"The desert bears only a scathing sun, and nothing more."
"What about mirages?"

Friday, August 5, 2016

Nacreous Bottom

I let them take over
The small machinations
Of a part of my mind
That they said
Was better left unloved.
With every pinnacle
Every peak
Every jagged faced mountain
I've ever scoured,
You will always come down
At some point
And it will be
A deep blue
a nacreous bottom
In some ways
Those moments
Make me feel
Like I have just been born
Like I have yet to live
Like the last 23 years
Are a drop
In a river
And they drift away--
Nothing at all.

Thursday, March 17, 2016

A Welcome Distraction.

I catch you
Slipping through
My mind--
Every day
I get distracted
From my thoughts
They feel contracted
Like water receding
From cool blue tide pools.
You are a moon
And your gravitational pull
Has me
So grounded in you
That my head
Sways and crashes
Like waves
On an ocean.

Saturday, March 12, 2016

I never ran away but I tried.

My mother adds
A shade to my dark
When she asks me
If I remember the time
I tried to run away.
I wouldn't have
Gotten far
I had less gas
Than a parked car
Three packs of instant noodles
A fresh faced scar
And my favorite blanket.
She thought it was funny
But it also broke her heart
To know
The turmoil I was facing
Was not something
She could control
Or handle
Or fix
Or do anything about.
Our life was just a bunch
Of crappy circumstances
By a fist's
Unruly advances.
It made me sad
To know that I hurt her so
I never wanted to.
I never thought of her.
I was just tired and scared.
And that's why I'm crying
At the dinner table
As she tells this story:
Because I forgot
How she was always there
And I wasn't alone.
Even if I felt it right
In the core of my soul.
I was never alone.


She could break my heart
into 1000 pieces
and I would pick
them all up,
number them 0 to 999
press them back together
with superglue
and bent up euphemisms
and drop my heart
right back in her hands.
She said
"I could never do that to you."
But you did.
Over and over.
Every day.
Until I couldn't find all the pieces
And it wouldn't matter anyways
cause you can only fix
a broken thing
so many times before
it becomes unrecognizable.

Saturday, March 5, 2016


Why do you hold this power over me?
I am leaves ripped from branches
I am trees torn from the earth
I am erosion
Of soil and stone.
I hate that I let you do this
I hate that I can’t control it
I hate that my fate
Is to continue
To let you wear me away
Until I am
Nothing but
A never ending canyon
A winding river
The deep crevice
Of an underground cavern.

Thursday, March 3, 2016

What You Do.

Her eyes cut through me.
A hot blade through cold butter.
Her eyes gut punch me.
A hammer to the head of a nail.
Her hands still hold me.
An anchor clinched around coral.
Her hands move through me.
An automatic rifle kicking out after firing.

I don't know if she knows.
I want her to want me.
I see that she sees
her special effect is affecting me.

Wednesday, February 24, 2016

After A Breakup.

I'm afraid to admit
I feel sort of out of it.
I'm just too tired I think
To invest the time
To step off the brink
I can't continue to lie
And say I'm fine
And turn around
And die every night.
Every night
A little bit of me dies.
Do you care at all?
Did you ever?
It's been a while,
Want to catch up over coffee?
Did you know you've damaged me?
How are you?
I miss you.
I wish I could kiss you.
I wish I could forget you.
I wish I could relive you.
I wish I could be without you.
I wish I was whole without you.
I want to be whole again.

Seven Minutes in Heaven.

She said,
"Lay down and
let's look at the stars and
about all the places
there are,"
I almost told her,
"I'd rather look at you
I wonder where you are and
where you've been and
what's under your skin and
how can I get there--
Those deep blue
tide pools
where crustaceans
find heaven
where doe eyed teens
count to seven:
The number of minutes
I want to spend in
space with you."

What it's like.

My heart sings poetry,
but my brain can't motivate me
to get dressed
hand and pen pressed
to paper fated
to wait with bated
I'm so tired
of all the liars
singing in my head.
If I could be free of them--
these ravenous thoughts--
I count to ten,
look again,
I see them still:
Those dark sentient
that only I can

Saturday, January 30, 2016

The First Time.

I fill my time with people
In part
Because I'm scared
To admit defeat
To go home
And face this disease.
I'm afraid to be alone
With these thoughts--
They pinch each
Fibre of me
So much pressure
Behind my eyes
That it's all I feel--
This pain.
It feels good to hit something
Tear it down
And hate it,
Even if its me.
Skin flushed
Under fist.
Tomorrow it will blossom
And remind me
Of those thoughts,
And I'll ache
At the next dreaded night
Of trying to battle
With the inevitable:
Swollen eyes
Stinging cheeks
Singing limbs
Splintered teeth.
I hope one day
I'm strong enough
To face this.

Sunday, January 17, 2016

The Priest's Grotto - Mundare, AB.

Something about that small town--that grotto that we walked through, I keep thinking back to it. My memory is an old sepia photograph that I squint at. I keep trying o pick out the details, but time proves as persistent as it always is, and the jagged edges of hewn stone and wild hedges fade even as I recall them:

The place is old: you can feel it in the grass and see it in the stone, but it feels ageless too. It's like it will remain for a thousand more years, even when there are no more priests left to tend it. It is such a strange juxtaposition of stone and cement, a hard precise human hand and the wild ravages of nature. It is almost a paradox. It is almost perfect harmony.

The front of the grotto is a lush grass field lined with ancient trees. They grow beards of moss and whisper old secrets when the wind kisses them and command a respect that is unmatched by any sprig you will see in the city. Their branches reach over the field for each other, shield us from the sun with a canopy of new budding leaves. There is a cement walkway that leads up to the front of a massive stone structure in the centre of the grotto. It guides us onto a stone pavilion that is old and cracked and has seen the pounding of hundreds of feet. The centre is a sheltered area for prayers or ceremony, and on both sides are wide stone basins that once held fountains. They are deep and empty now, save for rusty bronze piping.

Next to each basin is a set of crooked stairs and a statue that offers us a story. One is the virgin Mary. The other is indiscernible. The fountain piping is bent crudely to follow the stairs. They creep past the statues and up to a cement reservoir at the peak of the structure. When you climb past the statues you find paths that wind around and lead you up to the top. You can run your hand along stone walls that line the path up. They are cobbled piles of rock and poured concrete. Everything is overgrown-- covered in moss and weeds and forget me nots  and other wild flowers. The priests have begun to groom the hedges and lilac bushes that line the pathways opposite to the wall. Though they still carry the posture of something that never stops resisting. They continue to grow and always the threat of them conquering the path lingers.

When you reach the top there stands at its very peak a rusting metal cross at least 12 feet high. It is covered head to toe in creeping vines dried and cracking from last year's winter. Tiny buds have begun to appear as the vine prepares for another summer of creeping.

I remember standing at the top of that place and being struck with the dedication of the faithful, and all that is needed to create and nourish a place like this. It has a sense of calm and serenity and age, but also the unnerving edge of the human hand and mind.

Wednesday, January 6, 2016

Time 1.

You told me today
that the only thing we can ever
truly give
is time.
It is so limited
and so precious
that my heart sinks
whenever I remember
every time I gave my time
to someone
who threw it all away.
I could have been giving it to you--
Or better yet--
I could have given it to myself.
So often we forget
that time is the only true thing
with transactional value.
Sometimes it's better to invest in
rather than live a life
of timeless poverty.