Memories (Thoughts)

Memories are odd. We abjectly cling to translucent and foggy synapsed which continuously grow with more files. They are never clear memories. It is clear. We take photo's and videos in order to allow us to delve into the past, a bygone era of our lives which will never be relived. I am as guilty if not more so of clinging to the past. I adore the past. I study it, break it down and reinvent it in order to bring some meaning to my actions or lack thereof. Yet I can't shake the feeling that despite all my intellectualizing I am wasting my time. Those feelings pass quickly as I rationalize the importance of the past but I often return to my previous thoughts and wonder. How I wonder. 

A heart and Its Battle Cry (A Sonnet)

A heart and Its Battle Cry

Although life's tree shakes with a great and monstrous intensity

I hold onto you with all of my roots waning fortitude

I ask you to love me though I lack vital prosperity

Not even the gods of heaven understand the magnitude

Alas I find my leafs turning and my understanding bleak

I wish for our branches to intwine us ever forever

The lord beseeches me to look upon you and turn my cheek  

I shall cry never, yell to the stars to spare us, don't sever

Nor time nor disease can take your beauty from my hungry eyes

Nor tyranny nor duty shall take your arms from my shoulders

As the birds above us coral in joy for we shall find skies

Smiling at our love, syncing our lonely hearts as air turns cold

Love, though it is cruel and comforts only those who can grasp its wonder

know that I shall love your ever even when death takes us asunder

Phobos

James was a frightened and lonely child. He lived upon a hill above the school. During his days off her would climb the trees and look upon the masses that lived within the city just beyond his vision. The hustle and bustle of the city brought about an anxiety that constricted his throat and made his muscles tense. The voices of humanity, all condensed in a limited space brought about images of death, destruction, and the evils of humanity. James would often lay awake at night, picturing the sinful lives of those that lived perpetually in the city, scornful of nihilistic lives and the grating sound of soulful pestilence. 

James was not filled with hate, nor pity. James didn't feel sympathy, and he rarely felt love, all he felt was fear. In reality, he never truly saw anyone from the city. He only lived in his house, and within his large and tall tree that overlooked the burdensome school nestled below him which acted as a beacon of distrust. During James weekly climb, he slipped, and fell to the ground. it was the first time he had made a misstep. He wasn't very far from the ground, and he was simply winded by the fall, but the end result did not console his imagination. Upon the fall to the ground, the tree shrunk before his eyes, and time changed before him. he was no longer a few meters from the ground, but falling from an unfathomable height. He saw his hands grasp at empty air, and the distressing feeling of helplessness that always ruled his life. When he hit the ground, and realized he wasn't dead, he was surprised, and strangely disappointed. His heart slowed, and James raised himself from the ground once he had caught his breath. 

The next week, standing before the tree, he could not longer will himself to climb the tree that he had scaled hundreds of times before. He felt beaten, as if the single failure amounted to a lifetime of flawed actions and sentiments. James was scared of the tree. Looking down upon the school James saw the young children, many his age, playing and rough housing. He saw them kick a ball, and run after it with wild and enthusiastic abandonment, laughing wildly and mirthfully. James considered there actions from a distance at first. He moved closer, and then stood before the fence of the school. 

Unable to focus his attentions on the ruinous city on the outskirts of his suburban life, he became enthralled by the beastly, yet kindly nature of the children. With each day James grow more confident. He was able to speak to one of the the children. The child, though not unkind, responded with indifferent confusion. James grew anxious as the awkward interaction lingered longer than he felt comfortable with. At last he was able to mindlessly break the conversation, and walked away. The next day, James once again climbed the tree, and looked down upon the school before him. He stared at the city that once again laid before him, masked in a layer of smog and raising above the land in a disordered array of skyscrapers, buildings, and open parks.                  

