May
31
9:47 PM
t-18
on this last
day of may,
you set sail
in the sky.
holly and ivy
look for
Canadian
poems,
and someone
wrapped
diapers in
leopard print
ribbon.
liars abound,
making liars
out of non
liars,
and after a
very bad
steak, and
after you
left, i had
some really
great cake
with whipped
cream in the
strawberries,
which
you will never
taste.
on this lovely
evening in
this fair
city, and i
think today i
can call it
that,
with no much
as a wind to
clear the
incandescent
sun's setting
glow,
while you set
sail over and
across the
entire ocean,
the crescent
moon arced
itself over
the dark
waters under
the mercier
bridge,
which you
never saw.
and in this
big bed, now
silent and
cold,
between these
grey sheets,
my soul i
unfold,
and reach for
the cherry
juice, and
stand up the
31 decibel
earplugs
i counted the
nights they
will spend all
alone,
and the number
was high and
for a moment i
didn't
understand
not hearing
your voice for
so many days.
May
30
6:37 am
change
well, here we
are with 41%
battery power
on a friday
morning. thank
you , cherry
juice, i'm up
before the
song.
life gets
rougher, but
at least
there's two
copies of
Hunger Games
on the table.
I'm squarely
round today,
there's a
sense of
presence that
comes with
return days,
however short
they may be.
brutal things
to prepare on
a sunny
weekend;
brutal truths;
brutal scary;
don't let them
tell you what
to do.
and i'm not in
a writing
mood, although
these fingers
switfly move
across this
board of
squares.
and even
though
something
draws me here
to clickety
clack away my
coffee.
it's such
minutiae which
changes
things;
a fleeting
kind word of
support, a
perfect
thought;
brings us
inner peace
and resolve;
in the face of
what seems a
mountain the
moment before.
yes, we all
have to build
ourselves.
and then be
proud of our
accomplishments.
and then be
proud.
cross us luck
with
Histoire/Geo.
what are YOU
proud of,
today.
May
28
6:07 am
waiting
don't wait in
line behind
your emotions,
poots, someone
must have
taught you
this,
now it's time
to teach her.
if you are
held hostage
to how you
feel, nothing
will get done.
or was it
life.
Love not me
for comely
grace,
For my
pleasing eye
or face,
Nor for any
outward part,
No, nor for a
constant
heart.
For these may
fail or turn
to ill,
So thou and I
shall sever.
Keep therefore
a true woman's
eye
And love me
still but know
not why,
So hast thou
the same
reason still
To dote upon
me ever.
c 1609.
Anonymous.
May 27
8:16 am
sixteen
minutes to log
on
only need the light when it's burning low;
only
miss the sun
when it starts
to snow
only
know you love
her when you
let her go;
only
know you've
been high when
you're feelin
low
only
hate the road
when you're
missin home
only
know you love
her when you
let her go;
(passenger)
everything is
relative; even
love.
it's an
upside-down
tuesday,
including the
pollen,
robbing my
body, of
vitality.
it's the only
tuesday, it's
the rainy one,
it's a cogged
one, clogged,
not vital.
what's the
difference
between
giving;
between
compromise;
between love;
between sex;
at the bottom
of the funnel,
at the bottom
of the pit, at
the end, they
are all the
same.
this is my
struggle; this
is my fight;
and i mean
THIS; this
mEp; these
words; these
lines.
i can splay it
here; i can
spray it here;
i can pray
here; i am
spayed here.
no matter what
i call it, it
starts in a
hole, a hole
we all know,
some deeper
than others,
that we crawl
out of every
day, we either
spread our
wings from
here;
we either roll
over, or, we
shine, in
lights bright
as a screen,
and tell the
world
everything we
have to say;
everything
there is to
say, whether
you're Xavier
Dolan or
Steven
Spielberg;
we tell the
world what we
have to say.
and then,
we feel
better.
if we're
lucky.
as Schindler's
list were
lucky.
