye searching for our meanings. The eyes drip meaning out of their black holes when sentences fall silent from lips and fall like tumours to the floor next to us.
Time, Rain, and Antlers
March 01, 2025
Held inside the clock, time is bottled, not moving, as time stops tonight gently on the tip of your eyelashes dashing down to close your eyes in sleep to dream of a world better than now where life moves with second hand clocks, where second hands point in the direction of your way home from the forest's lost route now under roots. Outside the dream, I lay against you. My body partially shielding you from the spit of rain coming through the window. The cool start of spring night air against my cheek much like the caress of your hand earlier today after love making exhausted itself, and we were like two galloping hybrid species, human and animal, in a forest coming at each other in a collision and our antlers crashed into each other to echo through the night; echoes reverberating in the dark blue air. I rode you through the forest over wet leaves and mud and rain coated rocks until we crashed into the ocean bed, out of breath and exalted in our elation. Now I lay my head quietly on your chest, mediating on the soft rise and fall of your breathing as you dream of climbing out of the ocean to reach the night sky.
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February 2025
The Woman Who Gave Birth To Ghosts
February 28, 2025
After she gave birth to ghosts, mud replaced her marrow and her bones turned to clay. She knew it would happen as she cradles her spirit child to her breast to drink wine that comes from within straight from the heart, and she looks out the window at the moon that takes the place of the sun that never shows up any longer. It's been 65 years now since the last ray shone on what used to be called earth. Her fields have taken barren and produced dust, but she gave birth to a ghost, that is the only thing that has life. She feeds on colourless things, and forever the dust that can't be swept out of the corners piles up to make homes for blind insects and lives in her lungs as it takes flight into the surrounding air. She lost touch of her feet to the ground. She floats like a half deflated toy balloon whose umbilical cord brushes its tip to the wood floor she hovers with head down and no bones, the child will never grow up. It's there at her breast always. She is just a whisper on EVP recordings, and a gentle knock on the wall.
The Sea Calls You By Name
February 27, 2025
I know how to move you from the bed to the mirror and then to the harbour to drink like fish do under the sky-moon and over the water-moon and as you pass the bottle to me, I drink in both your essence and the mead and I tell you how you smell like rain and cedar when you are near me always. The night moves through the hour glass of sky, and I tell you that the sea has called your name. I hear it as you sleep, and I know it will take you soon to walk on it, like a glass field welcoming your feet to its cooling surface. You say it won't happen until the mouth of this harbour closes and there is no more sea to fill it. Watch it swallow seawater like a bottle swallows mead, down into it's core to have it drunkenly stumble back up the street in my arms until I put it to bed. I don't think you understand the way the sea operates. Or how the rocks share their knowledge with drinkers at the shore. It knows more than you do. You just walk on it. You don't speak to it and hear what it says back to you. I know, and the rocks know.
She Didn't Die Because She Wasn't There
February 26, 2025
She didn't die because she wasn't there, they said. She was just a mist, vapour, ghost. Fog formed her and she was never there. The fog was there. She was elsewhere and never had a thought to move there. She didn't die because she was fog, mist, vapour, chimney smoke from the tops of houses that float up into the night sky like ghosts, phantoms, fog falls on the harbour and ignites in street lights nighttime haze, she wasn't there, she was a memory that flickers in the brain that you try hard to remember everything about her, but you can't. Just certain things. Like her shoes you would put on your feet like a little girl, or her perfume you smell in the fog, because she is fog. She was not fully formed until the day she was, and she was solid, and she was there, and she scattered in memories like the fog does in wind, swirls white and gray and vanishes in the sun.
Fanatic
February 25, 2025
It's a sweet feeling to talk to the voice on the other end that tastes like candy floss clouds through the receiver. He sighs in joy like rain falls to the ear to sooth mine. I tell him how I know he was dreaming about the window rain that night and how it typed out a story on the pane. Do you remember the ending? It had no ending, he said. I know I said. We are the ending that wasn't written, he said. I caress my phone in my hand like an extension of his face and I knew this maybe the last phone call that happens before I run off into the night's highway to place more miles away from love and desire. To get the hell away from this power of him and be my solitary wolf self, not falling in love. I won't let it. But it's hard to ignore. He's a weaver of this silver web that I can't ignore tangling myself into. Into his limbs, my arms grow like vines in his long hair. And his mouth speaks in tongues that I understand. He's too much and too in my head, like an abstract film I see play out live when we make love.
Hospital Visit
February 24, 2025
The trumpet singing a voice of madness torn apart by preludes and empty of notions and commotion, open up your hand for palms on Sunday facing the sun like flowers. The corridors are left alone empty and clinical white the strong smell of hand sanitizer rings in the nostrils cleaning from the inside out bubbling up from the pipes the suds and unclogged hair that broke away from your mind to try to find its own way to the sea away from hospital blue illness and grief and numb drone of ventilations systems and breathing tubes and metal prosthetics that mimic surgical steel stealing limb and hand to mouth in rooms which are blank except for the orange curtains that are sun stained and cataract windows to life going on outside where coughs are not deadly and nobody pisses red roses for the wreaths.
Your Novel
February 23, 2025
I read through you like a book and fall into the arms of your words and lay on your lines like a cat arched. I try to find you in between pages and find out where you are in the story of this. You're the pen and paper emptied of ink and rhyme, linked by chapters to find something new, and it's always a surprise ending with you. I think on the way your pages smell and the corners are smoothly sharp enough to cut like paper slices skin and the page drinks the blood like wine in a glass. I hear your language in the trees as they sway, and I know the stanza of your poetry comes to me not like a river getting lost in the sea, but the way a wave crashes into the shore with force and lovingly pulls back softly to sooth the rocks with small finger flutters. I know your binding and stitch it when it starts to separate from the spine. I re-wrap you in leather when you're starting to show wear. You are the novel and I hope when I'm at the end of my own story, you will be the last sentence in mine and I as in yours as we are the last books on the shelf in life's library.
The Slumber of Missiles
February 22, 2025
Hold me near when the war is here. Cover my ears and eyes from the bombs. I will only see the hand that covers me. The hand that holds me. I will be a vacuum for the rebirth. This will not break us. The calm is here right now. The missiles are all sleeping in their beds, having dreams of peace when they can no longer cause harm. They don't wish to be sacrificed for the petty reasons of men who wash their face in faux gold creams and wish to be left in a silo where they sleep and know love in silence. They just want to be left alone and not kill. They wish for dismantling and coming undone. Like I come undone in your arms and make love to you in the shattered buildings that used to be. I know of love and know of arms that are not nuclear. Fluffy bomb clouds cuddle into the sky and come back on the rainy days when we are quiet in our embrace like the missiles in dark silos. Like the earth when the men sacrifice the lives of the missiles to die alongside us.
6:55
February 21, 2025
6:55 and you are in the back of my bike humming an original song that holds nothing back in sound related to air and vibrations. Neo air waves before digital times I and you should have met by the fence that iron carved spades that pointed to the sky telling us to go up there and the song you forgot the lyrics to that withered in the mind like a dying daisy chain rot bring it back with new words so it can sing out like a bird finding its voice in the oxygen sighs of trees green sway to the music playing with the clouds guessing what they are shaped like we finish our coffee and put the to rest in the public garbage can full falling over who empties them playing a finders keepers game with crows peck scaring off the pigeons who take the leftovers. The shiny habour water glints in the sun the afternoon is blank like a canvas for us to create anything we want until 6:55 arrives first in the form of evening then in the form of early morning again when we wake next to each other and count the cars like mechanical coloured beetles scurrying past in the streets humming a droning tune as they pass in the streets outside until 7:01.
Like Us All
February 20, 2025
Liquor drunk mind tumble over memory glass crack sharp edge of you nowhere-going all stuck in a spot where the grass is worn like an old shirt's elbows and Gene's knees never kneels down it's too low and you may never get back up arthritis can have other plans age old times for new age minds that clock tock tick over each second's dirty hands with over grown nails impractical for picking up anything and moving on to the minute hand with ingrown nails bite into skin so soft Ayoe! Pull back out of it's mouth as it gasps for breath get off your knees and run through the streets and duck into the side streets and hide in the dumpsters where the footsteps can't find you a window opens with music pouring out of it like guitar tears tear in the ear somebody yells at a cat who threw a plant to its death falling out of the window like death soil confetti it returns to the earth where it never knew as it was born into captivity like us all around here
Fire Follows
February 19, 2025
The houses along the street are all connected by fire that validates the sirens wail in the streets Lilacs bow their heads in prayer remembering when God walked and not crawled like a lion in the street animalistic and rabid, setting fire to houses all lined up in a row. Screen door open mouths are saying they are happy to not be involved in the orgy of flames across the street where wood moans out in charred orgasms then crumble in a lover's arms, calling him the sun. Hold onto me, firefighter, and don't let me drown in sea-fire and save the cat too. Water cools and turns to ice, locking fire inside so it can't get out. We need to go far away where fire can't catch us. Run through the woods past the brook, past the place where the pages of a book lay on the ground that were ripped out and charred on the edges. You can't read them because they are in dream language. You don't have time anyway - run! Fire follows, and you have to make it to the sea!
What The Trees Know
February 18, 2025
That is how the head of the tree nods and sways, acknowledging the wind's whispers. It told it something in its ear. I don't know if we will ever know what it was. The mirror keeps our secrets and the stone keeps the earth's secrets, so what does the air keep with the trees? Birds do not know the language, but they feel it. They know it in their hearts, but can't decipher it. The sundial shadows fall backwards, and the world is sleeping. For now. It's a quiet moment until the chaos comes again. The wind knows. The trees know. Our mirrors know, and the stones know. It's in residual vibrations that come like memories every so often to the natural. The continuation of war machines and gunfire cuts through the peace like a knife in butter, and we all melt away. Then snap! The memories are gone, and the quiet comes again. The fire in the belly of the earth gets vomited out through mountains on the other end of us. It has to release somehow, the pressure of the tension that knots inside. All we can do is cry our lava through our eyes and hope that is going to be enough. The trees sway their heads to a melody in the air. The ash falling down like snow. Is it volcanic or fall out? I guess we will know when the sundial sets itself on the right time again.
Somewhere Inside It's Belly
February 17, 2025
Slip start through the sterling silver hook of the moon's light that smells like steel cutlery after they've been washed in sunlight, starlight tonight is not the first time I saw you, looking like little pins stuck on black velvet up there and blinking twinkling like wishes from children that come to you, and you hold them as data that you will use when they are old enough to gain their dreams and they walk the world with no visions or wishes. Dark like that water that is over there in the earth's mouth surrounded by container ship fish that glint under spotlights from the eye that is off the edge of the harbour that knows the way back home for you little swearing sailors who travelled so far with your boxes of things and your colourful accents that always make me smile. Heaven sometimes comes in the oddest places. This cold night at the rocks by the docks and the wind wild over the city like a groaning old man who is angry about politics and the goddamn young people who know nothing about life. I think I'm a woman who is drawn to this water because it holds something for me. I know it's somewhere inside its belly.
