Whale Factory

One of these days I'll wake up between streetlight.
On that day I won't stir when my eyelids are pulled open
I won't groan or shout or dilate when they shine their flashlights in
and I won't respond when they call for me to answer. Please, God, answer.
I'll just lay there, crushed under the tracks left by one hundred aluminum feet
that had long ago trampled me deep into the ground
but still felt the need to reassert something already made clear.
All any of us really want is to be heard.


This Is A Crisis

I am not doing anything I want to be doing

This is a crisis

Casual fun ended ten months ago

This is a cris

What the fuck is casual fun?

This is a crisis

What the fuck ?

This is A Crisis

My time has nothing to do wit h clocks and watches

Thi s Is A Crisis

This Is A Crisis

We're not making any sense

This Is A Crisis

All his planning isn't preparing me for anything at all

This is probably a crisis



nothing is meaning anything and I don't want to be a part of nothing and everything

dee's writing is a crisis

okay bloggers, blog so
mething real. This isn't real I'm just freaking out.
this is a a harmonica and it knows because it knows best
"well it's a good thing it's that because if it wasn't this it wouldn't be that and nobody wants it"
i think that when they knew it that it knows what it thought so then they had that inside of their they that it knew

YOu missed a line. You missed a fucking line! SO GO back.

back there! ya that one. yeah okay? yes. YES! right well now it's finished.






I have forgotten how to write poetry

long ago i ceased trying to prevent or weed out my sadness
choosing rather to cultivate it with care and tenderness
coaxing each perfect purple grape on the vine
to swell and fill with the impassioned violet of solitude
when the vine is first sprung from the earth full-grown and engorged
it is my duty to freeze the tropical and jubilant petals from the vine
i blow the chill of winter over my summer heart
self mutilation disguised as self exploration
the sacrifice of my body and mind in hopes of transformation
when the fruit has finally been isolated from the foliage
i pluck every grape from the vine and gather them in a bucket
i sag and sway and sob as i haul my faults and flaws
all of them collected to be made into ink to be pressed to paper
and when the paper is devoured and forgotten
the cycle will begin anew and the harvest will continue--

Circus Freaks will continue... soon?


We don't live here anymore

Come on now, don't lie.
Home doesn't really exist.

Remember loves, I'm still alive

Her body ached. Her throat was raw from coughing, and her chest grew tense. She had spent her days daydreaming, and hoping for words that still remain unspoken.
She had done things unusual for her body, and for her heart, and she remained unsure about all of it.
She is a very sick, and ridiculous girl.


Love Song

This is What it Takes
I'll make each meal a feast,
I'll pull my own skirt down.
I'll dress in fur and fleece,
I'll wear a wig round town.
I'll spread my legs with ease.
I'll never ever frown.
I'll bend and moan and tease.
I'll shine your fucking crown.
Just please don't ever say:
"I'm glad you're not around."
I'm becoming less each day
the stupid man you found.
They'll take it off today, sutures are no fun,
But it's the only way to be your only one.

This is your Evil B-side Sister and/or Brother
We know everything that you could have been
We are everything you should have been
has been has beens everywhere you go
some look a lot like everyone you know


Pushing My Luck All The Time

I am not down on my hope or down on my luck.
After the denouement, I will be facing the curtain with a bow.

But if illness was to unravel itself like a cheap mystery novel , like the way I have been imagining it to, you could find my bloody nails clenched tightly around a crumpled note revealing a spot that is as black as cancer.
Blind and dumb, my deceased witnesses would only have been able to remember how the story embedded so deep within my chest was written.
Readers would never know the verbal terrors that were sobbing from the painful stones that nursed the kind of thoughts that gained ground on me, the ones waiting for a chance to slip and drop down
The ones that were tumorous growths being ripped out of my body to reveal ten months of writers block that's chased me into a dim lit stage scattered with hollywood scripts.
Fiction has been breeding so quietly each night and day, and facts have died again and again only to extend their killing life.
I am not down on my hope or down on my luck, and in a few more days everything will become my tired fiction.
"save me"
said the little heart
candy solid

the day before
mid month, early spring

i sat and stared and i did what it said

little red letters
i could have literally swallowed.

of all the combinations of little red letters
of all the names i could have drawn from a hat
of all the days i could have made dreams in lucid
of all the resonance of senses static channels piercing, calm

of all the months i've been wondering about purpose
growing more and more and more and more alive.

how it resonates.

a tiny coloured bulb in a palm
forcing the daylight through fingers
ten times ten times ten times ten

till we all fall down,
waist deep
in another's pulse of water.