May
25
8:07 am
sunday
counting
preparing
for the
countdown and
the countup.
these notes
might get
shorter.
should my
problems be
your problems.
poots,
stiff-necked,
cricks her
neck and
scratches her
ankles.
there could be
many things to
count;
half-century
milestones
loom, how long
the hamster
lived, how
many hours did
she sleep.
negatives in
my bank
accounts;
zeros in my
salary; the
number of O's
in a hug.
yes, i revel
in absolutes,
and yes, they
exist.
yes, i wanted
to know which
philosopher
was right, yes
i still do.
all of these
certitudes
have served me
well.
and yes, i
will reject
anyone who
reduces me to
a woman and my
sex.
the morning
birds chirp
over the
sunday-quiet
hum of
traffic.
the now huge
new leaves
aglow in the
crisp morning
sun.
the potential
is huge; or
small. the
choice is
yours.
T-2. hurts
because it's
scary, not
because it's a
number.
May
24
8:53am
ring, ring,
ring, ring.
poots pushes
against life.
she holds it
up for you,
and then
really pushes.
you fall over.
you all fail.
every single
last one of
you. except
you.
May
23
6:39 am
what
is a liar?
the floor is
shiny, coffee
sweet.
what is an
artist.
according to
Rebecca
Belmore, if i
take my pick
and choose,
i'm one.
am i a writer
then? a
singer? a
poet? a
dancer?
a liar?
and is that so
bad? people
lie all the
time. they lie
to themselves.
i am not
content with
your view of
the world
i am not
satisfied by
what i read
i am not
comforted by
your reglions
i am not
following your
pursuits
i am not
following your
logic
your steps
your version
your views
i must
understand; i
will
understand;
in fact,
i do
understand. i
understand
that i see
things
differently
from you.
and all that
means is that
i accept it,
and, i
question it.
and i guess,
that makes me
a liar.
May
22
8:04am
the
coffee is hot,
while cars
buzz. i hear
them through
the wide open
patio doors;
they've been
open all
night, if i'm
honest, while
the pigs went
with an empty
trough,
squeeking
early enough
to wake me
twice.
restaurant
food didn't
like me, the
cherry
juice was
wasted, but
the dreams,
the dreams
still came,
first of
measuring
strips
of something
and oweing
1372 dollars
on the back of
a truck, then
kids on a go
cart
ride, and
finally,
hunting down
my visa card
to withdraw
cash and
entertain a
gang
from work
while in
mexico or a
mexican
neighbourhood,
while the
goin' was
good.
the lady with
the only bank
machine around
was kind
enough to wait
for me
although
it was
quittin' time.
the hot coffee
trickling into
my
already-emptied
intestines is
warm, and
comforting.
kissing kate
barlow is my
coffee mat,
she's ok
pretty, but
not so much.
it's time to
run, my body
likes it now,
modern-day
body
usefulness is
like a
joypill.
i'm not
entirely sure
what day it
is, thursday,
i think, and
the next
interesting
thing
scheduled is
filling my
chipped tooth.
there are
thoughts
weighing me, i
know it, but
i'll not allow
them to take
over - they
usually pass -
and well, have
i said
anything here
other than a
big lump of
mushy? maybe i
have not.
maybe not. but
i have a body,
i do.
if you want
continuity,
just look
outside and
watch everyone
else.
ten percent
battery life,
with no plug
in sight,
means today is
just an entry.
if
you want
continuity,
just look
outside and
watch everyone
else.