Noir Reality

There are two images. The one in which my eyes are open, and the one in which my eyes are closed. The latter I obviously prefer. The world is in black and white, flickering with the warmth that only celluloid can bring. A brunette lays upon my bed. I know what you are thinking. She holds in her right hand a cigarette in which smoke curls and crawl upon the walls and melds into the ceiling. The blanket is up to her collar bone, but it is tight around her curved figure, allowing just enough to the imagination while revealing slightly more than is usually acceptable. She is wearing perfectly red lip stick. The world is black and white except for her lips. They must be red. they are red. She doesn't smile. She doesn't need to smile. It was good. It always is. It is Noir. Wonderful Noir. The lamp in the corner flickers seductively. The shadows are as important as the clear images. 

The former is undoubtedly too real. The world is coloured, but far from picturesque. The colour adds a dankness and dullness to the apartment, making clear imperfections that where once hidden in the simplicity of black, white, and freckled friction. The shadows, being things of rare beauty in the previous image, make the room depressing and pathetic in the new image. On the bed lays a pretty woman void of any elegance. She is completely naked and covered in stale sweat. the blanket which covered the previous woman is now wrinkled and damp, pushed to the bottom of the bed, being held by the pressure of the two mattresses. She lays with her hands behind her back, her nipples glistening in the flickering light, eyes gazing at the white ceiling. She doesn't smile. She doesn't smile because she knows it was good. She doesn't smile because she knows it is never good. It isn't bad. It just isn't good. 

I close my eyes. Pale abstract whiteness. I open them, realist and ugly reality. I close them. Beautiful simplicity. I open them, ugly complications. She isn't ugly. She is real, which makes her tedious, hideous and serious. She lacks dignity and self respect. I look down. I am naked. I am disgusting. I am fat, frail, and uninviting. I catch our scent filled with stale sweet, pheromones, and bodily fluids. I close my eyes. The room is back to its previous version of civility and sterilization. That is civilization. Not this reality. Never this reality. I open my eyes. She is asleep. Laying upon the bed, her naked body vulnerable and undefinably repulsive. Her imperfections flicker brightly before my eyes, as the lamp changes the shades and shape of her human form, from one version of grotesqueness to another. The beasts within her loins, the ravages that exist upon her heaving breasts and idioms that linger on her stale breath. 

I close my eyes. She is still there, laying with elegance, her eyes closed and her cigarette burning in an ashtray on the bedside table. I climb into bed with her. She wraps her arms around me, her brown hair falling gently upon my heaving and muscular chest. I stroke her hair, and let the dame rest. She has been through much. I gotta find that devil man who keeps hounding her!! It all started with an afternoon in which she walked into my office. She was no regular Dame I can tell you that. She was nervous, you could tell by her she held her cigarette and puffed on it. She had a case for me you see. It was about her husband. He was having an affair she said. She needed a private detective she told me. She had an envelope of 20 dollar bills and a look of utter desperation. No regular dame I tell yeah. I was ready to take the case, not knowing what I was getting into.   

Deceptive Cadence (A Poem)

Deceptive Cadence

I've come to entrench my life in a minor key 

though I wish I could transform into a major

When you touch me I become a major 7th

when we fight I revert to a simple 5th 

You confuse me like a beautiful minor 9th

and you excite me as if you where a minor 7th

When you look at me I become a 7th sharp 9

I can't help but feel forgotten like a power 6th

I know we can have our moments of dissonance

In the end though I can only remember the harmony 

So please lets enjoy and listen to all the dynamics 

Lets end this night with a mild and tasteful crescendo 

I want to be with you when our cadence is finally played

I am both sad and happy that our lives rejected legato 

I do find that we always seemed to enjoy a good reprise 

I want you to remember though that you are my cavatina 

You make up the triad of my life and the chord in my heart

You made my soul capriccio and my heart to accelerando 

You made my eyes see that the world is stunningly atonal 

I want us to adagio our lives till our last note rings pianissimo

You will always be my major key, and I your minor retreat

Ill always be you accompaniment as you are my soloist 

Those who know will vouch that our love was never a drone

Lets hold hands and enjoy, our lives final and lovely coda

Wandering (A Poem)

Wandering 

I meet her on a sunday morning singing in the street

Not wanting money, only for everyone to dance 

And thats where I tell my story of casual romance

A week in which arbitrary chance made me complete 

Her name is inconsequential her body even more so

Her mind though was sharp and quirkily seductive 

Filled with dreams of destructive reconstruction 

Her face was dark, her eyes hinted she read Poe 

She grabbed my hand in passing and asked 

"why do you fail to dance when you are so sad?"

