Seven Minutes in Heaven.

She said,
"Lay down and
let's look at the stars and
wonder
about all the places
there are,"
I almost told her,
"I'd rather look at you
because
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
breath.
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
beasts
that only I can
kill.

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.

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.

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
ourselves
rather than live a life
of timeless poverty.

A Thought.

I take another hit through water.

The audiophile ignites in me.

Suddenly I hear such a range of sound. I hear the set back beating of drums, and the trumpet supporting the vocal harmonies. I hear variance, depth, and width.

The music feels full. It makes me tingle behind my eyes and see stars. I feel it in my mind and throat and heart. I feel a rhythmic sway in my bones--it's easy but unsettling--different from my daily stiff back and lead limbs.

This feels right--just right now. I know when I wake up, I will salivate at the thought of being back here: the feeling of being surrounded by music, feeling surrounded by inspiration, surrounded by love. I forget these-- what does it feel like to not be inherently alone?

That might be what I like about writing--all this fullness. My mind is fighting against this all the time. I think I am in some way afraid of this power and freedom.

How can I fear something that frees me so much?

I am tilting and the music is tilting with me.

I Felt Like Icarus.

There's fire in her eyes,
and it comes out in her words--
I sit back and listen
because I'm in awe
of her passions
and her scope
of life.
There's fire in her hair
and when I lean in to hug her
in a friendly manner,
I feel smoke and heat
and it leaves me
tingling
finger tips singed
and feeling so afraid
of being burned--
And yet I'm forgetting
that I wear wings
Of wax.

The High Level Bridge.

I may fall into deeper waters still.
150 feet up it looks soft and inviting,
even during a murky December night.
I've heard whispers of what happens
to the high level bridgers:
They say inertia stops your outside body on impact,
but your organs keep moving,
thrashing around and tearing
themselves apart.
It's blunt trauma.
It's ribcages busting.
It's aorta and lungs and veins and arteries all ripping under too much pressure.
Still,
the high level bridgers must have felt
that there would be some relief in that;
the few seconds of debilitating
pain
would be worth not having to spend another moment
in this fucked up world.

- - -

It's been almost a year since my friend passed away. I've been missing him more than usual. I wish that I had been a better friend to him, that I could have helped him in some way. I wish he was still around so that I could talk to him now, I need his guidance.

Bioluminous.

I have never felt heartache
As deep and vast
As the ocean.
Dark and
Blue and
Sometimes
It seems
Like bottomless
Despair
Though
There's life
Down deep
And they don't need
To worry about when
They will see light at the end
Of a darkening void--
They make their own.

Dear dad.

When I'm far away from you
It's easy to forget your
Shortcomings                    
Negligence                  
On an emotional level      
It's hard to accept          
That you're the father I have  
But never the one I needed.
I miss you                  
I don't
I hate that
I love you.