Tour by Bus

An iron ring was built around this city
to help the people living here
get from one place to another
faster and with fewer breaks
for history
so they can forget
their city was built on bones
and skulls and other dead things
that will never decay because
we wont let them
like the iron ring running
all around this city to stop
the people living here
from getting too far in one
direction or falling out
of orbit or
oscillating wildly
so as to shake history or
each other
so instead they kiss
both cheeks
pulling each other close enough
to whisper "history
is not the only thing that
surrounds us."
and repeat
"set me free
set mefree
setme free
setmefree"
until the words
mean nothing to anyone.

metaphysical response to bringhurst

I checked the cliff side to answer the theological question ‘which demon pushed adam?’, because nobody else would do it

Falling into the answer he inscribed on the vertical wall of the cliff
scratching his nails against rocks , too harsh, too trying, too desperate
It momentarily froze my descent

And the answer was concise in its raising of another question
How can anybody know it’s possible that they’re being
pushed downward when they’re already falling?

and although adam and I had already landed,
our demons who preceded our fall went unnoticed,

our bodies found,
theres lost,

yet they still ask
‘who pushed them?’

dulcius ex asperis

I hear them muttering songs through thistles nested beneath tongues,
breathing the taste of nectar stained purple and bruised,
where their roots protrude makes no difference,
in fact, it changed few chords.

for it was the misshapen pinkies writing beneath the earth that wrote this hymn,
spiraling downward entwined with soil like long necks of disjointed chord progressions,
digging out stems whose thorns only dare be pollinated by the humble bee.

humming 'you can never be hindered by progress,
and you shall ne'er be overlooked as mere parasite,'
but perhaps they meant weed

and so you were not

and so we grow sweeter in any soil
quietly replanted against clambering rocks and minerals
crushed by the melodramatic ocean
whose cacophony of tears remain still yet tidal
resounding soundtracks for mere humble moondancing

and so it too, weed or flower, remains humble
and it too will be found when replanted by pinkies,
by the art, the daydreamer, the drifter, the poet,
the bees

and there they'll be
blooming from purple bruises,
singing their jovial renaissance
to the difficulty
and to the sweetness that lives to follow

Seriously guys

why aren't you all online so that I can tell you I'm moving to Halifax to go to NSCAD because I got the acceptance letter yesterday and it only took them 2 days to accept me sljfhksdf;jksjfkl;s

what the fuck.

Little Moments

I'm so unfathomably different from who I used to be. Little moments change things. Somewhere along the line who I used to be snapped, shattered, crumbled. Yet here I am resorting to old bad habits, obsessions, addictions. Here I am giving up those years of resistance and diving all too willingly into a sea of my self destruction. I'm sincerely afraid I'm going to kill myself soon. I feel so not real. Somewhere along the line I switched over into this alternate universe where I do not emote, or attempt to share my emotions. Somewhere along the line I began to drink more than I should. Numb.
I've become all too accepting of the fact that I will never heal, I will never be okay, and I won't stop until I die.

hoarding ghosts

black nights against a white open sky,
spring is nearing
you cough open and endless and I wonder if you too are the winter
lost in snow blindness that edges on the last dark night of the frost moon
dying still
into a newly glossed-over spring
with trees so high we both can climb and scratch
in places where our marks will never be found
and when the heat hits
you can seek refuge behind drawers
under a bed where old chicken bones
will be jutting from your hips
and I'll gather you up in the heap...
that after the fact, never made any fucking sense to me...chicken bones?...
...yes, that's right...chicken bones
like every memory, like every nostalgia of flesh,
the old hungry bird skeletons that are now poultrygeist.
There was never a reason for them.
but their story will out-live me
like these ghosts that I've collected, unable to completely live down or leave behind.
My grave will read "here lies chicken bones!"
and I will not be found in the sediment,
just replaced by old marrow and knotted joints.
Apparitions that were momentarily stashed away,
found in my death, overly apparent and surprisingly foreign to those who had met me
or thought they had known me
during the life-span of all this unorthodox haunting,
unaware of the shame that had always rattled along with it
beneath my restless head

I don't know if this really belongs here

but listen to paul baribeau

Looking for the Perfect Party

I've been looking for the perfect party
one where everyone is nice and happy
one where nobody gets too depressing
one where nobody starts undressing
one where I don't black out for weeks at a time
one where I'm not constantly changing my mind
one where no boys leave too early
one where you don't take to acting surly
one where I don't have to feel alone all night.

when I was eighteen and didn't really exist, or maybe I just asked too many questions

I see flare guns ignite when they're past being more than warning signals. I don't allow being caught by their lure, it's only the same impermanence seen in the stars: they are just old light.I see the same decomposing thoughts flashed everyday. Concave lines crease into our face, and ivory souvenirs of good breeding or simple evolution, shine. Sometimes the head will fall back at the same moment when hair seems to land perfectly over the face, when we compose notes with no paper for them to imprint themselves onto...as if by purpose.
Because laughter
is not
to be recorded.
Its altruistic intent is in something which is not stability,something that can only be real in a short glimpse, and like everything, it too will die. And if giggle-fits and chuckles are the songs we make when brainwaves stumble across un-written thoughts for the first time; spat out to accompany old memories also destined to expire, how do I write their epitaph? How do you write for something that has no future, was never supposed to, and never really warned much of anything anyway? And if I cannot write how can I say goodbye,
how can I stop caring for something which I cannot write for?
And is this the first time the awkwardness of my shifting eyes and hands have searched out into this new melody, and what is the promise that resides in it? I had an epiphany when you laughed yesterday,
that I am something
that is
beyond
repair.