Corpse Honey
February 16, 2025
Cobwebs settled on her, tieing her to the chair in the corner of the yellow and green kitchen now sun aged walls in spots and the white lace curtains now beige. Insect weavers worked on her hair as little stylists. Twenty goddamn years and nothing moved. Nothing touched. The pile of junk flyers on the step counted time like sands in an hour glass. Nothing continued on except the world around her. She never knew, she just stared into a mouldy cup of coffee until the root rot of her legs collapsed down into the earth, making her soil and worm food. A record skipping in her mouth stuck on one world. That doesn't really matter because nobody can hear it. It is meant only for god's ears anyway. The rain eventually turned her to mud. The house started to crumble from neglect. Kids in the city made up stories about the creepy old house. Then a chubby man behind a desk called in metal arms to come and scoop it aside and carry it away. Thieves picked like vultures at the leftovers. Grass eventually grew over her and flowers bloomed. Bees gathering pollen from the flowers from her soil carried them back to their hives, where the keepers jarred up the honey to nurture the community. She's a part of us all now, and her word will be our last word spoken to God as we are face to face with them.
His Nirvana
February 15, 2025
He is like an open temple that I went to kneel to and worship his hand and knew I was going to be enlightened when I wash him with light of the moon poured from my vessel. I knew him by name and whispered it hidden inside incantations to the sun, he was lost in a feather for some time on the wings of black birds perched in tree tops that know flight and altitude to the nirvana of sky and universes. I chanted his name at the window to come buy and when he stood before me, I knew I was the lucky one to know his eyes by their amber brown idols, deep and true. I knew his hair by touch as they shake down in my hands in silk. I knew him. I knew his body and how he made love to me like we were lovers in love. But we weren't. This was purely transactional spiritually. I knew he would fly away again by the path of the wind currents that hovered over the sea and that he would return in the form of another in a twist of fate chance meeting on some sort of street that was cracked and broken off at the curb of the noise and whirl of traffic lights and neon glows in rain puddles. I saw him reflected in.
Good Night City
February 14, 2025
Open host management of lost keys to someone's heart attack blank stare into the nighttime payment methods credit card, cash or check your wallet somebody stole it thief in the night on a mare to get away mirror teeth sidewalk shatter scattering crowds of crows that touch earth and sky fly away from here if you know what's good for you. Tell nobody of what the sea saw and told the rocks. Keep that secret between you and a fallen wing feather caught wet in the side street of the backstreet of the city's hungry alleys that swallow you whole down their throats, and you don't come out the other side. Locked car security alarm screams for help into the night guard dog asleep on the beat underneath the garden grass in an earth bed tomb womb now covered in ice and prays for spring that will never come it seems. Good night dog, good night spring, good night tragically beautiful city alley throat that gulps bones and hair.
Take Your Medicine
February 13, 2025
This is a symptom not a cure the gun that shoots the pill that lodges in your throat gasp catch the breath that's running away down the street to the back of the pharmacy for a back door deal of blood bags for the stock pile of symptoms due from last month's rent overdue payment to the doctor who knows that its all a placebo and a band aid to keep the mouth of the cut skin shut up. It knows too much of pill bottle cash grabs, and let go of blank prescription addictions. The cabinet empty, looted for its promise of relief, and just falls short of a cure. No remedy for clinical loneliness of sterile halls white and silver locked doors of doctors on the telephone line veins to take your blood out of the static body with the nasty cough up metal phlegm of star saw blades and hair caught up in your throat drain. Empty it out. Put it in a bag to drip back into your veins to keep you alive for the moment.
Ghost Town
February 12, 2025
Robotic faces look up weirdly at the light of the worm coloured moon that flashed in their eyes like ice cream white and melting like a candle that pours over the land like hardening candy that wax flavoured ones that was held in question of wither you eat it or not. The vision of the future corroded the gears inside the bots that creaked and groaned the horror of industry industrial clang and clashing crashing out through the streets from the echoes of dead warehouses that closed their eyes long ago. The concrete has cracks along the sides like wrinkles showing its age. the liquor that was emptied in the bottle in the corner gathering dust. No life came from it other than the ants that busy themselves inside. The cost is what happens when you pile sand in the mouths of the people and only paint your hand green with money. The sadness of ghost towns wail out in a groan of loss and remembrance when it was something. Now empty of children that played and voices that laughed that is the melancholy of time. The moon looks on. Down at empty robotic machines that are silent and drop their eyes to the ground. Dimmed and empty of light.
The News At 6
February 11, 2025
Static transmission inside your eyes has no known script for the newscaster who rests silent at his desk with an empty page in front of him. The apple red light in the studio turns apple green and no words enter the microphone. Cut to a commercial. The speaker of your lips blares out an advertisement of straw and candles. Not much else is said after that. The dead air fills the room and I wonder if I should turn the dial to another station. You get up, look at the window and see how the leaves have left the trees and repaced with ice. You can't tell if they are quartz crystals in this pourch light aura. Small spotlight with the darkness of the unknown just a few steps out further. Something chatters in the trees, and some flash of an eye snaps you back to the news to see which is the better choice on the crashing stock market when it hits rock bottom the only way is up so by now and hope for the best. Drown it out with this glass of water. It flushes out the newscaster with a tsunami wave drawing a close to our broadcasting day.
Tamed Wolf
February 10, 2025
Super moon lemon drop taste in the air where the beams fall over the coffee table sugaring my books and resting in a glass of maple mead adding a spice flavour on my lips when it should be you. Empty of emptiness so is that full or half full? Only the glass knows but the bottle holds the true knowledge in time. Ring my phone chimes out awakening the cat perched like a bird at the end of the sofa arm. The fifty five times I choose to ignore the wolf howls outside the window. You capture my eye's corner view like a thief as you wake from sleep to tell me your dream of ghosts and wildflowers that were housed in its ribcage. I pour you a glass of mead and we watch the fire lick the brick womb. I tell you your eyes are a shot in the dark of blue glint of steel that can sever the heart of every woman preventing her from transforming and running with the wolves outside again.
Water Speaks His Name
February 9, 2025
What creed have you when your charms lie, and your footsteps fall not so heavy in the snow that fell last night. Crunch of ice and joints that ache under the cold arthritic set in the time they snapped and you healed not properly. Bones break but hearts don't so easily. Hiss and walk away. This is not the soulmate I know will be there. He hides from me. I know he must exist and think I will find him one day, hidden in the leaves and grass and under a stone. I had given myself to the night too many knights for the taking. I know better now. I can walk past in my own path and hold high my head so I can see far ahead where he is. I will find the lover and the soul will know it when I find him. He's just beyond the moon and the sea sighs his name. I know it. I heard it. The emptiness of night says a lot when the water speaks in his voice and the music rings a new tune when the sun rises up. I get out of your bed, hear his name on the water and walk to it and say good morning to someone who lives under the water's mirror.
Sky Floss
February 8, 2025
You were as empty as a thought when we met. You didn't know about how the sky floss tasted until I taught you the bohemian loom of sky and earth and the threads that flutter over the horizon that lay on your tongue like sweet ozone fluttering down. Star dust sugar and sweet the sun warm candy treat of the white chocolate moon. This world is a mesmerizing thing if we hear past noise and see through the power struggles of tower dwelling madmen.. I told you to taste the sky and let it shake it's floss hair in your mouth to reach into your soul. The afternoon was too hot for sleeping and though we were tired we spoke in the sand, and watched the boats drift on nothingness like a film strip in the sky. Do you still live like I taught you? Do you still smell like soil and leaves? Did you loose your free spirit heart to the mundane and chaos of life? I hope not. Remember what I taught you. Where ever you are, you can always reach up and touch light, and taste the floss blue sky. Don't ever let your bohemian heart fall to dust.
Mute Ghosts
February 7, 2025
On the other side of my mind where the table is dusty and the floor needs vacuuming. The coffee cup is chipped and hasn't been washed, with the ring of Saturn inside. I watch the clock to keep time in my head. Long walks of hour hands control the sun to rise and set on cue. Where are you in this? Where do I want you to be? The door is unlocked waiting for you to make the choice to come in. You throw your coat over the arm of the chair and sit down and cut your lip on the cup and blood mixes with coffee and the drop is a ruby against the table cloth. You smile and look at the moon outside the window as the hour hand pulls backwards. I give you white chocolate cubes to go with the eyes of lapis flecks that are now in place of your eyes and you talk to me backwards as the dove sits on your shoulder and the crow on mine. They have their own separate conversations. All then is silent and the dust has settled on both of us. The hour hand broke years ago and we're still here in one spot. Unmoved. Nothing more to speak. Our voice is gone. A bomb goes off outside and we are still in one spot. The falling stars clang to the ground around us. Still, unmoved. Silent. Staring into each other. The veil lifted off the earth and universe drifts by. Unmoved. Mute. Staring into each other.
The Idols That Keep Watch
February 6, 2025
I heard about the idols that stand over your bed as you sleep. They watch you and keep you well. The tea coloured sky seeps in through the window but only to caress your face as you dream about 1000 miles away from where you are, to a place near the ocean where you once called the name of someone you know has no name. The empty earth draining out of the other side, you knew it would catch you in its whirl sooner or later. You didn't ask for this. You can't call on the bed idols as they only come to you in sleeping. This is awake land and realness is no match for dreams. The night goes on without a hault. Painting the sky gradually until it blacks everything out, and you return to the idol bed where you sleep once more, ignoring the real and opt for the dreamscapes where we meet and I called you my lover and we made love in the bed where the idoles bowed their heads to turn their eyes inward to give us the privacy. I told you I would return. I never did. I moved out of the dream world into reality where you can't find me anymore. You know I'm in the ocean but you don't know where. I am a shell at the bottom under coral hiding until you leave. Then the moons hand pulls me up with the tide and I walk on land with my legs to run far from the ocean, and far from your bed. You sleep through it all not knowing my movements. The idols don't speak my tale. They understand. They looked inward knowing love is a danger that women must run from.
Attempting To Grow Something
February 5, 2025
Industrial piping and raspberry crush red down the sink you hear a clogging gurgle and know its going to be something to drain soon. The clang of something down there rings out. You figure the seeds have grown and you will now have to harvest their hair out to sprinkle on salads or pastas and eat what you sow with a smile regardless what it tastes like. The empty bowl will fill itself with the tale of someone who thinks they know how to garden but every thing is unripe and dies before it grows. The soil knows what you do. It knows it's wiser in its mystic knowledge of sun and moon and tells the seeds not to mistake moonlight for sunlight as they will know when to sleep and awake in it's womb. The worms keep time and wait for the rain to subside when the humidity comes to make them come to the surface and breathe finally instead of strangled in roots of raspberry trees and dandelions who shake their dust everywhere to cover the air with more seeds. Like cats they curl and swirl until they rest in the sun. Black on gold, silver on green and everything splashes it's colours to awaken the dark pockets of the yard until everything dances with colour. It's life from the dark and the seeds you plant will grow this year and not be just barren corpses under the garden soil.
Root Leash
February 4, 2025
Wildflowers stand along the highway sides hitching rides but their roots don't let them go too far, and they are pulled back home, like on a leash that goes so deep in the earth their root systems come out the other end like fingers stretching out wide at the bottom of the globe. They sun their face in the sunbeams and throw their heads back in ecstacy at the pollenating bees that come to visit. Seeds dust along the air of the dandy lions' manes that are soon bald from wind and only they travel far floating on paragliders in the sun until they disappear from sight in the vapor waves of highway streets. Trees shake their heads at the child flowers as birds make for barrettes in their green lofty hair and breaches of little squirrels nestles in for a sleep on this afternoon where I have nothing to do, but watch cars make their way to the highway and dream at the window.
