to gordo from lizzy

small electronic light tracing yellow street
lines home
on a series of oceanic concrete hills
we followed it in the dark my bike pulling me downhill
asking me to jump on and turn the corner at the bottom
plunging into the pacific
solidifying myself in water so that there is no need to move
no necessary shifting of place of finding somewhere new

but we persist forward to end up back at those places that are known as home
we're talking and we're laughing
something about twisted old friendships
something about grade nine
things that I doubt anybody ever feels okay about
but we search for comfort in the discussion of it
and I remember bits and pieces of this specific walk home like it was last night
I remember cherry tree branches shaking and dancing
and wondering where the wind was coming from
and the cat playing out on the street up ahead
and the feeling of warmth
on a calm summer night
sitting on the sidewalk talking about departures
or maybe nothing at all
and y'know
everything felt really in place
except the wondering of where your friends will be in the nearing weeks

and I was found in a room making a zine
drunk on coolers, as usual
in a crowd of people I had just barely met
overhearing old friends, strangers to me, talking out on the sidewalk
and I tried my hardest to not scratch out some shitty poetry about
sidewalk conversations
after walking home from parties
and how it feels to no longer have that

but i stopped myself from putting pen to paper
probably because the poem would have ended up being something like this one:
confused with too much meaning,
made aimless ,un-poetic, and completely ruined by memories that are too wonderful.
and I struggled with that
with this distance
that can't be written about properly

and in some sick way of not wanting to be the only one who misses their friend
I hope you feel that too
if you walk home alone
and turn the corner
from haida onto linden
or church onto noel
the places where we always parted ways at the end of every perfectly memorable or potentially forgettable summer evening
where it was never goodbye
but only goodnight


i am afraid i'm losing touch with my masculinity

i keep saying i'm not talking about women
and you keep defending yourself as though i am.
i wish you could listen to my words instead of
doing your worst to read into me.

i don't understand why we are made to look like enemies,
struggling from "different" sides against the same perpetual victor

i used to think my life moved in a series of spirals
but now i see there is just one
and it is just me
at the hands of some faceless force of propulsion.

there are other words you could have used.
there are still others i could use,
new meanings to take the place of this
headrush whirlwind upset stomach
kind of twisting entanglement, the breaker roar and drowning sounds
something like every heart attacking, marching through the eardrum and into the skull.

there are always other words,
yet i wait for you to use them first, to give me some kind of outward motion.

this is
and is not


i didn't want to confront you on this,
but suddenly your face and this circle spinning
have taken the place of this shapeless force that
presses its hands to my shoulders
and sets the world revolving


My mom

Spitting, farting laughs
she sounds like deputy dog
this is a haiku


girl with death mask- thanks kahlo


he him
fuckin' stumbling for words

gorgeous complete circles

white teeth
a smile

and hats

you might as well lose all faith in me
we all
just language?

replacing the touch of tongue to teeth to cheek against lip
with fingerprint against broken keys

these words take effort
i notice in the grabbing of black hair and wandering eyes
it emerges in short hellos
in the books I use to distract

o fuck you
o fuck you

if i went to a coffee shop to sit down
it would not be honest
pulling back whilst still feeling intact with you

well HEY
thats all me


It's shorthand for
'this has NOTHING to do with me'


It Doesn't Hook You

Can't speak without stealing something
from someone who could say it better
or in fewer words
or in fewer, better words
that snubbed a context
and don't say "Well there I go again!"
and don't fall into circles and nonsense
circles leading towards providence
and instead say "This Boy is Exhausted"
and everyone chooses sides.

And while we're here, stop scanning group pictures for him.
This was never something you could have been good at.


Revolutionary Wars

wooden floors lining empty spaces
chopping and blending

the offerings of food.

"there'll be hippies there"
Define hippies

"I'm an activist" he assures
I nod in agreement

she overhears conversations and sits next to napolean and his Grand Armee

at least
someone with the same pride

I could have read it on the microphone
time and time and time again

but I draw a boy instead,
blending lines into shades


The Long Island Sound

Bruised long island sound
keyboards all smashed into bits
the horn section is playing off key
on purpose in 4/4 time
but out of sync.

Staged long island sound
guitars all fucked off
or distorted until far away
the drums are too loud and
out of time.

Faked long island sound
voice too high and too strong
bending too easily to make it beautiful
too beautiful to be good
too far away to be good.
who they are and how they leave

I'm not sure it's ever important.