She could see eyes darkly masked and clad 

My hand fingering a cold silver metal flask 

The answer was outside of my woven gaze 

"I can't say. I can only say I fail to internally stir"

I lifted my eyes and finally looked upon her 

I saw a fellow human-being lost and out to stray 

The world moved reverently, blurred, counter 

Dark hair, marble skin, war like curves flowing 

Frost like reality pausing before a land snowing 

It was meant to fall apart, she was going to flounder 

Hedonistically inclined we fought passionately 

We wanted to feel everything that could be felt 

We both wanted the other to experience the belt 

Time was too short, we always fucked frantically 

Today was tomorrow, yesterday was tomorrow 

We cared not for the conceptuality of bright time 

Than she changed, took scissors to her souls twine 

Despite what they say it was never a great dishonour 

A smile devoid of pride filled with scarce beauty 

Hand grasping a cigarette between white knuckles

One evening we walked into the dim downtown chapel 

Her feet scaling the stairs to the top ever so smoothly

Standing upon the infinite ledge above someones saviour 

She screamed, cried and withered within her mourning self

No one knew what laid within, how she would forever delve

I too am guilty of incredible and unforgivable misbehaviour 

What ever killed her inside is what I loved most of all 

Fractured and distorted, she was everything I wanted to be

Once a proud building of stature, now humble debris

Filled with something more than dull and cold ethanol

I wanted to break inside her, and study the cracks 

I needed to study her mind as I did with her shivering body 

Both of us encompassed by impersonate Melancholy 

I had to understand her before she finally collapsed 

A train wreck example of the human condition as I imagined 

She paralleled my existence as I hers for a feverish week 

I learned who she was, I though never divulged my historique

She didn't need to know that I was beyond advancement 

Than we parted after a time of internal and external destruction 

We both died that day, though not in the physical sense 

No one needs the lord to live a life filled with absolute pretence 

I hope you understand that there is no true human malfunction 

Only beautiful repercussions 

  

u.u (A Poem)

u.u

A heart split in three

Two buried side by side 

One roaming the american west 

I can hardly believe 

What price I would decide 

to lay my head on their beating chests 

Ill admit I think darkly 

I doubt that'll ever subside 

I am as I am, blessed to never rest 

A rolling and charged sea 

land bracing as oceans collide

I am at your wish and fitting behest 

-

A heart split in three

Two buried side by side 

One roaming the american west 

-

I am too young to die 

I am too old to pray

-

A heart split in three

Two buried side by side 

One roaming the american west 

-

I am too young to die 

I am too old to pray

- 

Decision

I was cold. It was darkness. I couldn't see my hand before my eyes. I had no where to go. My stomach. It was racked with pain. I was sweating. I don't understand why I was so cold. So much pain for a smile. That is my disease, I will do anything for a lovely smile. The shag carpet which clung to the floor stubbornly had become very familiar over the short period of eternity in which I was forced to endure. I know the room well. Countless pointless hours was spent sniffing away youthful angst for more adult varieties. Maybe there was some left in the carpet. Perhaps with enough patience and a little determination the interminable gut-wrenching nausea could be pushed back for a little while. Hours where spent crawling on the ground, nose to the ground sniffing and hoping for a few mind-inducing particles to be caught in the vacuum of my nose cavity. Unsurprisingly they vacuumed before I was put in here, this self-aware hell in which I forced upon myself. I hate them all. I hate her. 

"No more Alex, no fucking more." I hate when she screamed at me. Ruined it all. I just wanted to be left to do things. I got things to do. The bitch. "I love you, I really do, but it is that shit" as she pointed to the table "or me." I stopped. The final two words rang in my head, echoing within the small space that is my head. "Or me." How dare she make me pick. I need both! Doesn't she realize I need both. One for my heart and one for my mind. Both. You two worked so well together, a perfect tandem of emotional escapism which allowed me to forget and to drift away to far off worlds within myself. The ultimate form of suicidal escapism. 