Sadly Febuary 3rd installment was accidentally deleted.
Snowy Night
5 minute timer
February 2, 2025
Sweet cherry air opened up to the moonlight even in this dead of winter when everything is frozen, even hearts it seems. We move to the sound of the music of our headphones, and move into to like the way the moon calls it's water child to come follow it pulling us too towards it's motherly glow. The swirl of wind bits into our hair and we move our scarf closer to our face and feel cozy inside our leather jacket armor. The cars speed past busy like beetles metal and shine flashing. We stop the music and get on our bike and keep peddling until finally the heat of our body starts to become our own heater against this cold night. We make it home and warm by the heater. The wind disappointed it can't run through the grass of our hair like a child. We make a hot coffee and watch the snow. It seems to make the whole world fall silent, as it seems to stop its chaos for a moment. This is how we spend the night. Warm, quiet and reflective, and silencing loud voices that shout about war and politics and it's just me, this coffee, this page, and a record playing in the other room. This is what it is to be at peace.
Lovers in the Snow
5 minute timer
February 1, 2025
The amythyst that is held in your mouth, just under your tongue, speaks openly about your dreams. It told me that this afternoon, as I lay with you on the sofa and we talked about nothing but air and sand, all the ocean in your eyes moved towards the window to see the sky that met you with such ice and snow that it would cover us up for the rest of the afternoon. The warmth of ice insolation cradled us, and we slept in each other's embrace like a hypothermia slumber that we were cozy inside of. I am your cocoon to be the moth that looks for light; whenever you see it, you are drawn to it, and you stop at nothing to get at it. I admire that. Your strength of light and the last of the cobwebbed parts of the books that lay dusty at our sides fall open to tell us the tale about two lovers who lay in snow and hold onto each other for warmth and light. She is His ocean, and He is Her moon, that pulls her forward. As the afternoon draws on, these two lovers drape the sky to the earth like a soothing blanket, shaking off the snow from their nudity to find the grass awakening to green life.
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January 2025
City and Country
5 minute timer (10 seconds over to finish final sentence.)
January 31, 2025
Live electrical wires slither like snakes in the dark, sparking and slithering down to the drains where the rain ignits them in a crackle hiss. Jawbone toothbrush of drain grates that filter out the leaves, mostly. The pylons that stretch in the distance are slightly seen tipping over the fog that is settling in now. This rain is a cleanser for the dust of the city. Wash it all off the buildings, mother; it's dirty and grimy, and I want to have it all erased and replaced by trees and streams and animal children who curl under the roots of old trees and snooze in little hovels. Their chests are big with breath, and life is quiet. The moon and sun take their shifts calmly, and everything has a hush lull of slumber. Not here, where cars crash into street light soliders and swearing comes from the mouths of buildings, and hidden messages lay inside the tagged dumpsters, whining under their garbage-filled mouths, hoping for it to be emptied, but the garbage men don't come until next week.
The Song (Love Poem to Janis Joplin)
5 minute timer
January 30, 2025
The only song that can make her cry is A Woman Left Lonely by Janis Joplin the record black and reflective, showing her shadow looking into it as Janis sang her soul. There's so much to life and so little too. When music touches the heart and the soul is soothed into dreams. Launching in the sun and the washed out darkness is liquidfied and turns into something good...vinyl, music for it to hear back at itself; it's soothe and calm. The cycle spins; records are forever, well, until you break them, but there will always be a song that will live in many forms. From mouth to tape, to record, to mp3 to cd to soul and soul to soul, it is a shared love with many around the world. Music heals and feels, and it sings us into new beginnings and has the power to romance and also crush down social adversities. Much more power than anyone can hold. The singer and listener. Janis and me, you to your song, and sing your song proud and never let it be silenced. It's all healing in times of doubt. Honey, sing me your Kozmic Blues one more time.
Ice Demons
5 minute timer
January 29, 2025
Silent snow steps slippery into the streets and whirls under night lights that line the way, highlighting those who huddle from the storm inside coat cacoons and ruffles drift in the wind of white whisp lace. Ice hanging like ornamental Christmas decorations off trees and fences, empty spaces between wood and ground all around the cold in the air, fresh in the nostrils, and you flutter in and out of warm thoughts to get you through until you make your way home into the heat and comfort. We dream of summer coconuts and 50 types of ice cream that melt in the heat that then drains down your hands like a melted candle to drip like sweet white blood on your shoes and the sand of the airy beaches, and you drip sunlight into your hair and skin glow. Not here. This frozen empty streets of blizzard cravings of sun. This is winter's depths that swallow you whole with no mercy until you find shelter to run from its terror teeth grip of ice and frost. Close the door quickly as it claws at the door and windows, leaving streaks of ice as a warning.
Land and Sea and Sky
5 minute timer
January 28, 2025
Crystalized style of fortitude and and collateral damage celestrial slam door crash of mind and matter, lost in the beach sand hairshirt worn out with holes where the damp gets in. Empty the tub and watch it all go down the drain too late for a plug to stop it, and you can't reach that far down the throat to make it gag it back up like a poison of hair and spiders lost web threads that hang in floating silence facing the moon, catching flies but letting the smell of lilacs through the only thing that is pure and free on this night that is too hot for sleeping, so you stand on the back porch to drink in the moonlight and listen to the radio on the table inside the door. Neighbour's smoke curls like a question mark in the light on the other side of the fence. You don't see them but know of their existence and the lost book that is somewhere behind a bookshelf that you wonder what page it fell open to. What was that trying to tell you, and you were too lazy to pick it up from behind the shelf? It could tell you that knives that hang just above the cypress on the other side of the village will fall on the chosen one to sever the ties between land and sea.
Born to Run
5 minute timer
January 27, 2025
Cattails that grew under the bridge that would reach it's arms over the swamp would toss in the air. Looking like hotdogs that were cooked over campfires. The smell was muddy and herbal, with an underlying rot of roots that lived and died in the edges of rocks, and pepples are left to tell their life stories. Not much in the way for the frogs that used to be here and are now gone somewhere. They would hide under pourches of people who would wonder how a little frog could hop so far from the swamp. Grandma's cat brought one bearly alive to lay at our feet one day. It's pickle coloured body gleaming in the sun, hardly breathing. We ran so far that we thought we were a million miles away from the scene. Like we never understood what death meant. WE knew things would die, but we hated seeing it take place. I never thought in a million years at the time that I would know of her passing, and I too ran so far away from home that I thought I was half way across the country. Tears in my eyes looking for any sort of taxi that would take me further where my legs couldn't run anymore.
The Sun Through the Window
5 minute timer
January 26, 2025
You forgot it when you looked into the glass with a world reflected back into your eyes into the mind projected backwards. The flowers died in the vase last week, and you still can't part with them. They start yellowing and wilting to the floor. PLant corpses now live out their day in the corner of the shelf. The dust is gathering in a little pile on the remaining leaves. You give it a shake, and it scatters dust and glitter into the sun like dirty, insense smoke. Beautiful in it's own way. The pattern of the light through the curtinas casts shadow flowers on the opposite wall, and this is around the time the sun hits the window, blinding you if you look at the picture frame, distorting the inside world under the glass. You're blinded and can't see it anyway. So it doesn't matter until you want to remember it later when someone calls you on the telephone to ask you, "Do you remember that time?" I don't have any memory of that time. "Didn't you have a photo of it?" No. I can't see it anymore on the wall. It's lost in light. The nighttime brings it back, and you then remember again, but it's too late to call back to confirm you do remember the tree, the building, and the picnic table off to the right side of the tree. The way the wind blew softly in your hair, the taste of the blue ice cream, and the smell of your hair.
Air Words
5 minute timer (10 seconds over to finish sentence)
January 25, 2025
The tap dripping in the other room is echoing through the house this evening, coming from the dark part of the house like a bone tapping out a message on the wall in spirit communication. Nothing eerie about it. Just a new way of speaking. Sometimes new forms of language adapt to the situation it's found itself in. Locked inside words are let loose in the turn of a key in the safe box to have them pour out of your mouth like an overturned wine glass, all falling to the ground, staining carpets, and the whole room is smelling of words and wine and spilled over sides of voice sounds soon to evaporate into the air to dissipate into nothing, like nothing ever was even said. Lost words and language that are gone only to be whispered by a small few who remember the art of the tongue. You die too fast with it, and the emptiness of regular speech takes place to something less flowery and bland. Every speech is the same. Opened boxes that are emptied out, and you can't get those words back no matter how hard you try to pluck them from the air, and the faded words on the carpet are too washed out to be able to read clearly.
The Cold Coffee
January 24, 2025
The automatic rewind tape of life in the hole whole of it is done now, and underwater, floating in space, suspended, not the sunlight stretching like a cat on the floors of waiting rooms, but the process of reaching for the sun, picking it off the floor, and putting it into your pocket as you are the next one called into the office to have your fortune read by a doctor of sprinkled knowledge that came from the cosmos, PHD of energy. Turn the channel. They just want money for fortunes. The cosmic wheel costs us nothing. I found that sunshine I put in my pocket after I ran it through the washer, unknowing. It's wrinkled now and feels like plastic that is so thin it breaks like fine crystle ice that you crunn underfoot early in the morning on your way to work. Coffee in hand, pressing forward. Past the waiting rooms and down the stairs. Half listening to the news on someone's radio as you pass by something about the economy, but you don't care much. It is what it will be. The coffee is now too cold for drinking.
Clothes Shopping
5 minute timer
January 23, 2025
The shotgun bang of perfume from the store counters, and the floor shines dull the lights above. Mannequins who follow you with their eyes throbbing with doll veins just under the plastic. This is the Sears of a jungle bargain basement of fashion clothing vines of trash fashionites who wear them once and discard them in the streets to clog up the arteries of the sewers. I choose to be naked of your influence and dig into thrift shop abstracts and magazine ink runs like mascara tears with my mind's absence. Clothing drawers impound the names of bohemian threads of past souls who lived and continued in these articles. Retro revisioned in the here and now. An experiment of self-expression like an abstract painter splashing haphazardly over the canvas, claiming everything is art. Splash my body with my own art and spare the trendy standard. In a maze of blond hair, a black strand stands out like a black moon in a white sky.
Night At The Harbour
5 minute timer
January 22, 2025
Watering sculptures that are growing in the ground, soon to be plucked from their spot to be placed in the bottom of the harbour where they wilt and die, and where the instincts of fish don't swim by it. The world sounds muted under there. Distorted muted babbles of the dock workers and the swearing men who throw the ropes down at the shipyards. This is the quiet I crave. Lucky fish. Your silver backs slightly gleam like elongated flat dimes under the surface, flashed by the very bright sunlight bouncing off the moon down into the earth in a cool glow. We feel a sudden hush fall over everything. The swearing coveralls at the shipyards suddenly quietly sipping coffee to help them through the night shift. The cars stopped roaring and all you hear is the ebbs of the little waves these coin fish make as they drift along, unaware of us above busying themselves to their little duties, ignoring man made sculptures and other discarded trash of our human shame. The art and garbage of it all is almost poetic
For My Muse
5 minute timer. (Stopped at the 9 seconds because I drew a blank and satisfied with the ending sentence.)