Circus Freaks III

A drop of old rain slid from the swaying branches and hit Caralee in the eye. She batted it out, but it still burned a bit. Mark leaned concernedly, but Caralee motioned that she was fine.
"It's just water," she smiled weakly, "I'll live. Are you sure you're okay here? It's pretty wet tonight." She was trying her best to politely encourage him to leave, but she had no such luck.
"No, I'm fine." Mark said quietly with his eyes fixed on his hands. He was running his fingers together nervously, gently rubbing the lines on his knuckles. They looked pretty beat-up, like he'd been fighting. Caralee ran the side of her palm under her eyes to remove any lingering tears then leaned closer to him.
"What happened to your hands?" She asked, her voice still slightly unstable from crying. "Were you fighting before you came here?" She ran her fingers along the cuts gently consciously aware she was being suggestive but entirely unable to act otherwise. Mark breathed a shallow chuckle and sighed.
"I wouldn't really call it a fight." His hand slid out from under Caralee's fingers and rose to his glasses. He lifted them gently of the bridge of his nose, wincing with his mouth. Beneath the glasses he had hidden the beginning stages of a black eye, various bandaged cuts and a long bruise which seemed to spread across his entire face. "Honestly, I'd call it blunt force trauma." He looked sadly at Caralee but attempted to mask it with a quick self-deprecating smile. "But you should see the other guy..."
Caralee stared at his bloody and contorted face and leaned in towards him, ignoring his attempt at nonchalance. "Oh God, Mark." She could feel more tears welling up behind her eyes, but she batted them back. She had cried enough for one night. She may have been stupid and desperate but she tried to draw the line at melodramatic. "Who did this you you?" Mark just sighed again, but Caralee didn't back off. "Oh, Mark..." She wanted to say she was sorry, but she hadn't done anything. She wanted to hug him and remind him that there is something good in the world, but she knew that would be inappropriate. Despite the fact that she hardly knew Mark, she wanted nothing more in that moment than for him to feel okay.
"Don't worry about it," Mark said, putting his glasses back on. "it happens." He stuffed his hands back into his pockets and started to get up. Quickly, Caralee slid towards him and wrapped her fingers into his coat sleeve. She didn't know how to ask him to stay, so she just pulled close to him and kissed him firmly on his split lips.
A lot of people say that time stops during that special kiss, but for Caralee it didn't. It was barely a second after contact that Mark shoved her. His hands hit her hard and she fell backwards onto the bench, landing with her legs spread and her elbows propping her up on the cold wood. He stood up and looked down at her and she could see it in his eyes. Mark had just realized that the rumors about Caralee were true, she really was that easy. Her short hair hung over her face like a veil and she let out a stupid and awkward sob. It was unbearable. Mark just stood there over her, the back of his hand pressed against his lower lip. For a second Caralee thought he was going to throw up, but he just wiped his lips with the back of his hand. The dark red smear Caralee had left on them came off easily but left a line along his knuckles. Caralee began to apologize but he cut her off.
"I'm sorry, Caralee. I'll be down there." He muttered and then walked rapidly down towards the carnival, leaving Caralee feeling wet and cheap for the second time that night. She was getting used to it though, it seemed like being 'easy' and being sad went hand in hand. To be honest, she didn't even really enjoy or like sex most of the time. Nine out of ten times she'd find herself just staring at the ceiling, counting the thrusts. She'd developed a system where on every third she'd moan and on fifth she'd gasp. Multiples of both three and five were a toss-up but Caralee found she rarely needed to worry about them.