May
21
7:50 am
a
summery date;
in only my
mind.
chronicling
is ok for
oneself;
but becomes
tricky for
another.
dentally
induced
teethaches are
as incessant
as songs about
Apples
they both ring
loudly through
my mind,
whether waking
slowly or
falling
asleep.
but i like it
when life
sends
mini-daggers
through the
middle of my
waking;
it's always a
reminder when
things are too
Okay, that
they can be
better, or
worse.
a grumpy
little one
with no
reason, rushes
in with papers
to exchange,
official
looking, some.
a grumpy big
one lays in
bed
chronicling
another story.
leaving small
dents in my
heart, as he
is wont to do,
dents which
make the ones
in his appear
smaller, i'm
guessing.
eventually
they
heal, like
molton copper,
worn away by
life's
strokes, since
there really
is nothing
that can be
made any
different,
when it comes
to certain
discussions.
or so they
say.
and then, i'm
left, the
chronicler,
alone again,
naturally,
sneezing
loudly while
snoring can
finally
be heard, the
middle of the
house
shudders,
while me over
here on the
sunny and blue
end, trying
to spill
everything
real onto this
electronic
paper, which
no one
understands,
because no one
wants to.
May
20
7:51 am
what's
really
separate.
unusual,
sun, green,
one word
answers.
lately i've
been
contemplating
the two
realities that
are.
as all the
divorced
chicks
following me
on twitter
should know,
there's the
harsh side of
real and
then there's
the real side
of real. one
involves
bouncing
cheques and
two sets of
heating bills;
the other,
frying an egg
and finding
pantyhose
without a run.
and why do we
see these as
separate,
i'm asking
myself,
painfully,
when in
reality they
are part of
the same
continuum.
it's amazing
how
we can
separate what
is not
separate. i've
spent time
separating
these over the
past few
years,
however the
time for
separating is
over now. it
really is. but
everything
worth having
does come
with a price.
we, the upper
class slaves,
the
privelidged
ones, have
never really
paid for
anything now
have we? and
with this, i
separate
myself, as the
irish one has
done so
astutely, with
my non-husband
and my
non-mansion,
jesus, even my
non-car, into
a teeny
minority of
un-named
overlords. we
are separate,
it hurts, and
i've never
once had a
reality
that i was
truly afraid
to be
separated
from.
until now,
that is.
May
19
7:59 am
immediate
thoughts of
slavery
we get a holiday, we get paid. we get a holiday,
a free day
off, we get
paid, the
lucky ones.
it still takes
the form of
voluntary
slavery, in
spite of the
nine dollar
cherry juice
and the
italian
epsresso.
and our
thoughts? our
ideas? how
constrained
are we, or,
can we ever
really know?
sometimes
while i'm
riding the
long tall
escalators of
the
underground, i
recall with
stupefying
amazement,
that there are
those who
require
everyone to
fit into a
picture frame
of how they
define life.
or how someone
has defined it
for them. and
if you don't,
you will be
interpreted as
if you do.
it's a
flatlanders
world for
them.
they fear what
has dimension.
it really
scares them. i
had it figured
out but can't
recall why.
thanks for the
sleep, cherry
juice, but i'm
really glad
that that was
only a dream.
glad i slept,
glad for my
un-hurting
head, glad for
the sun, glad
for the quiet,
glad is the
best i can do.
yeah, i'm just
a well-rested,
glad little
slave today.
May 18
10:55 am
appropriately lazily staring at a blank page. apples
upon apples,
those young
men sing.
sunday, sunny,
phosphorescent,
green.
deleting,
backspacing,
cleaning my
bathed ears.
everyone's an
asshole,
sometimes.
May 17
7:58 am
stages
 dreaming through my cherry juice; i'm still in
distillation
mode; (in more
ways than
one);
and at the
real virtual
pool i didn't
go into,
i watched a
middle aged
beautiful
lawyer, lost
in thought.
which
inspired, and
guided me. but
i still wanted
to swim.
in my next
life, i'll be
an attorny.
now how can i
convince my
little one,
to do it in
the one life
she has.
as soon as
she's done
with
barbie's...
i was the
funny guy last
night, and
this morning i
am the
physical one.
what makes me
funny
sometimes.
mEplines a
mile a minute
yesterday now
are lost.