"I want you" I muttered to myself. The moment the words where uttered I felt the truth of them stir within me, encompassing me with dread. I don't want to give either up, but losing her would be death. "What?! Say it louder!!?" I looked up at her, my hands clenched tightly feeling the blood in me flow faster as all my arteries tightened "I want you!" I screamed as I hit the table with everything I had, feeling the wood buckle below my fist while my bones and muscles ached in protest to the force exerted. She jumped as my bloody hand and my worn soul was laid bare before her, a feeble boy lost within his own self-created torment. 

"Let me out of here" I screamed. The darkness. The impenetrable darkness didn't waver. It cared not how loud or angrily I screamed. It didn't care how I cried or how undignified I had become. It was unhindered by me, existing outside of me, encompassing me in its lightlessness. My fist once again clenched and attempted to tear at the shag carpet. I clenched at it desperately. I didn't want to drift away. I wanted to be held to this ground, to this world, I didn't want to lose myself although in reality I was fighting the will to find myself. The darkness of the room was meet with the blackness of my unconsciousness. 

"You're okay Alex, it is over." I felt soft hands on my sweat stained brow, stroking undefined hair. "Thank you for picking me" the light hurt my eyes so I just felt her hand on my forehead, running through my filthy hair and her voice settling in within my mind. It no longer echoed, it chimed as if it was a small bell underwater. I adored the sound, the pitch, and the mannerism of the voice. "I want you" I whispered.  moisture pattered upon my forehead as the hand began to weakly tremble. Her hand was still gentle as fingers ran through my blonde and greasy hair with un-conveyable compassion and strength. "I know" she whispered "I know."  

Amira and I

Tonight I will tell you the story of Amira and I. Amira is a unique young woman. She holds an elegance that can only be defined as arbitrary. She has golden brown eyes with flecks of green which add a mystic quality to her aura. Amira holds a unique skill that sets her apart from others. Whenever Amira reads a novel the characters she hold dear come to life. I do not mean that they come to life within her mind, but they truly come into existence within our reality. Sisyphus and calypso walk the earth, along with Jay Gastby and Atticus Finch. People became bewildered when they perceived these timeless characters in the flesh, re-enacting the scenes that have made them indispensable products of history.

Once Amira finishes a novel though, they cease to exist as quickly as they came to life in flesh and blood. Further examination was sought out to explain the unique, and utterly god-like talent that Amira possessed. Over time though, no scientific mind could explain her ability in which the abstract ideals of human characters became concrete reality in our physical world. Amira grew curious though. She always read, and these famous, though sometimes infamous characters, came to life. The time Lolita came to town was a great hinderance to many, and, as is expected, mass protests where initiated to stop the filth that was being portrayed before all eyes to see. 

Amira began to write. She was a wonderful writer with exquisite prose, and a talent for sentence and paragraph structures. The first, and only thing she wrote, was I. You see, when Amira wrote, she also brought that character into existence, but only if she loved him or her. I became a permanent fixture of this reality. I am more than a temporary living and breathing idea. 

One issue occurred though. My concrete existence came at a cost. She made me not only out of love, but to love. I loved, and still love, Amira with all my heart. My love for her is my existence for it grants me subsistence within this vast world of ours. The more she wrote me to love her though, the less substantial she became. I became clearer, she became translucent. She granted me existence, and she erased herself from this world. A terrible and cruel situation that tore our hearts, and confounded our souls. The thing is though, when I came into full existence, she was gone. barely a memory. In time though, i learned that I to possessed the very same talent she did. And so, as expected, I wrote, hoping to be reunited with the woman that loved and created me to love her. The tragedy that then occurred was that I too, began to disappear. We two, Amira and I, are caught in a cycle of existence and none existence, unable to ever truly touch or understand the other except through our own imagination. This is the curse of Amira and I, this is our story. 

To An Enigmatic Man

The many changing faces of one man can be unimaginable. Although they all share the basic building blocks given to us through our genetic material the sands of time and experience erodes and shapes our visage adding lines and thoughts to our frail skin. Certain aspects continue to shine through despite all that may or may not transpire in a life. A handsome face, though it may be changed by the perpetual pains of life, always maintains its glow of aesthetic elegance along the same line as a beautiful painting remains beautiful in any light. The same can be said about kindness and most of all the self reassurance of a charismatic figure. When a handsome exterior and a charismatic personality is mixed we are gifted to experience the toiling sea of the enigmatic. I have met such a man. 