i heard monkeys spread hiv originally but i guess triceratops and moths and vampires? could have easily as well

Note to Erin and Sara:

Final Fantasy is playing at The Center for Performing Arts in Vancouver in Three Days!
If you didn't already, go buy tickets and watch the crap out of that show. The Live-looping will blow your mind.

info at:

Circus Freaks II

(part two of Circus Freaks)

"Caralee?" It was a deep but somehow effeminate voice that came from behind her. "Caralee, what are you doing up here?" The owner of the voice walked quickly around the bench and peered over her. It was a boy named Mark. Caralee knew him through various friends, but the two had never really interacted for more than a few minutes. His features looked strange and unfamiliar through the haze of tears and night, but she could see the dull beauty in them.
"Hey, Mark," She coughed, smiling up at him as she blotted the tears with her shirt sleeve. It was some last-ditch effort to retain her dignity. "I'm just catching a breath." It seemed stupid to pretend that she wasn't sitting there, crying her heart out, but she felt like it would be even more ridiculous to say that she was. "Are you just getting here?" His expression of confusion and worry shifted a bit towards being at ease.
"Yeah," he replied, "I had to drop off Sherry."
"Oh yeah? I guess I figured you'd be here with, uhm..." Caralee stumbled, trying to remember the name of Mark's girlfriend. She could see her face in her head, but couldn't grasp a name.
"Cate?" Mark asked, finishing her sentence in a brief moment of telepathy. Caralee pointed at Mark and chuckled, nodding. "Yeah, she left." He mumbled, unsure how to say what Caralee understood from the word 'yeah.'
"Shit, I'm sorry..." she trailed off, unsure what to say. She felt sorry for Mark but at the same time she was painfully aware that she was trying to comfort him while tears were tumbling down her cheeks. "I"m sorry, you probably don't want to talk about this."
"That's okay." Mark replied reflexively, but found himself without anything to say afterwards. Caralee couldn't really see Mark's eyes because of his glasses but she could still gauge his emotions relatively well. The silence wasn't too long or uncomfortable, but Caralee felt obligated to give him an out.
"You can head down if you want, I'm actually not as bad as I look..." She said, pointing to her face.
"Do you want me to go?" He replied, leaning back a bit from the bench.
"No, no. You can stay if you don't mind me blubbering like an idiot." She laughed, sliding over a bit on the bench. "I just can't really guarantee any high-quality conversation..."
"Well, I can't just abandon a..." he hesitated for a second then finished, "friend. Especially not when they're crying." Mark laughed good-naturedly, but it still made Caralee feel a bit foolish. Realizing this, Mark apologized and sat down. "Sorry, you probably don't want to talk to me about it." Caralee smiled sadly at him.
"Thanks." She nodded and parted her lips in a widened smile. Her white teeth stood out prominently against her dark red lips. It was a smile she wore when she didn't know how else to look. It was half-way between a smirk and flirtatious but at the same time completely unassuming. They sat quietly, both of them briefly regretting Mark's choice to stay, but neither could see any way to leave without someone's feelings being hurt.
At first the tension and discomfort was all Caralee could think about but gradually her mind wandered. She watched the boughs of the trees above her, rain was still dripping off the leaves even though it had stopped raining hours ago. Every now and then she'd feel one fall on her hair or on the exposed skin where her shirt had been ripped and mended and ripped again. The fabric around the edges was frayed to the point of transparency and Caralee felt slutty when she wore it. Caralee didn't lie to herself though, she knew she liked it specifically for that reason. It seemed pathetic when she thought about it, but she liked the idea that people thought she was kind of slutty. There was something comforting about the idea of people believing she was attractive enough to be easy.