May 16 6:24 am
awake before the
pigs.
with no explanation, we are
only left
wondering. and
we wonder the
worst.
i've written the dog
letter, only
God can help
me now, that
God she
misses.
Does her absence of beliefs
cause us all
grief? I can
only pray.
creaky floors on an early
friday,
yesterday's
wind has wound
down silently,
even from the middle of the
house, i hear
the chirp
chirp of the
early ones
hunting worms. the air is
warm, for it's
been a long,
long while.
the air is
humid, montreal-style, and
the early
leaves cast a
neon glow on a
background
of the grey mid-May day
that it is
today.
the Swiss man snores, and
i, awake.
i did this for many years;
typed
silently,
stealthily,
artfully,
truth after
truth,
into this box. and now,
many mEp-years
later, with my
handwritten
plea for a
canine
tucked into the upstairs
letter-slot, i
do it again.
we had a nice house; i had
a nice car; it
was a nice
life. but i
had a
handwritten
plea, impossible to pen,
for the truth,
which never
was
acknowledged,
and eventually
was swept under carpets, a
truth that
only was
revealed to me
once it was
too late,
a truth, revealed here only
with the grace
of cherry
juice, which
sounds nuts,
but a truth
none-the-less, and
none-the-less-important,
of just how
much you need
to give of
yourself.
May 15
6:39 am
i'm
cheek chewing;
not spanky.
in the global scheme of
things; do i
care?
well, i do, actually.
i guess nothing can be done
about a
semi-alive
man.
ranting about cherry juice,
naivete flows
in the park, i
hven't had a
thought yet
and it's time
to wake them
up.
but if i'm honest, it
hurts.
May 14
6:53 am
halfway; a good
May, all in
all.
who
has dreams of
gold, dreams
of spruce, and
dreams of
flight?
saved from that big bird by
Dikta's Thank
you, a small
crack in the
patio door
means that days of baring
skin are
finally
approaching.
i feel so much more inside
me, i feel
natural
inclinations
again,
i feel Farley Mowat, I feel
powerful,
missionary.
and like the dance of those
who have
fallen and at
once risen up
again,
i feel reborn, unstoppable,
limitless.
here you see, what one man,
can do.
or,
is that, one woman.
May 13
6:54 am
une entonnoir
des mots.
hurry
poots, sip
quickly.
what do people
do to
themselves,
falling sick,
without
talking about
them, without
jinxing
myself,
without
blaming
anyone,
what do they
do to
themselves.
although sick
for some is
not sick for
others.
the pot ticks,
beeps, slowly,
without a
forest, the
world around
me wakes.
distractions
distract me
from my
waking,
distractions
of negativity,
naive and
sore. although
i admit,
during the
night, i
thought about
being the one
on the lesser
receiving
side. after
yesterday's
hunt
for a better
interest rate,
i left that
place feeling
renewed,
hopeful,
slightly
suckered, but
at least
i felt
like i could
afford a metro
ticket.
give me just a
few more
minutes for
waking, world.
please and
thank you.
May 12
11:30am
what
separates me
from you now
what separates
me from you.
I'm thinking
about Farley
Mowat,
watching four
pairs of pants
dry in the
high sun,
taking a break
from twitter,
and generally
not giving a
fuck what
anyone thinks,
while Emily
and Amy strum
guitars and
sing painfully
astute lyrics
and harmonies.
"not content
to bow and
bend
to the whims
of culture
that swoop
like vultures
eating us
away"
and, this
distance, this
difference,
this solitude
i share with
twitter, this
permission i
give myself,
is mine.
it's real,
it's
beautiful,
it's free, and
it's most
certainly
mine.
what separates
me from you
now
what separates
me from you.
i'm sorry, but
i'm not going
to say i
believe
everything you
say.