To say that I understand such a man would be a lie. I am myself nothing at all special. I have been gifted with a sharp mind and a sharper imagination but I am also cursed with the reality of a face unburdened by time and by beauty. I possess wit and a way with words when placed upon a page but I do not hold the confidence nor the talent of leadership and pride. I am but a man meant to speak of other men, not to be them, and that is exactly what I am doing right at this moment. 

It is difficult to add a three dimensionality to a character I had the pleasure of experiencing for just under 5 weeks. The challenge is heightened by the reality that I possess the life experience of a 22 year old man-child. Perhaps as the years pass me by and if by chance I have the pleasure of experiencing his company a little more he may come into a little more focus but I digress. I am here to give you a snap shot.

The man is thoughtful but not overly so for he still possesses the talent of hinderance, allowing himself to be free of his thoughts and perhaps his consciousness when it is suited for the situation. His talents lay in his ability to understand the conceptual while allowing himself to apply the world of utility. He holds an understanding of mechanics specifically on the design and workings of his trusty bicycle but he allows himself to experience the perpetual subjectivity of art be it from music to the visual arts. He has enough knowledge to understand that he does not truly understand and as such makes judgements simply on his own subjective feelings. By doing so he has respected his own voice by rejecting those screaming at him for artistic conformity in a scene begging for rebellion. 

He is a man who understand the funnier side of life living in a revelry that I don't truly understand myself, being a man who lives within the shadows of his own consciousness. I must be honest I feel a strong jealously towards this man in certain areas. Yet I love him. I suppose the post-modern term for this is "Bromance" and I feel that is accurate. I hold a respect for him that I have not held for any other male counterpart. I hope this changes. I truly hope I can meet many other people like him, filled with a lust for life and a drive for experience that I can only strive to achieve. Yet, looking at his many changing faces over the years I can not help but think that he is one of a kind; an echo of his personality does not exist. So tonight I raise a drink to the ever enigmatic man I met in Montreal and I shall cheer to your health, drink to you happiness, and pour another drink in hopes of meeting you again in the future. If I fail to do so, know this my friend, you have given me a new perspective on the world that seems to want to remain with me. Thank you. Goodnight and good luck.        

Breaking Bread

There is something profound about the act of breaking bread with people. Laying on the grass outside the residence I could feel joy pumping through my veins. As the food lays upon the ground I watch as Daniel tears off a piece of bread and places a slice of cheese, Emmental I believe, upon the torn piece of bread. As he lays it within his mouth his face changes into a relaxed tone. He silently smiles to himself as he slowly chews on the flavour inducing meal before him. Although the contorts of his facial features have been comedically exaggerated for social purposes the joy he is taking in his meal is undeniably unrepentant.

I myself take the time to break apart a piece of bread using my small knife to add a little coherence to the act. I choose to partake in pate, hot peppers, and a little Brie. Much like Daniel I take the enjoyment of my food to its logical comedic potential externally but internally I can't help but feel unabashedly lucky to be able to enjoy such a simple yet delicious meal. All around me I am surrounded by wonderful people all taking enjoyment in the act of the meal. Its sustaining actuality holds a mystic quality; despite it being a human construct it maintains its beauty. 

I have shared many a meals with a many of individuals. I am profoundly lucky to say that. The group of people I am thinking of, Daniel, Emily, Els, Danielle, Maria, Cory, and a few others is no exception. I would have the pleasure of dining with them on many other occasions, some meals being less and more extravagant than the one I am relaying to you, yet those other meals failed to remain within my memory as boldly. My palate still aches for the taste of ART:brgr, while my wallet begs for the wonders of two dollar falafel, yet they did not cohere socially as the above meal had. 

The meal was simple. It was created through basic ingredients and a little creativity and was grounded in bread. I find that intriguing. Bread, or at the least the cultivation of grains, is believed to be the catalyst for civilization as we see it today. Centres such as Montreal would never have exist without the power of an agricultural society. As such the group of us breaking bread was a continuation of civilization. As the world changes and as society changes we experience our roots when we break bread with others. 