Circus Freaks I

(First part of an unfinished, unrevised, unread Story)

She wiped the make-up off her face with the sides of her knuckles. They came away from her face streaked with lines of mascara and face-paint. She felt that in trying to remove the paint she'd only made herself look even more ridiculous. She continued wiping at it until she felt her face grow hot and swollen with irritation. She wondered for a moment how it had come to this; when had she become the girl who sits above the carnival, crying her eyes out on a cold, wet bench.
She'd lain her coat down on the bench before she sat down, but it was thin and she still felt the moisture leaking into the pale, scarred skin of her thighs. Her glossy, spit soaked lips mouthed the word 'fuck' but she didn't bother to say it. She just watched her breath float up in front of her and started to cry. It's hard to say why she started crying right then, it could have been any number of things or maybe the combination of them all.
Her tears rolled down her cheeks, cutting lines in her flamboyant make-up. She instinctively stopped one of the tears with her tongue but recoiled it when she tasted the combination of the bitter make-up and her own salty tears. She found that even without blocking the tears with her tongue they still rolled down her face and into her mouth. The tears were hot and the bombardment of bitterness and saltiness overwhelmed her, and she found that even when she tried to stop them with her hands they still rolled past and stung her tongue.
Hiccoughs wracked her body because of the frustration and anger she felt. In a fit she batted madly at the tears, slapping her face and leaving ugly lines across her face where the make-up balled underneath her nails. She scraped it out from underneath the deep red and flicked it onto the ground. Soon the soil around the bench was littered with balls of white and red make-up. It was around this point that she started to wipe off the make-up.
She looked out at the sprawling jubilation of the carnival below her and she felt truly ridiculous and insignificant. She stared at the spinning ferris wheel and felt as though she was in a daze. The lights distended and blurred through the filter of tears until they spread out to cover all of her vision. She was surrounded by a glowing rainbow wasteland and everywhere around her there was laughing that looped and overlapped forever. Her stomach flipped and she felt for a moment that she'd throw up, but a voice startled her out of her insanity.