May
11
10 am
a new day a
clean machine.
mother's
day wishes
have been
granted, on
the eve of
this day;
mothers have
super special
status, once
their children
are grown.
like-minded
people -
FINALLY - fed
us syrian
dinner with
ingredients
that might
surprise some,
but only
filled my
heart with
joy.
i can tell the
sleeping man
that we found
friends. and
the exotic
food comes
with a polite,
thinking
daughter and a
boy who is
a boy, a real
boy. and
plenty of
luschious
italian wine,
makes me
squirm in the
night,
forboding and
dark, and no
match for the
cherry juice.
but i
survived, i
mostly slept,
i am here on
this small
bed, with this
small machine,
and have
installed my
tools.
May 8
7:59 am
time for
nothing and
everything.
the
world posts
old photos on
thursdays; i
log into the
RBC and pay
the bills.
at least i
can.
i'm
writing; i'm
wrting here,
there, and
everywhere,
but most of
the rest of my
life is quiet
and still.
no quitting to
travel around
the world, no
major life
events (one a
decade is
enough i
guess) and no
starting
companies or
litigation
over closing
one.
in this city
we are very
connected to
the weather;
that is the
world outside
which prevents
us from
socializing
outside mosst
of the year.
we don't have
hotels with
outdoor
restaurants in
courtyards.
the new cherry
juice didn't
really have
the deired
effect. poots
is achy breaky
and not much
heart today.
writing
through the
coffee just
for the
purpose of
waking up. i'm
allowed to do
that.
the famous
trial in south
africa
continues,
let's just be
glad we don't
even own a
gun, the Swiss
man pokes his
device, the
girlfriend's
ears ring, her
back creaks,
the pathways
between waking
and sleeping
not only
groggy
but feeble,
de-motivated,
shoulders
tight.
the weather is
calling. never
enough time.
we love and
hate time in
equal measure.
May 7
7:17 am
destable
the counter is clean, the sun is lighting the brown
world, and
bright red
cardinals
arrive
at the feeder. the nights are longer, sleep is real, is
it really the
cherry juice,
or the numbers
in my bank account. the Swiss man discusses whatever he
can, with a
boy, far away.
the rodents get fed, and poots cycles through her
thoughts, her
fears, her
joys,
as the cafeeine slowly lights the pathways between them.
there's a fabric which binds us, a glue that connects
us, and
sometimes it's
unstable.
that doesn't mean it's always going to be that way.
however a
stronger glue
is needed to
stand alone
in the most veiled prose i can muster,
i must
actually force
the glue apart
in this one
instance,
and i hate to do it at the same time.
i hope no one
reads this.
they're all
reading about
the white
priviledged
kid
from Princeton; because the collective internet is about
seventeen
years old;
and dragging
us all under.
May 5
7:42am
monday monday.
running in the rain, columbian food in the rain, too
many
groceries, did
i mention it's
monday,
i need to wake
up, second
coffee is gone
and i'm not
awake, it's
dark, it's
cold, it's
monday.
third cup for
a non-awaken
poot, and all
of a sudden
i'm going to
tell you
something that
you
won't believe.
i always had
enough time
until now. and
i cannot tell
you what i do
with that
time,
some of it
gets used in
useful ways,
some is
blissful and
lots of it is
cooking and
cleaning; but
what i cannot
tell you about
is the time in
between - it's
the time we
spend waiting
for each other
-
it's the time
we give to
someone else -
it's the time
we just cannot
schedule
because it
slips through
our fingers as
we love. it's
a gift of
time; waiting,
life lag,
holding on to
hope, if we
stop doing it
to
engineer
better use of
our time, then
all the other
time is
wasted.
i have never
gived like i
do now. and i
cannot tell
you why. and i
don't care
why.
rounded
up:
french roast
on sale 9$
potatoes half
a bag 3$
organic
carrots half a
bag 1.50$
zuchinni (2
out of 3) 2$
old wine for
sauce 3$
not bad, we
were four
adults. where
did the other
hundred
dollars go.