January 21, 2025
I'm surrounded by books that I know well, and some I've not read yet, and too many that wait in the wings to have me smooth them open and read their words like a lover I can't find you among them. I know you're in there somewhere, that one line in all these books of poetry that define the very essence of you. I don't think I can find it. I place words together and rearrange letters and no matter the language or arrangement, it's not the right words that are you. You are indescribable. You are everything that is beyond words and language and sound. You're higher than what the mind can create and explain. How does that make you feel? Wonderful? It should. You are a wonderful muse but I am the novice poet who can't come up with the right array of language to speak the image of your eyes, or describe your very essence. I don't think I ever can. You don't exist in language. You exist in a space of nothing and air, higher than this world. You are taken to the sky beyond the sky and your warmth ignites the sun. You are only here on earth to remind us all how the divine can work as the ultimate creator of art.
Push Your Face To The Sun
5 minute timer
January 20, 2025
The invasion will provide us all with the leaflet that will give instructions on how to be privileged enough to feel a sense of mirror self under the law of abuse will rust in the lakes of manufactured glory. Nothing will be left out of the circle. Unity and delight in being a human being will happen once more. Notice the sky once more, it will warm and water you back to nourishment. Photosynthesis through our veins of green and blues and up from the soil in our feet will grow us upright again to bend towards the resurrected sun. Darkness don't always last. You need to push it all aside like an unwanted veil that you rise to kiss the lips of the bride and breathe in her perfume of violets and dusty plastic doll heads. You now have something to look forward to. The end and the new day blossoms on the distance, just over there. it will be back before you know it to flood our eyes with gold and empty the sewers of the brown sludge burning it off just beyond the city's limits. Have heart.
Ghost Dreams
5 minute timer
January 19, 2025
Dream keeper keeping time and images waiting for me to sleep to play his film of us at a strange coffee shop, as strangers passing by like we don't know each other. I guess we don't know each other like lovers or friends. Passive acquaintances but you reach for my hand suddenly and I am lost into your world dream sequence of another moment when the rain is now lapping at us as you kiss me to wake me up out of this. But am I really awake? You're not here, but I swear you did kiss me a moment ago. The air is thick with haze dreams and the veil cast over me once again and I found you now in a field. Holding a rake and a rabbit by it's ears. You tell me to come to you and I run the opposite way. I must hide away from you. Your presence too strong and I know of your demands. Get out of here now girl! Run to the other side of this dream realm and jump off the edge. Falling into blackness is better than in the jail of his arms. You'll never be free. The alarm rings and I wake. See you sleeping beside me and question you in my mind. Where were you last night? Beside me? No. You are a wisp of a dream ghost.
Lost Keys
5 minute timer
January 18, 2025
There was no way to crack out of the asphalt and through the walls it's kept us here in this city. The steam in the storm grates like clinched teeth with smoke coming out of them. They will eat you alive if you gave them a chance to. Hey baby, what's your name? Hey I'm talking to you. Walk on and ignore the following buildings and their blinking eyes that focus nightly to each other like some neighbourhood watch that keeps them aware of who enters and exists them, and who they choose to lock out. The key falls into the smoking grates that swallow it never giving it back. It will be shit out outside the city in some cesspool of sewer drainage. Your key to the door that don't want you there. Forget about it. Walk out of here. Get on that next greyhound and get far far away from this city before you are next to get swallowed in to the sewer's guts. Next time empty the trash daily, and dumpster dive in the rich part of town. The trash is nicer but sadly stinks more. Everyone asks who you are and what you are doing, just tell them that you're moving on. Far away. You'll never return. You'll not get eaten alive by nobody.
The Flow of Cash
5 minute timer (went around 20 seconds over to finish last sentence)
January 17, 2025
Blank in our commission we flutter over spikes and leap over the fire that burns below, always just out of our step. Jump through the barrier and into the core where we live out the days of lost knowledge of what things used to be. I know there's a fragment somewhere. We just have to look for it. Fate rolls us towards it every time. Doll head plastic scented flushed and blushed pages of tomes of tombs of knowledge. It sleeps in our minds and opens them up to expose our brains to the light. It can't always be shut off, or turned off like a tap that don't leak in the middle of the night keeping you awake. It will tap on our shoulders and wash the dust off our eyes and we can see new prospects. Cars crash and birds flash and cash flows from one hand to the other but not ours. We have more richness that isn't material. Knowledge, books and wealth of words that can fight material dollars dead phantom coins that trickled like rain into nothingness. Emptiness can't be filled with a bank vault gold bars of the jailhouse. Cracked and bleeding dry hands go filthy with money, gets inside the wounds until their hands are blood red and they finally are able to cry tears again.
The Draft in the House
5 minute timer (I went a about half a minute over because I was in the flow)
January 16, 2025
The way you stop short of draining into the harbour each time the fog comes in, it's like a soundless incantation to the atmosphere. You move on and away from here, dissipating into the steam of the smoke stacks loud groans into the winter's nigh like two mist lions shouting warnings. You return to my lips in the form of a name I keep quiet, and reserved only for the late hours. You are a ghost made of hunger and cravings. I am a human made to wander away from spirits in fog and memory that my body keeps. Ghost hold nothing that is tangible but ache in the soul, and rain on the window accentuating their haunting until the dampness settles into every corner of your bones, and he is the draft that blows through your body's house until you beg for him to come close to warm you.
A Time Will Come
5 mintue timer
January 15, 2025
The slip of silk and the kick of thunder into the plain of exestintal minds that force open the door closed and the night that falls down into black coffee cups. The world goes on. Regardless. It will see the dawn. It will happen even if all you have inside your box is uncertinty. Wolves will always lay down with sheep until they awake inside jawbones. Crack and clack bone and hooves. There are shadows in forests that we don't see in the dark that want to either sooth or distort. We will be ok. The face of the sun turns down to warm us and it burns off the smoke in the air. We rip the cobwebs from our eyes to see just what will lay in shattered glass around us, and we will take up the craft of piecing it all back together. Nothing is broken forever. There's a fix to everything when you have the knowledge and practice the skills. The moon will hook it'self into your eye. You will be hungry. Heartbreak will happen. It's what makes knowledge and boiled down fool's gold will trick the eye. Know the difference.
A Warm Winter Day
5 minute timer
January 14, 2025
The air up there was so crystal clear and smooth it was like drinking a cup of cool water to breathe it in like it was a rational word to cash in a profit on. Open the window to have it toss the curtains like a couple of hands that wave hello. The whispers of the breeze through the plant in the far corner dancing slightly to it's own beat in it's mind. This is how you let the spirits evaporate from the walls and bring in the freshness of a mock spring day in winter. The total quiet soothes, with the occasional car in the street going about it's own business. Taste the dew off the cup of mead left out the metal of the chair still cool to your warmth it's like a miracle that you can be here. Breath all this in and know you were not left to dissolve into the walls and concrete and that everything looks new because of this rebirth. You are not joining the spirits in the walls or the bookshelf. You breathe. Taste the air and are here to enjoy winter-spring with one more mouthful of mead slipping down your throat.
Prayers At The Café
5 minute timer
January 13, 2025
The stars exploded when you walked past leaving a shower of glitter falling down coating the city streets and all the little awning of buildings. The café shook their hair dry of it. Falling like confetti to the gutter path of the rain shower water into the grate to end up traveling underground. Way underground when you really can't see anything or hear the heartbeat of car motors anymore. But you do hear the silence siren that drones low not really hear but feel the sound in your chest. You wake up from all of this. Drink your coffee and wonder if that guy would return to shake the world up again with his foot falls and smile. The sun starts to shine through the two pipes that are sticking out of the top of the building across the street, like some magical pillars that count the time with sun positions and the druids all chant low in the street below it wishing for a harvest that will help them get through the winter. The rain stopped at least. We all pray with them. Pray for coffee and just getting through the day.
Feathers Not Guns
5 minute timer (went over by a minute to finish a thought)
January 12, 2025
It was the best you could do with the shell that was given, though cracked and let the rain in and drafts around the corridors chilled you at night. You know that you made a home for yourself and though it was small and only you could fit inside, it was at least peaceful. You moved on like the arm of a clock like that. You always found it. Always moved on. Sleep can clash with your life and make you forget things, like your talk, and the words to some songs from the elders, but you move forward, always. You know the more you walk the more you will remember. Stand defiant against strong wind as a protest to those who didn't think you could make it through. Warrior woman on wings of an eagle. We never stay down. We stand tall and turn our back to the wind and face the sun. Wear our feathers proud and dance when those say we need to only walk low. Sing out our songs when we should shut up and know our place. We will never disappear, even though our brothers and sisters disappeared along highways and alone in fields, we will walk tall for them. Know that they are in our every purposeful step. Nobody will ever cut our hair again. Our feathers threaten more than a white man's gun.
Dream Currency
5 minute timer
January 11, 2025
Wild winds rushing over the black and white of your dreams like a film noir that has a broken screen. I am nothing but a picture on the wall with dust setting in the corners of the frame. Something you took years ago and it hasn't changed except me and you outside the glass time moves onward and away count your blessings that every one here is a stranger They don't pass your eye a second glance or know you're there except the rare hello passed from mouth to ear like a form of sound currency to ride on the silences. Everyone has a black umbrella to shelter their pale skin from the rain mixing the oil paint of where and black to a mute grey. No more word pocket change now to give out to you, and you leave the streets penniless and discarded from the windows of the stores until a random streetlight finds you exposed under it's hot seat light.
Fruit Juice on Film
5 minute timer
January 10, 2025
The taste of cold steel is the feel of the kiss you lean into and feel like you will die without it and the mouth that tastes of blood red passion fruit sweet juice crushed in the glass of your bedside and perfume on your neck you smell like a candle and lace flowers that weave in and out of the window in the breeze dark outside and raining you brush me with an eyelash gentle hand and the sunlight turned black until it washes itself golden in the morning, like the fruit juice you reach for and the passion fruit kiss of tropical washes of flavour mixed with lip balm tastes like a summer's childhood. No more now gone and dissolved into nostalgia I lay here next to you with nothing more than lust and an orange you bite with feverous blood thirst and I wonder where your fangs are as you come to my neck they retract and I flash mine and we are art girls in a film from long ago lost in fever gales of oil paint and wine and incense smoke curls.
The Fog Will Tell You
5 minute timer
January 9, 2025
Without leaving any forwarding address and no string of numbers that connect phone line to phone line, dissolve into the fog that rolls off the harbour and vanish. The night will do it's own thing in your absence and it will roll into morning when the fog burns off disintegrating you with it. You are a ghost and a bird that flew away up into the sky, only to fall down as rain in another land where you pick up and dry off your feathers and find a new fog to float on, off some other harbour, or lake or maybe you will fall into the sea in it's vastness. Somewhere you will find a place to lay your feet down and touch grass once more. Put an end to flight and find a nest or a house to haunt. You will know it when you find it. Love hits you when you don't search and a home will claim you when it wants you. Nothing has to be worked towards. Just flow, like fog and like a bird on a current of air high in the swirl of mist and cloud and the stars are to be rain for a new night. Neither way is correct, it's bias and you will taste lips that will tell you when you found love and home. It will be, maybe not tomorrow, or next week or a year from now. But it will be when the time is right and the air leads you there when it wants. The perfume of fog will let you know.