I'd Swim Across Lake Michigan

You played your dad’s old acoustic guitar quietly, by my request. Your broad fingers producing some soft, sweet tune that sounds like something off a Sufjan Stevens album. If it were your choice you would be playing something heavier, more substantial; probably Zeppelin or the Stones. You seem content though, it’s because you’re playing for me. You’re just smiling warmly. It’s not a full-on grin, it’s more intimate than that. It’s the kind of smile I’ve only seen when I’m here; alone with you in your room. Honestly, I prefer this smile to the large toothy grin you wear like make-up when you go out.
Your feet are bare, and make a quiet slap against the wooden panelling on the floor as you move around the room. You kick the cord that should run from your shelved electric guitar to the amplifier in your closet. It skitters across the floor making loud clicks as it bounces wherever your feet direct it. The various clicks and slaps and creaks create a percussion that compliments but never overtakes your pensive guitar or your mumbled lyrics.
I ask you to put the guitar away and you oblige me. You prop it up against the closed and locked door that leads to the hall which connects your bedroom to the rest of the small house you share with your two brothers and your father. You sit down beside me on the bed and take a deep sigh, still mumbling the last lines of the song you sang silently. I like it when you sit next to me, I can see your eyes. You’re probably a little over a foot taller than me, so I have to stand back to be able to see into them. It’s hard for me to connect with people if I can’t make eye contact with them, but we’re alright when you’re sitting because you slouch.
Even when you’re sitting it’s not easy to make eye contact with you, you usually avoid my eyes, opting instead to watch my hands or my mouth. This is one of the times when you’re watching my hands. They’re a part of my body that I’m not very good at dealing with, I never know what to do with them, so I’m usually cracking my knuckles or interlocking my fingers.
I turn on the fan beside your bed, accidentally changing the ambience of the room from an orchestra of clicks and thumps to a monotone drone. I switch it off quickly, embracing the creaks of your weight shifting on the bed as you quietly try to gauge my emotions.
“What happened to your finger?” You ask, referring to the small scab forming on the side of my right index finger.
“Dog bite,” I reply, covering up the scab with my other hand. “he got too excited while I was pouring his food last night.”
“Guess he never heard about biting the hand that feeds you.” You scratch the back of your head as you say this.
“To be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever heard about biting the hand that feeds me.” I’m trying to break the tension, make you laugh, but you’re still scratching the back of your head, obviously uncomfortable. “Did I tell you yet that I talked to Kate about the show?”
“No, what did she say?”
“Well, they aren’t going to have any information about how much space they’ll have available until Thursday, but she can probably fit you on the bill.” We’re talking about the art show being put on by a local gallery that my paintings are going to be in. I approached the curator about you playing some music during the show, “Want to go down there after you’re done working? So they can see you play?”
“Yeah, sure. Did they tell you how many paintings you can exhibit?”
“Five maximum, so I’ll have to sort through my shit. Have you given any thought about what you’re gonna play if Karen gives you the okay?” I lean over you, to grab your copy of On the Road off your bed-side table. I always laugh at how into the beat generation you are. Jack Kerouac stopped being relevant years before we were born, and you’re completely the opposite of everything he stood for.
“I’m probably just gonna play a bunch of songs off the EP.” I accidentally place my hand on your hip and awkwardly shift it off. I apologize, but you either didn’t mind or didn’t notice. Honestly, I know which.
“Sounds great.” I reply, a dumb half-grin on my face.
“God, the lengths I go to for art!” You shout jokingly, pressing your hand to your forehead. I brush your leg again with my hand, only half-accidentally. You laugh and tell me to stop being such a creep. I watch the peaks of your teeth as they bob up and down as your chest shakes. I laugh at the ridiculousness of the evening, of our friendship.
Our laughs slowly trail off and we’re left sitting shoulder to shoulder on your bed, both comfortably aware that our hands are overlapping in a cluster of fingers. We barely breathe as the reality of the moment sets in. There’s some hollywood magic in the moment, a feeling of staged suspense with an obvious an inevitable conclusion. It’s impossible to measure how much time passes. Our minds are racing in unison around each possible outcome and event; creating webs of cause and effect, pros and cons.
“We can’t do this.” I don’t even know who says it. Maybe neither of us did and it was just the whisper of a benevolent ghost. I think that if we really got right down to it though, it was me who said it.
“You don’t even realize how much I care about you, do you?” The words were sharp and sounded cruel and unusual coming from your mouth.
“What? How can you say that?” I gasped. I sound offended, but surprised is a more accurate description.
“I care so much about you, and you just don’t give a damn.” You don’t even look at me after you say it. I couldn’t have made eye contact with you even if you had. I feel some deep, ridiculous shame that binds my eyes to my hairy, worn hands. “What will it take to get you to realize that I want to be with you? How many acoustic songs do I have to play before you give me some response? What do I need to say to get you to tell me how you feel? How much do I have to change to get you to understand what I’ve been saying to you since I met you?” You drew farther from me with each question, you’re barely an inch from falling off the bed now. “I- love- you.” You shout, annunciating each word towards the wall, your shirt is sticking to your back from the sweat.
“I don’t... know you,” I whisper unconsciously, it’s just what comes out of my mouth, “and we’re not in love.” I can’t see your reaction, but your weight is entirely off the bed now. When I look away from my damp palms, you’re kneeling in the corner of your room, your right hand pressed over your eyes and your left clenched around your stomach. “Shit, what’s wrong?” I ask, starting to move towards you.
“Just leave, you fuck, just get out.” You don’t even look at me as you cough the words, they sound like hiccoughs. I desperately want to heed your command, but I try to reason anyways.
“Look, it’s not what I meant.” I offer, desperately.
“Then what did you mean?!” You turn your head to me and shout it and there are tears on your face and neck. They act as tiny magnifying glasses over your pores. I feel like if I try I could see right into your skin. “You’ve been my best friend for thirteen years. You were with me when my brother was born and you were there when I came out. You’ve been there for me through every fucking scar and bruise and black-eye, just like I’ve been there for you. What do you mean you don’t know me?”
“I...” I trail off, I have nothing to offer in explanation. “I don’t know. It was just... Fuck, I wasn’t thinking, okay?” I’m aware of what a shitty excuse it is before I’m even finished saying it.
“Oh fuck you, just leave.” You spit the words at me and I decide it’s my turn to be the obliging one. I start to tear up as I leave your room, but I don’t actually start crying until I’m walking home in the icy snow of January. I don’t know it yet, but the next time I see you won’t be for another twelve years and the next time we actually speak to each other won’t be for another thirteen. Soon I’ll find that such is the cruel symmetry of love; thirteen years together followed by thirteen years apart.
The last time I ever see you will be in Toronto, a city you hate. I won’t be there with you, but when you see me from across the restaurant you’ll sit with me and we’ll talk. We spend twenty minutes exchanging pleasantries then you tell me you need to catch a flight. I ask where to, but you avoid answering me. You wave to me from the exit and then leave my life for good. Three years later my plane starts to rapidly lose altitude on its trip across the country. The last thing to cross my mind before we make impact with the rocky mountains is “I’ve known you from the first time I met you.” Maybe if I’d told you that, things would have been different.