So I remembered this meal. I remembered its refinement and its lack of civility. We tore and ate at our meal with no semblance of formality almost reverting to an animalistic mode of eating, I enjoyed it. There is no pomposity be found among us. Although we are all educated individuals we are also aware of our ignorance and of our ultimate finality, we took the time to enjoy the time with each other. Despite our outward incivility we partook in the civility of each others company. The meal was purely a social experience, an echo of infinite meals before and after us. 

The setting and context of the meal was enchanting. I was in a foreign city with basically foreign people. The city had me in a spell. My eyes where wide and I was open to new experiences. As such I feel that the meal I ate, the company I enjoy, and the world I existed in appeared lovelier and more grandiose. Not because it was but because I allowed it to be so. That is the wonders of new experiences, we are given an old formula of existence and unleash a new lease upon it. Nothing has changed but our very own subjective interpretation. That reveals infinite ways to experience a moment. How will you see your next moment?  

Paper Mountains

Dusk is a fascinating time. When the warm glow of the sun is only reflected in the night sky and the world is covered in a thin veil of darkness, I see my surroundings change. The mountains, peaks and knifes that cut the sky, slowly become two dimensional as they disrobe from their third dimensional appearance. They appear as black paper cutouts placed and glued upon a multicoloured board. They jut out harshly, no longer dulled by the smoothing actions of erosion and nature. One can imagine a large flat wall resting against the sky; a horizon crafted with child like enthusiasm and diligence. 

It is moments like those when I picture God being a child of no more than six. God of course is a smart child, with nibble fingers and infinite imagination, but still a simple entity, playing and creating. The flat appearance of the mountains contrast and meld with the depth, length, and width of the road, which still appear as it should before my unsteady and unreliable eyes. The Traffic lights hint and betray the depth of the world, destroying any hope for a realm built on width and length alone. 

The ephemeral cars move with unjust speed, reflecting the light from their headlights off the hood of passing cars. Inside the steel cages of our own making people listen to man made sounds, and consider man made problems, ideas, and truths. Eyes see without considering, as minds consider without seeing. In many ways the timely catalyst of a deed is unimportant, the only importance is that the deed is itself done. With each action enacted a smile and a frown is born. The voice that protrudes from the car breaks concentration as certain words invoke images of remembrance. The wheel of my car turns a few degrees to compensate for the slight turn of the highway. As the wheels turn, and the traffic lights shudder, contemplation occurs. Driving, being a menial and mindless task at times, allows for a great amount of introspection, if one chooses to allow themselves to learn about what is within oneself. 

It is a maze. There is no way to navigate within the walls unless there is time. Time is a vital component, as well as luck and subtle stubbornness. A thread left behind is inevitably lost, and is never recovered. Images which induce distraught reactions meld with memories that inspire joyful responses all in which fall under the silent heading of "Sentimentality" and "regret." I find these two concepts share overlapping traits, and that the definitional difference occurs on our attachment of positive and negative qualities to the two. Sentimentality, as is regret, is a journey through the past. Instead of pangs of pain based on our actions, we feel pain for our lost happiness. For regret, we feel pain for what we did to ruin our long lost joys. Both are pointless voyages. 

I am thankful for the qualities of darkness. When I feel it envelope me in its cold embrace, I allow my heart to detach itself from my soul, and I sink into a peaceful oblivion that allows me to rest, if for a little while.         