I'm not sure I can keep making comparisons

The end result is that they were how I related to certain parts of myself

whether it was in
the cough of an old man, the ocean on the edge of a town, a feeling trapped inside of a school, the warmth of a friends hug, or a musical interlude

they'll all leave you feeling like crap,
the missing
of these things





Band on the Run

You don't even know what makes you think of it, but suddenly you can't shake the image in your mind of Lauren Ambrose sitting in a diner at the end of Can't Hardly Wait. You see a low, early morning sun in the plate glass behind her and it flares out through the camera lens and reminds you of a photograph. You wish you were her, you wish you were there. You can hear Band on the Run playing in your head, the raucous, spontaneous version from the end of that Broken Social Scene video, or even just the Paul McCartney and Wings version. You get a little chill in your spine.

You wish you could have that moment, that it could have been one that belonged to you. You want to be on a trip, driving through the North America Middlewest with your friends. You want to be getting up at dawn or not sleeping the night before and pulling into a diner, still nursing a hangover or coming down off a high when you arrive in the parking lot. You want to sit there talking loudly and laughing a lot while a waitress begrudgingly or even happily refills everyone's coffee cups and you all say "Thank you." And she smiles. There's a musical flourish and the screen starts to darken making all the oranges and dirty yellows of the morning more pronounced, and a girl with curly red hair lifts a cup of coffee to her lips and grainy white text proclaims, 'The End'.

The credits roll, but then the colours come back and you know that it's not over. It's never ever over.


Laissez Tomber La Page

It's the reason he arches his back when he's standing in the windows
while the world passes by outside
barely noticing he's there,
and it's the reason why when he puts his clothes back on
and walks out into the street
nobody recognizes him.
He's a vampire.
He's Judas.
He's just a kid.
Now he's lost in the stacks, fingering the edges of the modern masters.
Now he's lost on a screen, having forgotten all he'd learned.
Now he's lost in the stacks again, wondering
"What was the point of that?"
wondering why his life is just a modern rock song,
and why they always put him back on the shelf.


all rivers run south, all roads lead home

presenting myself like a Saturday afternoon playlist.
Where parents have left the house,the coffee is on, and we're dancing.

our every moments should be lived like these Saturday afternoons,
and we know it's true
So we feel it instead
Living it is feeling it
and I breathe in, I scream it, I sing it, and I read it like notes on a page.
And we're all fuckin' dancing.

like tap shoes on a monday
there's an orchestra of scuffs and clicks and shuffle-toe-heels.
there's this ambience of sound between particles of air.
It's what sits lurking between the verses
and wraps around your chest, squeezing your ribs until memories flood out like the Fraser, southbound and silty,paving a highway that's built for the
crashing and churning and twisting of water.
The booming echoes that all but the fish are too deaf to hear.
They travel underneath their crashing blanket
loud whispers
that flow down
reaching the pacific
melting into song.

you dip your feet into the ocean
tapping them like a finger taps 'play'
and I unravel from the water.

shuffle after shuffle,
chord after chord,
you strum me back out


This Week's Theme

This Week's Theme is:
"Life, the Pop Song."

Where the H!

WheredaH are the weekly themes!
now really.

Love me love me say that you love me


"you can't take these kids seriously; they aren't politicans, they aren't a result of our failing society. They are simply angst ridded, shit-disturbing drug-addicted teenagers. Don't even listen to the brats, they aren't educated, and they probably dont even have a home. They are angry at themselves, and they vent it out on the government and the rest of this civilized country, making it more uncomfortable for everyone."


Note pour mon Concurrent

I've forgotten the shame
and humiliation of those days.
But it always comes back
when I see you
and you see me
and we look away,
I'm disarmed.



All the words keep slurring together on the page. I read like a drunken idiot must speak. My eye rushes through paragraphs and letters ahead of me form together and I'm almost certain that half a sentence down the line I'm going to run into "fuck." It's an exciting word to see written sometimes. It is always so overused verbally that people try to avoid it in their writing so it's exciting when someone just puts it there anyway. They rarely do though. It's always just my eye tricking me.


removed, without feeling

like when they tore me from the womb
like when they tore your womb from you
like when i tore myself from you.

you always seem to have things removed.

I'm sorry I've kept myself so removed
removed and ignorant
removed from my mind.

and on the topic of minds,
I hope yours is okay

I feel echoes in my middle ear
and I think of the block next to yours
about how there is no room for an echoe

and i feel less of my nausea
and more of your vertigo

like an unborn child feels their mothers' heart beating ,
it makes sense why I'm the one getting dizzy