Secret Mommy

Andy Dixon to me is like Jamie Stewart is to Travis.
Which says a lot.
AKA Secret Mommy, under his own label ACHE Records
best label ever. Includes Death From Above 1979 (deceased), Winning, and The Winks.
He runs and operates out of Vancouver on W Broadway.

*note most of his stuff doesnt have lyrics.



the paradox of a word
hangs by the pendulum
of our perpetual persistence to learn;
the knowledge of our own subsistence holds our minds captive between the unremitting legs of Is.
we aren't because we are,
and so trawl infinitely
through the discharge of time.


Sara, your deepest wishes have come true

everyone else: watch this if you want to live

Glass Heart

Hearts are not elastic.
We feed them so near to bursting
that they become tender and distended
like the chimeras that gibber and crash withing them.
We can't expect the worn-down walls to regenerate
after all the contents are wrung out.
It's during this emptiness that the flesh burns down to glass.
Hearts are only malleable for so long
before the lit sand cools and stiffens.
They become fragile as bones;
tiny spiders hanging from taut wires,
a pumping fist held by spindles of thread.
Suspended like sparrows above an infinite abyss.
I can hear mine rattling against the walls of my chest,
sent bumping from rib to rib by every flash of teeth.
I hope you can't hear my glass heart clinking.

He's not worth our time

We all waited at the bus stop.

It was my ride with a grim reaper that would only threaten to lay his boney hand on my shoulder instead of getting the job done and giving me the fatal pat on the back.

It wasn't her ride at all, but a point in time where she could wave goodbye and consider me gone until we see each other again. It's where she'd remember my departure .

But it was so much more than that to him. This was his car pool to a job where he had already done the work for but not received a paycheck, and he wasn't even close to earning minimum wage, and he didn't have a choice to whether or not he could work.

We commented on how this would be his payday. I think you said something around the lines of "that guy's going to fucking score today" as you looked at what had collected. His bags that probably weighed more than he did. He held hours worth of gathering glass and plastic , no doubt that he was ready to make some cash. I grinned and said something typical of me like "totally"or "yeah, man."

However, this is where I fucked up. This is where I failed to realize I personally was in charge of getting that man to a recycling station. I was his bus driver, his co-worker allowing him a car pool, and maybe even his fucking boss. As was everyone on that bus. But we all fucked up, and I hope I'm not the only one who realized that.