May 4
9:11am
i didn't mean
to wake you
with that
re-tweet.
bad dreams. they happen. move on.
i like how ron said it; it's not a game. some of us are
taking this
seriously. and
by serious, i
mean it
matters to us.
all of it. but mostly the joy.
so i've been told my extroversion isn't pathological so
long as i can
formulate my
interactions
properly.
which in
general, i do.
if Sandra Sherr had a twitter feed, would she no longer
have to talk
to strangers
at the tomato
stand?
  the
coffee pot
ticks away.
three empty
glass bottles,
remind me that
my dream was
just that, and
the grey skies
threaten.
getting to the
'you may speak
now' line,
there is no
one here to
speak. me, and
my pathology,
look to the
right, gaze at
a pack of
camels,and
pause to
think. a blue
jay gets wet
outside. she
forgot her
boots, runs
through my
mind for the
seven
thousandth
time, then all
the optomistic
comparisons i
can find,
including the
non-real life
dream i had,
both of them,
whether
Russian
soldiers are
hunting me in
a closet or
five children
missing on the
street, just
typing those
words is
dangerous for
me. tempting
fate is not my
thing.
audrey hepburn died in switzerland. hmph.
May 3
engineering a late bloomer
i love, i
love, i love.
poots comes
around, a
movie about
food and
blogs, i
didn't do
that, did i.
i didn't
choose food,
and i didn't
choose 365
days.
i chose a
piece of sky,
the oceans,
and everything
in between.
i chose me; i
chose you;
love, and
hate, and why.
why why why.
more important
than de-boned
duck,
boeuf
bourgignon,
bavarian
cream, is why.
we can never
get bored with
why. how can
we overlook
the why?
everyone wants
to know who,
where, what,
when. all
wikipediable.
everyone is
afraid of why.
i have
questions
again. that
means i am
alive again.
although
i know why
questions make
me sound young
i reduce my expectations,
then i love
some more. is
doom real?
why am i a
late bloomer?
can we ever
really know
why for
anything.
i know you
think you
can't engineer
a life; but to
me, it's all
engineered,
unknowingly,
by you.
don't get me
wrong, i don't
want to know
what happens,
that would be
boring, there
is so much fun
in not
knowing;
and perhaps
that right
there, is my
strong suit.
i like
steering - but
i want a new
road.
"if
you think it's
a game, to me
it means more
than that. i'm
a late
bloomer, a
slow learner"
-Ron SexSmith
May
2
a poot is up
before the
alarm.
then chases
alarms from
the bathroom.
indeed the
lunch followed
me to bed;
lavishness,
funded by me,
is now
verboten. such
a simple thing
and who can
afford it.
the cbc talks
about eating
on 1.75 a day,
making not
only me angry,
but H is
better versed
at
psychoanalyzing
my own
country.
why is that?
she says it's
who we are, to
be passively
aggressive, in
contrast to
the manifest
destiny shown
by our
neighbours to
the south.
but her ideas
are well
packaged, i
admire that,
but let's be
careful not to
package them
too tightly,
because it's
the packaging
that i'm
against.
i first seek
it, for
context, and
to understand
the world
around me,
then once i
know it, i
safely step
away from it.
rich kids
parading
around on 1.75
a day to raise
money for the
impoverished
makes us
angry.
as though
poverty was a
choice. i'm
not sure
cyncical is
the right
word. the
journalist who
tried to shop
on that amount
was the only
one who got it
right, IT IS
NOT POSSIBLE.
the homeless
man at the
metro lives on
more.
manifest
destiny, that
word will come
back.
definitely has
a nasty tinge
to it, even
Wiki says so.
i'm not going
to say it too
loudly, for
fear of
promoting it.
yes, i know
i'm talking
about real
things.
no, i don't
know why.
May
1
night time in
poots world
means 9:37
picking a
colour before
bedtime.
lavish lunches
|