Nothing Is Something
5 minute timer
January 8, 2025
We were empty of mirrors when the house fell down leaving black soot everywhere, and no where to fix your hair only sky and dangerous sharp jagged wood that we would lean against when it was a wall. The night air made the ash settle like velvet pieces that disintegrated when you touched them, like memories of what was there. It's all how material things vanish when we least expect them. Nothing remains but song and air and sky and fire and water and the thoughts you have when you try to fall asleep. Time ticks on with out a shrug to what you own. At least you don't have to dust anymore and keep up with the Jones'. Nothing is freeing and enslaving in the same breath. As the cool air sets into the bones of the house with no walls, you are your own house with your own bones and walls. Walk away from here. There's nothing left to gather, and where would you put it anyway? The only thing too big to fit in pockets is memories of life before this. Before the fire, and before your break down on the street for all the neighbours to see. Nothing is something in the end of it all. You can at least have that much. Take it to the bank and vault it up next to more nothing until all you have is gone.
Reading by street lights
5 minute timer
January 7, 2025
Crystallized skin on the lawns of the next door flower bead you see it in the starlight from at least 50 yards away the glint and prism colour wheel effect against buildings and skylines all empty of the moon and the moon beam milk poured out of the jars of rock and spheres roll on past the squares to land in the back of the city where the garbage is. This is where it grows and festers and feeds off everyone nothing left to do but protect the squares and hope to survive. Opened up the fridge and the squares fall to the floor melting into pools of nothing but wet transparency the cats and dogs finish them off and feel the cool against the heat of the fire above the house which scalds the landscape like a nuclear bomb falling happily in little dust over every inch of this happy town. Dance for the freedom and dance for the end of all wars because it's the end of the end. Spheres abandon garbage dumps and squares become cubes to stand ground. I read by the street lights that are still giving off light in a black out society.
July and February
5 minute timer
January 6, 2025
The world didn't end with jazz but a crash and settled down on the Sunday morning when we sat in the park that had glass on the grass and had coffee looking over the harbour from the top of the hill and we would talk about what would happen if you had string to tie up the lamp posts into a pile and fire them off in that cannon. I talked about how birds were like little black periods in between your language and would probably nest there until they had to fly south. Everyone leaves in winter it seems. Traveling on the backs of birds and return like winter never happened. But why? When you miss the crisp mornings like that? When the sun shines through snow and sweet scented ice sets in your hair. You can still enjoy parks, and conversations like this when you sit with me and we watch the cars whiz below on the streets like metal beetles busing themselves with life. It's like time zipping past but our time rests here. Warm next to you and the coffee cup warmth in hand. Who needs summer to feel like this? I am warm at your side as if you were August and I was February melting into you cooling your heat thirst.
Sunlight Lies
5 minute timer
January 5, 2025
I lack understanding of the sun as it is so cold that my skeleton feels like it will shatter like ice inside my skin. I know you are cold as well. I do my best to warm your hands. The sun is a liar on these days when the wind blows and you shiver and pray for the summer when you wish for the cold. I hold no truth in sunlight and the bright light it shines down over frosted windows that we wait in for the greyhound to pull up. I kissed you to keep my lips warm, and I saw that frost settled in to your eyes making them crack, and I walked away to the bus to take me out of here. Away from you and this cold. And I swore I would never return again, but I do in my mind. The cold day, and how ice melted a bit outside of your shadow, and how I would empty from my clothes in the cold again for you. I will return in physical form someday just to say hi but on a day that when the sun don't tell lies, and you are bronzed with sun like honey gloss on my lips.
Spider web life
5 minute timer
January 4th, 2025
We remain to scratch on the windows of doors like the naked tree branch. You float on like a spider web of silken drift on air, and float away. You no longer are here. Taken to the wind like a leaf that blew off in autumn wind that starts to cool the heat of summer off the earth. You are like the silent form of speech that the moon says when it speaks to the ocean water. Clinical white haze and blue pastel cool and possession over the living is lost in hands of threaded skin with yard spun from webs of the prism coloured spider who weaves what dreams make over our eyes and mouth to breath in the silence of nothing speak. Open the window that we scratch at. The streaks of fingers are tracing the dust off it leaving black marks on my tips and my nails are wearing down. I know you're not home. you'll never come home. The wind won't blow you back again. No leaf grows in your place. It's a house that has been emptied of people. The only thing that lives in it is the husk of memories that lay in dust in the top corners of ceilings that get neglected at cleaning time. You live there. In a speck that once lived there. You're human skin shed until you were just nothing but spider web and lost string off your green coat.
January 3, 2025
Media Memory
The crooked coat hanger adjusters for the antennas make for a static picture on the old TV where you can hardly make out the channel, but you watch anyway as there's nothing else on. Records play backwards and the fire goes out 19 ways to jump through the hoops of the wired for sound lighting streaks of silver radio waves to dive into coming up for air through the waves and hear in stereo but under here it's all mono low-fi and the scratch of the record's needle in the arm pours out music from yesterday. This is real media. The media of yesterday today better than yesterday and you can't find the remote control anymore. Lost somewhere deep in the back of the sofa where you dare not put your hand. The window opened to let the light in, hazing over the TV screen making it hard to see, like an almost burnt out tube, open the back and watch the wires ignite in a crackling crack on the screen glass, skipping the picture into two of us and we make for the perfect sitcom remember to leave something to the imagination for the next episode to keep them all guessing who done it and why.
January 2, 2025
Rotate The Right Way
The resetting of the stop watch constantly at the same time, this world clicks on it's clockwork grooves and snaps into place from time to time. It's always spinning no matter what. You can count on that. It's the waking eyes of time changing winter to spring, summer to fall, wolves to hunt, and squirrels to gather. It's the great mother of us all and the reaper when it runs our times up and we return inside the womb soil and become food to nourish it again. We melt like water, but storm like thunder. We are only human after all in all our flaws and aches standing on the edge of earth mother calling us back into her comfort and eyes that open to the new dawn when she wakes us to send us off to school and we open up the womb and crawl inside to be born anew each sun rise we stretch upward like plants do. What was the blinking bomb that ignited over there? Did you hear it? Or was it a heart exploding with love? We remember the times when life would rotate with the earth instead of fighting against it like so many seem to do now. Come back to earth. The natural. There's no wires here to control you, nothing that will feed data from your veins like blood. It's quiet. You can think for yourself once and for all. Dare to move against the grain as it's the way the earth turns. It wants no part of this, so why do we?
January 1, 2024
5 minute timer
The Employment of Ice
Leak through the cracks like melted ice off the side of shoes that storm past the gasoline streets during evening rush hour and clocks all ticking faster and faster, move through it, into the cracks and see how many backs you can save from sealing it up with your own very back. Press hard now, and make sure there's not holes. Mothers are counting on you. Beside the moon a star turns on it's switch and the whole sky lights around it, illuminating your little glint in the concrete. Doing your thing. Protecting cracks so the steps of feet don't fall in and snap back bones and it's always a job that goes unnoticed and under appreciated. No body fills these cracks. You can ask all day at public meetings until your voice is raw and it never gets done. Then the ice soothes the raw throat that then slips down the throat and into the cracks in your soul filling it up. Little folks walk unaware of you, and too busy to care you're under their feet holding up the world for everyone to make it home safely until the sun comes up to melt you in the morning, and you sleep until your evening shift begins again.
Go back to the top of the page.
December 2024
Stream of consciousness writing
December 31, 2024
5 minute timer
Year of Peace
Mirror of the lake shows back the sky, and the world seems flipped - so clear and calm. This is what the new year should be. To be the calm lake in the midst of the chaos of bat winged skeletal animals that flock around towers of power with shriek for the flesh of corpses.No this isn't it. This is not a way. Flash of light from minds that grew fat with money so much that the heart attack of brain will lead them to madness from greed. Nothing here but green. Trees, mirror lakes, and second sky within the flow until it trickles through rocks causing ripples. Escape for a little while with the water through stones, carry yourself through to the stream and find the ocean where you can sleep in a bed of depth and soundless. Beautiful blues and greens above floating like dreams that purify. Marbles for our eyes and shells for our hair. Sea the new oxygen for the coming year of resetting the self. Curl up into the grass to dry off and watch the space of sky and float upward
December 30, 2024
5 minute timer (about 5 seconds over to finish sentence)
Word Flow
Mixed up and jumbled up and rise up with the word's sounds in between the rustling of paper, then the strip from the spine spiral coils like a spinal tap tapping of pen. You can't lay here empty and void. I'm looking at you to fix the dead white with blue flat lines across your surface. I then find you coming through my pen like drunk's beer getting knocked over pouring out of the ink like some strange mix of black and brew blue hues forming shapes of letters and then somehow you're finished and cohesive and comprehensible sometimes without tweaks and judgment just flow free and let your spirit ride one off the page tonight and out the open window to disappear somewhere deep in the thick fog over the harbour and only slightly spotlighted on your departure by the lights of the coast guard's boat I can't see where you go. Somewhere you go forward knowing your own journeys, that is no business of mine. I just hope you end up in some part of the world where you cuddle up to someone tonight and tell them something they have been looking to hear. That's the magic of the creative flow and words that pour from pens.
December 29, 2024
5 minute timer
Television Snow Day
The poetic attack on the mayor was just a distraction from the real news when you turn one way and avoid the next the news at 10 repeats over and over like a skipping record until the whole broadcasts distorts to static snow falling chaotically over the further fields under the glowing TV screen as your only light seeing the snow blowing sideways as the wind takes it out of the house to the streets where it belongs. This isn't the premium subscription you paid for. You see it in another direction than sideways, you see it for the spirals that venture out of the streets and into the sky, and up it goes now. Watch. It blows the moon out like a blown TV tube until it shrinks into a tiny glowing dot until the back screen eats it with one chomp. You open the door to the TV room. The sunlight pouring in like a spilled picture of ice water all over you, all lemonade yellow and orange juice piss. You squint at the brightness as you walk into it, mistaking the sun for a television tube that set aglow again.
December 28, 2024
5 mintue timer
Muse Memoriam
This is how the day started, with dashes of water colours over the sky and the cat at the window taking it all in. Coffee warm waking and a yawn escapes still. The day closing with a different water colour pallet over the sky and the cat retired from the window long time ago to curl under blankets away from the winter days. Warm winter is a strange thing, like a phantom of spring that wisps by. I am at my own side and that is where I should be. Moving on through the night, enjoying wine and music and conversation. This is living. Slow and simple. Calm lake mirroring sky in my mind. Peace. Wine finishes and the bed is a welcome to curl and read and listen to music until dawn comes with it's painting anew. I think on you. And how you are close to me than air, and how you are more soothing in my ear than ambient music, you are anywhere and everywhere. I carry you in my heart everywhere. This is raw and sacred, and it's a locket that don't tarnish. I think of you and smile like glass blown into an ornate vase filled with love and loss and joy and melancholy, and it's all worth it. To experience such a muse that whispers in my ear like a ghost during automatic writing. I miss you and feel your spider web ghost touch against my cheek.