When he stepped on the bus, with money in hand, ready to pay for his bus ride like everyone else, and the real driver of that bus told him to get off...well it immediately got my attention. Being human I at first tried to come up with a rational reason for why she would not allow him to get on the bus like the few of us who were all ready sitting on this very vacant transit ..I was quickly coming up with reasons to justify her hatred, determined not to believe that humans are capable of such fucking evil and shittiness,
'it must be because the bottles take up too much room'
Nope. Some people's suitcases took up even more space
'maybe he doesn't have the money to even pay for the bus'
Nope he has money in his hand

I watched them argue. I watched him try his hardest to defend himself and his rights. I heard some old fucking bastard yell "Just make him get off ! he's not worth our time." I watched the older man sitting next to me roll his eyes. I clutched onto the metal bar thinking to myself "get involved, Deanne. Say something ,Deanne. What the fuck are you doing ,Dee?Don't just sit here and act like this shit is okay"

The discrimination went on for about another five minutes until I couldn't take it anymore and tried to protest by yelling " He's allowed on the bus!", a pretty dumb thing to say but it's all that came into my mind other than passionately felt cusses, but all that came out of me was a scratchy noise that hardly got much farther than my lips. It was hard to see because my eyes were blurry and my face felt swollen and hot, and there was a lump in my throat, and all the fucking classic signs of being frustrated and scared into crying that you could possibly think of were applying to me at this moment, and with this anger I only sunk into the walls of the bus and became an apathetic drone like those who were sitting around me. I let myself be a passerby until the man finally stepped down from the bus's steps.
Before the driver left she phoned the police. She gave them his description. All I did was silently cry, and thankfully one man finally said the words that I was for some reason unable to say. A slight relief of my extreme frustration with myself and the situation. He argued with the bus driver. She told him it was her job to report it, he told her it was his right to be on this bus.

I stayed on the bus too. I did the exact thing I am against and made up of on that bus ride. I proved to myself once again that my emotions are always going to have control over my rational and intelligent thinking. I am made up of these stupid fucking emotions that only tell me to avoid conflict at all costs. And where has that ever gotten me? Well, other than an undeserved trip to the next bus that I had to transfer onto, it has only given me complete loathing of myself , guilt, and depression. All these years thinking I have been avoiding conflict for myself, when really I've only been doing the exact opposite. Creating more, because I never deal with anything.

I didn't stop thinking about my horribleness until I got home. All I could think of is how I should have acted, how I should have stood up for what I believe in, how I should have gotten off the bus in some sort of half ass protest, how I should have talked to the bus driver, how I should have gotten off the bus and given that man twenty dollars for his work in case he was now not going to be allowed on any other bus, and most of all how extremely worried I was that the cops were going to go interrogate him on the street and might even beat the shit out of him if he stood up for himself.

I sat lifeless the entire ferry ride home. I thought about how I would poetically write about it on here. Then I thought about how strangely selfish and light hearted that would be. Then i remembered I was incapable of writing poetry.Then I decided I wouldn't write about it at all because I didnt understand the complexities of emotions that were my reason for doing so. In fact I considered not telling anyone about it because I felt so guilty. I didn't find any relief from thinking about the incident until I met my mom at the ferry pick up.
Then I got home and I forgot about it until this morning, and I felt terrible about it again. So I decided to write about it, and write terribly to convey how crazy it all still feels and felt.

I guess incidents like those are almost an everyday occurence to the people of Vancouver. Is that why they have become so dulled by it? How could they have possibly let themselves become so numb? Was I just doing the exact same thing? Maybe they feel the same silent frustration as I did?
Wouldn't they have learned from it like I'm learning now ? Wouldn't they stop being silent and start speaking out?
They can't all be full of the same prejudice that the bus driver and the old man were.
I'll feel guilty about that bus ride every time I'm reminded of it, and so I should.
I severely fucked up.And anyone who ever trys to tell me different to comfort me is fucking full of shit. It's important to feel shitty about being shitty.
I need to get over this inability to communicate how I feel.
I think maybe, for the first time in years, I've finally been given a reason, or the motivation to do really change this problem with avoidance that I have.
Not that learning that was worth the man with the bottles' not getting money for his work.

p.s. Nobody suffers from capitalism. Capitalism is great , right? Furthermore, Canada is fucking awesome. We're all such fucking angels. And nobody hates homeless people, we all feel sympathy for them, and the cops are their heroes.



Zero is not company!!!

cynically yours,


Where Was I?

I was walking more quickly than normal on that cool, foggy morning. It was not yet noon and I'd already finished all my duties for the day. My proof; a small, tin package, was pinched tightly between my arm and chest. However my tight grip did not stop the contents; three long-forgotten fountain pens, from rattling shiftlessly and tapping impatiently against their ornate jail. They weren't struggling for freedom of course, their tapping was just the result of restlessness and boredom.
The pens wanted to feel the rush of being pressed to paper, a brief embrace of thought and tangibility. Nothing would please them more than to produce an accurate account of the fog's spectral daze. They knew that soon the moment would vanish into the ether; swept away by the same clement wind which provoked my cheeks' florid blushing. However, I had to deny the willful instruments their gratification, for the moment at least.
Rather than becoming irritated by the clamor coming from the tin pressed against my rib-cage, I saw opportunity. I let the tin slide down my side into my waiting hand. The metal was cold against my warm palm, but it wasn't the least bit unbearable. I pursed my lips and began to whistle a tune I'd heard earlier that morning as I'd stepped out from the shower.
I could hear the sound in the adjoining bedroom where I slept on most occasions. I peaked out into the room; leaning out from the doorway stealthily so as not to expose myself. The music was slow and quiet, and it reminded me very much of the shoreline on a cloudy day; the wind producing tall, rolling waves on the sea which unite then melt into foam as they approach the shore. It was coming from an unfamiliar radio which was slung under the arm of the tall, naked woman who'd spent the night with me. She stepped over to the cheap, wooden dresser in the corner of the room; her barely clothed body silhouetted against the wide window at chest-level. She sat the radio beside a near-empty glass bottle of rum atop my bureau, and without noticing me sat back down on the tousled bed where only a few minutes ago we'd been sleeping.
I was able to leave objects such as liquor and radios perched atop my dressed because a week prior I'd torn up the majority of the carpeting in my bedroom; an act provoked by a particularly deep intoxication. It wouldn't matter if I smashed a vineyard on the floor, so long as there wasn't enough wine to touch the electrical outlets. I found the lack of carpet very liberating and frequently indulged in the act of dancing bare-foot around the bed, between the nails and carpet staples which jutted unevenly out of the exposed wood.
The woman, whose name is Angela Houston, began to whistle the tune to herself; a sweet sound devoid of conscience or shame. Perhaps I should feel some disgrace for watching her there; her underwear barely covering her, but we had spent the night together after-all. She wasn't the type to feel shame or embarrassment towards her naked body. You could tell by her choice of clothing. She'd often wear shirts and dresses which exposed her underarms, both of which were made dignified by the presence of sleek, dark hair. She'd confided in me earlier that many men found her 'hirsute' body repellant, but I assured her that I found it beautiful and natural. Later that night we shared our first passionate kiss before she returned to her bedroom down the hall from mine.
I watched her from my voyeuristic vantage point, marveling at the firm grace with which Angela's capable hands slowly worked her stocking up her left calf. The roll of nylon at the top gradually ran out as it climbed further towards her thigh. She would later explain to me the reason she wears nylon stockings every day. She'd be sitting on the same bed as the one that we shared that morning, and using a ragged pair of nylons to demonstrate, she'd explain:
"Despite popular theory, I don't do it because they make me feel sexy. It's really a shame that we have to see them as such a tool of seduction, you know? Really the reason I wear them is because I like putting them on. It sounds stupid, but really no other time in the day when I can feel as 'at peace,' as I do when I am rolling a stocking up my legs and listening to the morning radio."
Angela stopped whistling as she finished the first leg and began to sing the lyrics to herself. She swept along with the slow tune, crooning softly the words "when the wind was fresh on the hills and the stars were new in the sky". The voice on the radio was climbing into an exquisite crescendo, but she let hers remain quiet; understated against the steady, emotive cry. As she rolled the second stocking past her right knee the voices somehow melded perfectly together as one spoke and the other cried "Where was I?" They repeated themselves, the second time slightly out of synch; one came shortly after the others as though the radio was merely echoing Angela's words.


well you see,

"not all my underpants are made of garbage, but all my garbage is made into underpants"