December 27, 2024
5 minute timer (stopped 10 seconds left)
The Promise
Awaken to the flush of sunlight on your face, this is what the day promises you - light and time anew. You can't ask for anything more than that. The rest is all extras that just happen. Pouring the coffee black as the night that is fading away to more of a lighter blue and the dots of birds that fly up into the sky. Did the moment stand still without notice? How to be fixated in one spot watching birds out of the kitchen window as you sip coffee as if we have all the time in the world. Well, we do, but not now. Work pushes us out the door like an irritated mother shoving kids along to get to school on time. We should never forget the in this work day and hustles that as stressed as it can be, at least there's still birds in the sky. The day can at least promise us that. The light, and birds are there, as sure as there's a ground under our feet. The night comes back again, pulling a dark screen over everything. Settles us in for the promise of light and birds the following day.
December 26, 2024
5 mintue timer.
Rocket to Nirvana
Start the rocket and shoot far up into the wool sky blanket and rip through, sending star dust blood down to sprinkle around the earth, settling in every lung and building cracks. This is the original air to breathe, without restraint to its silvery oxygen, that lifts you up further each day past the murders of crows and the clouds. I can pull you up here high as the rocket can go, fleeing into the crushed velvet of sky and glittering violet and golds. Brush your hair back, pin it up with a moon's hook through the eye of a needle and press deep into the skin that was earth's balloon that spins without notion of where we are. It can't find us up here. We're too high up. It can't call us back. We won't go back to the buzzing, spinning electrical noise below. Deep silence and holding our hands for stability, leap further outside the universe we know, to somewhere else we can't imagine. We are never turning back. Opening up the door to the blinding light of the edge of all creation to feel the glow of god like energy of the nothingness of peace.
December 25th, 2024
5 mintue timer (finished 10 seconds early)
Clawing Upward
When the sermon is done and has spilled out finally through cracked lips and sweat, the restless fever blinds, and you can't catch your breath until you are a lost researcher trying to find the answers to something you know nothing about. It's an ache to calm that never calms, only becomes a slow drumming beat inside your head until you think you are going deaf. It's always there, just behind the concrete bone of cracked openings where the knowledge has seeped out like matter. You can't mend it or put it back. You claw up the cliff but fall further down with every loose pebble. Drawn out cancellation of the emptiness of soul reservoir which has been begging for rain for a long time, cracked and dry dust blows away from you, never able to collect the pieces of fine powder to build it up whole again. This is what the dark brings when you're looking for light, and this is what the light brings when you're so blind you beg for some darkness. Never quenched. Never satisfied.
December 24, 2024
5 minute timer
Water Flows Under Closed Doors
Silently sweet rituals that remember the bitterness of grief over the sea's deprived sand. You and I walked along here a decade ago wondering if the numbers on the doors would equal to the combination that opens the lock with clicks that echo over the night empty streets. They didn't, but we liked to think they would. I leaped over the rocks and plunged into the grass that was brown and dull with lack of water, even though the ocean was just a foot's step away from it. The tree above, sucking up all the sun and rain. Nothing left for it to borrow from old roots. The wind blew through the grass, sounding like a thousand hushed whispers in a language you could not understand. We felt so foreign and stupid to their voices. That's nothing that mattered as we laughed it away nervously, knowing those doors will stay closed, and we had to do something else. Dreams only exist riding on the backs of birds that scattered over city skyscrapers, picking through the trash for nourishment. We craved thirst but lost the water.
December 23, 2024
5 mintue timer (stopped 10 seconds left)
The Mind of the Afternoon
Robotic wedding of corpses in the hills where the banks throw coins in the river and retirement of the coffee cups in the sink lots of noise buzzing out of the light sockets in plastic machinery that smells of burnt wires. Take back the poly and the cotton gauze off the wounded afternoon of empty cupboards that creak open over the counter and blocks the light from the windows. Nothing amounts to something when you look over to the bookshelf that has no pages and void of words, they spilled over the sides through the door space between the wood and into the floor boards that were neglected to polish in 50 years. Cats yawn with dogs and curl up in the yews Silence then when they sleep until the crows start to fly out of the sky cracks and wake up the taxidermy moose head over the mantle and all the world starts buzzing at once like live electrical wires jumping to life after cut down. You check your watch. See it's past the sun dial and turn to me with a smile. You know what I'm thinking, don't you?
December 22, 2024
5 mintues (stopped at 6 seconds)
Street Light Auras
We move and erase the sky that dipped into the skyline when the buildings stand like giants in the distance over the hill. Their blinking eyes flipping on and off with many eyelids that move in separation of each other. Mouth of the harbour agape filled with water that throws up over the rock bones on the side. Birds picking at the creatures in between and under. We empty into the street light aura, full of liquor and music talking in poetry found on bathroom stalls the pipes that filter through the building bringing secrets to the sewer where you hear them laugh and scream all night too much too soon. Lots of ways out of the city sewers if you are determined. We were there, we escaped and so can they who scream into the late hours. Fun never lasts, and soon you get smacked awake, however there is calm like sitting here with you under this city night sky studded with stars and the wilderness of buildings stretching up tall with pride. They made it out and so did we. We just had to stretch far enough. No more bowing and crumbling at foundations. No more splashing into cars that hit us into asphalt afterlives.
December 21, 2024
5 minute timer (stopped 15 seconds early)
Ocean Walk As the Lilacs Die
The way he moves up the steps passing by the dying lilacs that shake their perfume in one last gasp, scents the kiss he gives me that shakes the birds from their slumber in the tree tops as I mistake the moon for his eyes. The ocean threw back its hair in a flirtatious toss as he walked past it. I know it beckons to him to sleep in its arms like all women do. I wrap my arms around him like the ocean would wrap over him and pull him into it's bed, the glint of seashells crackles under the dock work lights. This pulls him back past the dying lilacs shallow breaths and bowed heads, as the mead in the cup by the bedside goes neglected with the glow of the street light outside the window reflected inside it, casting its reflection through to rest over his mouth.
December 20, 2024
5 minute timer (stopped 14 seconds)
The Rider
This wasn't the scene to spill over the sides of the chair and empty yourself into the storm drains. This was the place to deny the mountain's height existence and climb, knowing you will reach the top without full seeing the distance. Sometimes mind over matter works, and you cough out the gravel that slows down your body. You move faster and realize you are amazing. If only you can see how to do that, as I can see it. The nightly rain falls over you like a beautiful gloss, making you majestic, and you rise up on a silver horse and leave with a rumble down the road where you disappear out of site. You're heading for the mountains, heading for the climb. You can get there. Just one foot in front of the other. The time is now on your side, my dear. You can do it without convictions and the chains that held your feet down to the concrete. Fly on that chrome that shines in the moon and burns eyes in the sun. You are part of this road and it is going to lead you where you need to be. Nothing else matters but when you come back, hold me and tell me you won, even if you didn't. I will wrap you in my limbs, and we will sink into this mud and grass and never resurface until the next day's sunlight wakes us up from stone slumber.
December 19, 2024
5 minute timer (Stopped 4 seconds early)
The Wage of Frost
The wage weary of northern Frost sits down on the bench thinking about the time that everything in the air had the taste of sodium, and the cough-up of mining town phlem. The past was the past, and frost gets off the bench to search for the light from the store window to read the map of where to get to nowhere, and the warmth of the quota punching coal fires that settle down over the hills to the valleys, and it was there that it would warm itself until it melts, and then finds its way travelling through sidewalk cracks, to find a drain to then find a river, to meet the ocean, and travels further away from here. This dead town with coal mine lung dust that cripples with each cough. Sunsets no longer will be grey, and the time on the town clock actually moves with the sun and moon, like tides do, carrying frost far from this place. Guided by will and moon, it will never look back. It will push forward and onward to the better wage, and better warmth and clear air. This was frost's promise to itself, and a promise that it won't freeze again.
December 18, 2024
5 minute timer
Inside the Pages
Reflecting on the language of a name while fields of quotations spring up to meet the sun of the word, this is what it's like to fall inside the paper and look around at the words on it. See them tall and long, much like buildings of a busy city where comas and periods come rushing by, off to other words and emphasizing structures. Then the melody of poetry floats in the air like a gentle breeze that blankets around the white floor with blue ley lines that create structure, so everything don't fall and collapse on itself. Masters of poetry peer down from the sky like gods and goddesses giving birth to more stanzas and I see it all and yet not fully aware of the meaning of the word sculptures until I look closer and see most reflect me and the world around me. Here inside these pages, I can't even comprehend the larger area of a book outside all this. This is the world. This poem and these lines of blue streets and the punctuation busing themselves to keep everything in order like little cops. This is the passion of writing and the writer's dreams when they dream in words, giving breath to concepts dripped in ink.
December 17, 2024
5 mintue timer.
Moon Dials and Sun Clocks
Past the orange house now brown you are there at the gate with the bowl in hand and coffee cup talking about moon dials and the sun clock that has struck you down, and you told me about the time the clay came out of the earth to move into the back of the yard and resides there now. You are part of this clay. It holds your heart in it's hands like an honoured gift. You know it will never leave, and it makes your heart eternal that way. So crazy, but yet I listen and know that there's a song or poem in all of this and take mental notes of your visions and revision of your lives you lead in the past. It's starting to turn dark now. The coffee is almost done, and now recedes back into a small drop at the bottom of the cup, reminding us that everything drains out in life. The coffee and life. We are not here for long so take the pace of the sun by the way of the clocks and the watch on my arm is just human time not celestial, and I pick up your crystal and hand it back and say I feel the vibes from it, but I didn't. Your long grey hair glinting like sterling silver strands dashing to and fro on the wind. You are the hippie that reflects the shore of the harbour and I turn to go wishing you well.
December 16, 2024
5 mintue timer (I went a couple seconds over to finish my last sentence)
The Crows and the Phoenix
Cream dreams make coffee for guards on duty and empty visions ripped out of the eyes of the Phoenix before it turns to ash becomes yours, and you then set the blaze and renew the ashes to dance with sparks of life. Opened up boxes of blonde golden hairs wrapped around a heart still beating. Eating nothing but air and light, and at least 50 people remember how it used to be when that heart was inside a person who was so fiercely strong that legends would be created in the stones of villages long past. Where did you go? You were here. I have memories of it. I remember when you passed by me at the café and smiled, and we ended up sitting in a park together talking about life and how this sky is your fire that birthed you. The crows scattered on the power lines like dots over Rue St-Denis, and we knew that you had tips on how to get them to give you little shiny things. They knew your face, the crows, like I remembered you. Icy blue eyes that made every woman in Montréal forget her name, and you then shattered into a thousand feathers like a phenom phoenix who splashed down into a mirror of self ashes waiting for another spark.
December 15
5 minute timer
Night Fields
The moons hook embedded in the eye of earth when the grass swoosh back and forth fanning the sky and dusting the stars to one side. We slice through the tall grass, sway too and fro from the edges of the field where we think we could jump off the side into nothingness and the void of stars that live under the earth. No one sees those, but they're there. We can smell them like glittering icicles that twinkle and tink all night if you listen hard enough with your ear to the soil. The little shuffling of worms keep them dusted and shinny. We would eat of the apple from the trees that gave the taste of bitterness like licking stones and river water that cuts through this landscape like a transition dream that moves you forward deeper into the nighttime when all the world sleeps or works hard under factory machines that grind and whine we are here. Clear air filling our lungs and hands that will give breath to a new day in just a few hours. The sun opens its lazy eye, and we go home to sleep well into the afternoon, then crinkle back the sheets like tinfoil and I brew us a coffee dark as last night's sky.
December 14, 2024
5 minute timer
Kool-aid Dreams
kool-aid flavoured summer time liquor ice dreams moving through the mist and into nostalgic music and smells of coppertone and popsicles. We had fun didn't we? Splashing in the apartment water faucet puddles and chasing around the rocks of the lawn's carpet of green sweet scented herbal grass, moving faster and throwing higher than ever before. Who knew this would be something that didn't last forever those summers? That childhood? That fun? Where can it be now? Everything moves so quickly in the flash of a stream hit by lightening it's gone. People are gone and times are gone and at the time, you thought it would last forever. It can seem like a far away yesterday when you think on it. Hard to believe we've been there, compared to where we are here. Nothing can bring it back sadly. I would give a breath and a kiss to have one more splash in that puddle with you or the scent of wet cardboard stores and that roll down the drive way of swamp land memories where the cat tails grew far taller than me and were such magical things, thinking they grew into the tails on cats. We wish for yesterdays so much. Simple and carefree.
December 13, 2024
5 minute timer set but stopped writing with 21 seconds left.
Thank You
All through the glass was a smash-through splatter of beginnings and endings of bullet days of last year and this year and the future filters through the cracks. Laughing is here in this cage, and you can't open it until then. A gift for your darker times, and when the dark times come, flick up the light switch to on, to watch it scatter away like cockroaches at the sight of light scattering into the cracks in floor boards and walls. We dusted the shelves and wrote our names in snow with moonlight piss and switchblade symphonies, when the dawn came we cuddled together on the sofa and watched claymation dreamscapes and landscapes of cardboard houses that melt in the rain. You are the best to chill out with when those roads are wet and slippery, and it's too dangerous to go home. I sleep here curled up like a cat next to you and touch your heart with an invisible hand to say thank you for this bed, and company, and clay pots still gather dust under the moon's smoke and coughing fits as it inhales the stars.
December 12, 2024
5 mintue timer
The Dance
Pull back the sun veil and see where the wind went. It was here and now gone to give way to the rest of the day when the rain drifted onward away from here. Maybe in the direction of you where you sit watching the birds act erratic because of the on coming wind. They scurry to busy themselves with worms and sprinkle down over the telephone wires that crisscross the city. All the old men watch eastward as the sun starts to set, and they taste the air is going to be filled with rainstorms in the midst. Better to rush home from this coffee to slip into the door quickly before it comes. It knows your movements and where to hit you with its blast of cold. It is relentless with trying to tear down the leaves in the branches as they clash against the darkening sky, waving on thunder strips and shake with a swaying witchcrafty dance under the closing eyes of sunlight to the opening eyes of the moon. There is nothing left to drain off in the street gutters. The rain washed the dust clean down the drain to the sewers, where it's the rats that have to sweep well into the night.
December 11, 2024
5 minute timer
Snow Falling Asleep
That sort of snow falling, blanketing the streets in silence and glowing street lights. The way it turns everything into a picture that could be framed is a talented painter's hand brushing over the little corners of everything here. White snow against black sky. The mouth of the harbour swallowing most of it. The glitter of flecks of ice on the windows makes magic to the cozy insides of the eyes, where we rest with drinks in hand. This is the holidays on show. Parading like a beautiful postcard sent from some distant relative that only sends postcards and little else. Not a word from them the rest of the year. Moon keeps time over the city and illuminates the spot where the animals go to curl inside trees and little burrows until the thaw. Their eyes close, little pieces of fuzzy felt and sleep until spring says "wake little ones." They then put out their little story book fire places, and go outside to greet the sun and thawing world with sleepy eyes and new beginnings start there.
December 10, 2024
5 minute timer
The City's Final Phone Booth
Hang up the receiver instead of hanging on, the cord crossed over itself leaving a twisted tangled line, lines that are like ley lines that move city to city, through dead air and dead space tossing wet leaves down to the violent ground around the place where you are at the monument, and I am at the shore where nothing but space remains and the deep impenetrable dark fog around us all. There's nothing left to talk about and nothing left to speak to the phone about when it's all been said soul to soul and that crossed lines distort the speaking like we were robotic and talking in monotone tales. This phone line was dead long ago. Someone stole the box containing all the quarters out of the bottom, leaving a hole where the change went. Is that where you reside? The hide and the found there underneath the old phone booth telephone where the line was cut long ago? Nobody speaks inside there. The booth is mute.
December 9, 2024
5 minutes
Under The Tree
It came that way the way you were going to go to move backwards from in the dark of the night you synthesize the music around the grass that brushed it's green against the night backdrop of the park and the coffee was warm and comforting, and it provided that bit of protection against the chill we always said that we would meet here below the roots of this tree where we burrow like animal children into the ground until we reached the core of the earth's apple. Spit out the seeds and hope they plant anew, growing as tall as the sky's dome above us. Birds would nest like little play dough type creatures snuggled into it's branches here in this night-park where everything is still except for the laughter of two men sharing a beer in the distance and the hum from the downtown shoppers that the world seems to be a kaleidoscope of lives churning in and around each other in their own space and pace. We leave the tree, and the seeds, and move back towards the harbour where the boats dock like wooden horses coming into a stable waiting for a drink.
December 08, 2024
5 minute timer
Writing prompt: Footprints
The Crow Child
The rain pooled inside of footprints, and cars screeched to a halt outside a window where the footprints have vanished, and there was no search effort to the tracks leading out into nothing that melted when the rain reclaimed the snow turning to flat ice that glinted under the full moon's bright face. 20 years and they never found you. As if you evaporated when the spring came, leaving no bones in the ground, and no more essence of you on earth. I bet you flew away like a crow. High up into the night sky and now live behind the glittering of stars that you turn out the lights to when you go to bed. You have this new life up there. You go to work and return home with just as little pay as you did down here. Still working yourself to the bone, but happy for what little you have. You never cared for material things when you were a crow person, who soared high and left this earth behind. I know that the Creator built you a nest. I saw the twigs you sneak on my back steps sometimes. Hear your caw, but never see you. You're not early like that anymore for human sight.
December 7, 2024
5 minute timer with a word prompt of land and sea, though I went a bit over 5 minutes to finish the final sentence.)
(Untitled)
He knew how to snap lead that lived in his heart until it got so cold that it would crack open and expose the water inside that rushed deep and full like the sea that lived within, and all the fish that lived in his sea-heart that would shimmer like little gold flecks when the sun hit it. He wasn't what he thought he was. He thought he would thrive where he was, and he did - for a time. When the sun hid inside a blanket of black velvet, and the moon would illuminate the gold sea heart fish, he would look away from his house and wonder what was inside the forest beyond. It was dark and he knew she was wild. Choose the safety of the sea, or the wild of the forest. She was cold as he, but she had depths that ran dark like roots that burrowed to the core of the earth. There she was warm, and he knew if he broke past the dark and the snow she would unravel for him her vines and branches and welcome him into her warm dark depths. But he played it safe and didn't stray. He instead dreamed of the dark wolf fur of her, and the wilds of her heart, and she dreamt how he could water her roots to make her grow strong.
December 6, 2024
5 minute timer
You and I
15 and then 20 and then 100 you come here and you move to the beat and you move me and you and I sway and dive into the airwaves of sound and you and I break down the barriers and you and I bridge distance and you and I touch with such a force the world shakes and breaks in two you and I never broke down and you and I never back down and you and I never backwards only forwards and you and I move to this song and sound moves you and I closer and closer still when the music has stopped and you and I move away from the speakers and deeper movements back down the stairs to the streets and you and I slip between sheets music moves you and I closer and closer until we are both just and I and I and You and You all encompassing like the universe of sound and back beats beating hearts faster as we are I and You and Me and We and one by one we are one on one and this song is playing just for us and we made this song that brings us to one I and one You and eyes connecting to I and you and me and we and night waves of music in the air between sheets and music notes ring up tempos and we sleep in silence of sound you and I
December 5, 2024
5 mintues (stopped 10 seconds left)
Telling Time
Many times after time and time after that time and time immemorial we concentrated on our watches, and clocks, the analog flipping of numbers, moving us forwards not back, and we know that every time we see a clock it reads 11:11 no matter the am or pm of time moving backwards and forwards and there's a shift everywhere in time keeping time to the tune of the ticking and chimes and bells and vibrations of time that stopped the timer of the moment the sand that empties out of its vessel keeps ancient time before AD, and it all started with the big bang the beginning of time before it had numbers. The time it had numbers was because we invented the numbers to count time, before numbers what was time? Just a ticking in the universe? Just a sun passing by in the sky? The sundial howls at the moon dial and tells us that time is running out and in keeping time is held in our hands in glass windows we put on our wrists and pockets. Our way to holding onto time.
December 4, 2024
5 minute timer (stopped writing with 14 seconds left)
The Glass
A snowflake slides off the hook of the moon to land in my glass on this December evening watching the people below in the streets move up and down as on a film made as stock footage of a busy city street scene we are part of it all, the film moving forward in life and dreams like an old VHS tape with dust in between the strips. I finish the last bit of wine in the glass and hear it tink on the window sill like a muted bell that hasn't chimed for a long time in an old church that is left dusty and barren. Forgotten on some old land somewhere. Where did those people go? Who remembers that land? It is as if the earth swallowed them up and there was nothing left but this church on a hill, that phantomly rings it's bell sounding like the wine glass on my window sill that had a drip of snow melt into its redness. Christ's blood, the bell and the silence of lost lands in this busy city street below the window where the cold air blows in like drifts of a loud lullaby. It's almost time to sleep and dream of all of this in distorted ways, like old films that got mashed up with another until it's a resemblance of what it was in the beginning, all playing through a window sill like honey hued sepia.
December 3, 2024
5 minute timer
Old Records
dusty scent of old record cardboard and vinyl and I transport into a after feild of memorywhen I put the needle on you and let is ride your groves and into the dips for the sound of nostalgic dreaming fast and slow and like a curling of smoke caught in sunlight drifting back this is the power of music and the power of you to remind me of these times. Old records never die Ian says and I believe him. I know some day I'll play this song and cry and know that later I'll have another memory to this song. You live in this record sleeve, and will live there long after you leave. The harmony and memory ever ingrained like record groves on my mind, skipping to
one much loved spot and I fall into your arms and we dance once more to this and then make love to that, and then curl in a blanket on the floor listening to these songs and the rain keeping time outside the window above sprinkling in on us from time to time with the wave of sound and the fire crackle of needle meeting vinyl. This is time, this is sound, this is what it means to love something so much and never letting it go. I to you, and you to me, and us to music.
December 2, 2024
5 minute timer (though finished a sentence when the timer went off.)
Soul to Soul
Slow water ebbing distant flows like bellows of horns over the water from big floating mechanical whales in the distance coming into dock. Ripples trickle over the shiny rocks, who press their little faces up to the sky for answers to their lives - the hows and the whys. Wear are here to live for you to shine looking up at us. We must be like giant gods looking our gaze down. Share your stone energies with me so I can know your histories like the rain knows the tales told by clouds. Blissfully clear this mirror to mirror we look into each other and ourselves human to stone and stone to human, each of its own flesh as granite, and granite as flesh.
December 1, 2024
5 minute timer
Words and Street Lights
Reading in the dark except by street lights is the way to open up to what is under the page of the book and somewhere in between the letters is a shadow of mysterious meaning that can probably spell out the name of god. You look further into it, and go deeper into the page and try to decipher, but it's always just an eyelash length away from you. I feel that way when it comes to your lips and the motion that feels like I'm speeding down the dark snake road on my bike when the motor is in a frenzy and I try my best not to skid out on the black ice. You tough me awake from reading and I realize there's no meaning in this book, and nothing in between the words. You are too awake for me to dream with. I close you like the book, and get up to read alone back against a street light that hums a droning backdrop to the scenery within the book and me. Moths scatter like pieces of paper above tinking against this light where they too try to look inward to find themselves by going inside out of themselves and the light. 15 minutes in and they give up. Flutter way white against the black sky until the light no longer has them in a grasp. They vanish into the ink.
Go back to the top of the page.
November 2024
Stream of consciousness writing
November 30, 2024
5 minute timer (yet stopped writing in the final 20 seconds as I drew a blank)
Freedom
what remains to keep when the water has poured out of our hands empty and nothing left to drink will I have to turn to hunger as a distraction from the thirst and the pain of head banging guns and avalanches in the distance when you wake up and ask me what is wrong I'll say nothing and to keep you safe from the destruction I'll read you poetry and sing out prose to make you at ease and I will slip out of the room with the rope still tied to my waist like an umbilical cord tied to the window sill where I am a pet to the outside and the inside is unaware. Nothing clashes like peace and war, and nothing clashes like you and I against the backdrop of mushroom clouds that smile lifting their faces upward to the sky in hope for freedom, only to fall back down to earth in sparks that ignite white doves turning them black as ravens to make the crows envious. It's crazy that the world goes on like this. Save your eyes, I tell you, you'll need them to rest when the radiation comes raining in.
November 29, 2024
5 minutes
Waking Up
All of this is empty said the square fleeing from the scene in the purple cadillac the colour of cognac and 50 time around the block chase zooming into the backdrop of night and stars sprinklelike birthday cake decorations and all at once the world has stopped. Empty and void, and we float in nothing and static and white noise this is what silence is behind the veil and you wondered where this will take us next as you drift into the white light of eternal being nothing more than a speck into the universe's vastness and aloneness. BANG and you go back to earth in a bus ride to somewhere with a news paper in hand and you remembered some childhood that wasn't yours but you knew it well. Some body coughs and you get distracted in the newspaper line about some sort of war happening somewhere else, not here though, here is sunny and peaceful and a child sips orange juice from a cup laughing into the sun from the window and his mother looks wearily onto nothing to the window across from her. The sun showing her youthful old age and you're wondering how long this bus will take to get you to the office where you will sift through showers of papers until you hope you will not be late to supper with your
November 28, 2024
No timer set, just a few minutes of quick notes at a park
on the way home thinking on the city in the morning. However,
still uneditited flow as nomal.
The Bike Ride
fashion clashin' up and down the side walk where powder hides in businessmen's pockets with
mistress' phone numbers and work contacts, and some city worker whipes his brow from sucking out the sewer while warming their hands with a coffee. My bike flashes past all this and the road is turning my bones to asphalt as I become the road I am on. That's the magic of bikes and birth - becoming a machine. And the earth rotates like my free wheel still, even in the most fucked of times. This world is just an enfant learning to crawl. We don't know what we are, but we know we have breath, and have this crisp sunny morning moving through this city's veins where we are both it's blood and it's heroine.
November 27, 2024
5 minutes
Mother Nature's Birth
melting fire between cracks in concrete and the ice that sooths over it
makes no music to the pipers that spout the music wine and life from reeds
and the grass waves to you to come lay down and take it all in under this
empty night sky with far distant sprinkles of stars that explode upon eye touch
and the scent of wet ozone fills your mouth as you know that this is what breath is,
this is what life is, this is what you live for over and over, to touch earth with gentle feet
and know that you are part of the soil and one day you will be in it, and sink into the core of
this earth's womb and be cradled there until the time you are reborn under the blue moon
and shake loose bohemian clicking bracelets and bells on your feet. You are part of the rope that
will pull in a new world of breath and life and you know you will decend then
when the earth touches sky and the dress comes off and you are naked with roots entwining.
You are mother earth and you will sing with those pipers when God has died and you will
claim what man has destroyed making it new again and whole again. Mother nature has come and
nature weilds her sword ruthlessly gentle and soft.
November 26,2024
5 minute timer
The Book
I would run down the pathway feeling the rocks under my feet through the thin shoe soles and I would run to burry myself into your pages deep, musty and water damaged sometimes old and dusty I loved your words so much and how they would comfort me in times of hardship and strife and I knew when I got older I would speak my own words into your spine and speak my story of life and experiences inside the pale white flesh of old attic books and yards of poetry strewn all over the lawn and set alight with the fire of someone reading it all in the corner of libraries and old book stores where you would find me there fallen open on the floor in the corner and you would pick me up and say "I know how this feels" and hold me in your hands as I held cohen and plath and Lau and called on them daily to see how they were and how I was through them. You will find yourself within my words and pages some day and I can tell you I know how you feel, and we can run through this book store together, all the way down the street to your apartment where we will talk all night over coffee until its time for bed and you dream of me and my words.
November 25th, 2024
5 minute timer
Silent Sight
On the afternoon when the sun shone gold liquid down around everyone, the parade came by
to a wold of people with deaf ears, and those with hearing had no sight, no body was enjoying it
the parade passed by them without a thought to the spectators, nothing really moved past them again
it was grey most days and the silence then made everyone equally deaf, and the grey clouds came down to rest
on their faces to make everyone blind. This was their punishment for living in their own bubbles caring only for themselves without helping other to see and others to hear. They locked inside themselves and bodies went untouched and unkissed. Grass grew over them. Nature took back what was its. Grass covered mouths and eyes and soon soil moved over them as they were rooted to the spot ensnarled by grass and roots. The world carried on above them as they laid there at the core of the earth. Silent and sightless. It will be that way for millions of years until some body digs deep in the core to uncover bones and wonder what they were all about. Their silent deaf bones that will tell no story other than some humans died here and probably because of their own destruction.
November 24, 2024
5 minute timer
The Dare
When the waves move me here, and your whisper is wraped up in my hair tossled at the wind's salt hand,
I remembered that I can be an empty vessle, to be filled up with this sand to tell time with the draining of grains, and your hand brushed the mud out of my eyes when I looked up at the sky and saw that you were there, and life was wonderful then, when you were near I could hear what speeches were inside the ocean,
and all the little creatures sleeping inside of coral cooing in their dreams. You shake me from reality, and I "
Thank you for that. Now with drifts and drift wood pushed you onward, and I went East, I lost that dreamscape
embrace from your essence, and know that this was the dream I had to wake from.
You are a mirror for eternity to gaze at itself in. You are breath, and air, and the dare I want to take.
November 23, 2024
5 minutes
I Know Who You Are
What of blood that lays on your arm as heavy as the heart of a bird that dove cooed into your
window heart of lead and warmed itself there, when the sky kissed the surface of your body
that afternoon in the backdrop of grey rock and granite was your cage. You sung hard and loud
for the gift of voice had come to you when you rinsed your hands clean of bird heart blood from
your arm and the mechanical dove sound recordings echoing from it's throat upon last breath.
You kill with a smile like a riffle so hard in your hand, when tears and blood meant nothing then,
and you forced yourself into the heavy air humid with echoing bullet-smiles. None were as strong
and deadly as yours. What woman passed by you and survived? Once flash of blue steel pistol eyes,
and crack of a smile shot leaves her breathless as the dead in the ground. Your white body against my
olive Metis body bronze by culture, and yours bronzed by sun. I layed with you Killer. I knew you
by name, and knew one day I would run free and break your chains. Leaving them empty on the ground
in the shape of circle where I was chained to your back.
November 22, 2024
5 minutes
The Rain and You
You fell with the rain that night when the grass felt like glass and smooth cool touch of grass rain fell around you falling to earth like wind rustling down alley ways and shaking the street lights awake. Always on time no matter what came by nothing of the sort when the tress shuffle down the street under the moon that wakes and bakes with the sun behind it invisable to us and to you with your smile in your eyes that light the moon and all my lights in the house go out and you climb back up the drain and fall down with the rain when you speak in hyrogliphics and hydrolics move with the sideways rain in this wind that is always on time in the mainline of the underground pipelines that sink further into the earth that is wet with rain and wet from you and everything grows there deep in the earth womb of soil and glass-grass under our feet. Silently little creatures curl into balls and sleep in the trees that rustle and bustle with the film of silver gloss wet with rain and you and your kiss tastes like the ozone and rain wet drowning in you and me and around us under this moon that blinks it's eyes twice for help from the sun.
November 21, 2024
5 minute timer set
Moon Shells
There was that kind of sound that was heard in your sleep like when the lofty trees are like paint brushes against the sky, that rustling of oxygene and the cider crisp air danced through them, rustling them like I love the feel of my fingers in your hair, and how you sigh into my kiss like rustling trees. you are organic in your love and programic ivy streams off the sides of buildings to reach out to try to touch you as you pass them. They lay against building like shy school girls and hold fast to the walls as if they were soldiers holding onto guns for their lives. Ocean receeds and bends the surf rocks these stones and shells that look like cracked little moons on the sand speckled too and fro. There's an echo from somewhere tonight. It reminded me of the echo of the sea eyes you have. The way they flutter down lashes fringe into pale pink trace of white shell eyes
The Man From the Earth's core
November 20, 2024
5 minute timer
When they would dig deeper down into the shell of the earth they found no peral but found a man who would speak backwards riddles to them. They studied him far too long that it tormented the man. He longed to go back into the core again and not be bothered. They never let him. After study they discarded him in the back of the building like a dead rat. He wandered the streets, slept in shelters and would claw at the concrete streets until his fingers were raw. All he wanted was to go back home, down into the core, where it was warm and quiet. Free of people.
Everyone passing him figured him a madman. Scoffed at his backwards speaches, and the children ran from him out of fearsome curiousity. It was dangerous too for him, as he had no one to turn to. Shelters were only temporary care. No one could call him father or brother. He was born into himself deep in the core of the earth. He was the reason for gods to blink and bow, and philosophers ponder his riddles of the aptmosphere. He was once the only ehterial being of words and sound.
Stream of consciousness writing
Born to Run
November 19, 2024
5 minute timer set
She said that she would go when the time was right. She didn't listen to him and ran as far as she could go. The sky moved like a seperate screen above her, like she remembered in an old wind up cartoon tv she had as a child, that played the winding loop of characters and song. She remembered he was like her song, but she didn't sing along. It was too much so early, and it scared her like hell. She didn't want to be the lassoed horse tied to the fence, made to walk on a string connected to the finger of someone. She was always one with the wind. But sometimes the wind would blow over barren fields a lonely sigh. Out of breath she stopped running. Fell to her knees and sobbed. She always ran. She was born to run fast through concrete to grass to water and sky.
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