Winter (A Poem)

Winter

hovering within crisp, stark air

Snow

creating a haze, white, cold, certain 

wind ruffles stiff blonde curls, absence 

Slower

Trees creak rhythmically, painfully 

Ice reflecting disjointed light

Time

Crawls with grandest of ambitions

Steady pacing of concentrated movements

Methodically constraining withering warmth

Frigid 

Amusingly beaconing while unwelcoming 

Patterns shuddering before glinted gazes 

Reflections 

Reminding all that see of past conquests 

Powerfully rigid and sheepishly merciless 

Hinting

At the necessity of abstract denouement 

Stillness permeating, invading internally 

Silence broken by singular reverberating 

Trickling 

Chiming within brittle roofs of mirrored water

Changed, constrained by endothermic reality 

Whispering

Weakening life beneath its interminable weight 

Heart beating slower, systematically, varyingly

Emptiness conveying the importance of nothing  

shunyata 

Intrinsically void, later to reveal hidden secrets 

The truth of all matter and its antithesis rejector 

Defining 

Through lack thereof, imparting knowledge 

Winter defines through vague silhouettes

Patiently 

reinvigorating life by exuding tragic non existence

Beautifully Shunyata, Conceptually flawless 

Such is non-existence. 

Tell Me - What Is the Key (A Poem)

Tell Me - What Is the Key 

Tell me - what is the key to attraction? 

Is it the skin in which we all must live in? 

Or perhaps the mind we are all gifted? 

Is it found through the act of slow touch? 

Tell me - what is the key to retraction?

Is it within the act of forgetfulness? 

Or perhaps by no longer remembering? 

It is created through the act of destruction? 

Tell me - what is the key to refraction?

It is an act of wonder that is understood? 

Or perhaps a miracle we neglect to see? 

Is it created through the human imagination? 

Tell me - what is the key to protraction?

Is it a talent found within time itself? 

Or perhaps an ability to stop time? 

It is created though words or actions? 

Tell me - what is the key to attraction? 

Is it the life we are gifted to experience?

Or perhaps the reality we only accept? 

It is found in the eyes of a lovely lover? 

Gold Fish (A Poem)

Gold Fish

witty man says he got a plan to take over the world
the seen is set up like a celluloid film I saw before
cant grasp what film it was, maybe its with Bogart?

this is the problem with my life. Can't seem to remember
remember what? I forget what I do sometimes sucks eh
got a gold fish memory and elephant ambitions

got a request to my man modest out there if you hear me
send me a lyric I can use and I'll write a song for it
cause I ain't no petty mouse and I'm not modest

with that in mind lets change the subject before I'm bored
the gift of a gold fish life is change being so constant
I like swimming around my little bowl enjoying nothing

- 

living my gold fish life with god like precision
enjoying my short circuited lolly gag existence
hey!!! what was that outside my door living!
too scared to look. Hey!! What's that outside

-

I forgot to remember to remind myself I'm here
I'm nowhere and everywhere with some imagination
bring back the film before i remember you are here

I'm tired of swimming in this god forsaken place
I'm tired of my food and of my petty suburbia
find me a new place before I die of boredom

green grass and white building with white neighbours
can't I get some excitement in this fucking place
heart attack! I'm dead before I can change hey!

-

Living my gold fish life with god like precision
enjoying my short circuited lolly gag existence
bringing me to my knees till I fall dead like the rest
knew i should have left this little piece of celluloid

-

Find Your Own Meaning (A Poem)

Find Your Own Meaning

I want to waste my life with you

cause we are too young to die

We are simply too old to pray 

I know for some reason thats true

just don't worry, no need to be shy

I know your heart is turning grey

In the end I can't keep you new

No matter how hard I try and try

I won't be able to keep it at bay

cause i can't waste my life for a few

I love you and feel the need to cry

Im unable to stand without a sway

The world is warped from this view

My head hurts as i try to magnify 

I wish i could hold you and stay

I wish i could waste my life with you

but It seems we are too young to die

we're sadly far too old to try and pray

-

I want to waste my life with you

I know for some reason that true

In the end i can't keep you new

cause i can't waste my life for a few

The world is warped from this view

I wish i could waste my life with you

Cause we are too young to die

Just don't worry, no need to be shy

No matter how hard i try and try

I love you and feel the need to cry

My head hurts as i try to magnify 

But it seems we are too young to die

We are simply to old to pray

I know your heart is turning grey

I won't be able to keep it at bay

Im unable to stand without a sway

I wish i could hold you and stay

We're sadly far too Old to try and pray

Ericapaeus

The bar table is sticky. The juices glistened in the dull light from the flickering TV in the back corner. Sports silently enact itself before glassy eyes and dull thoughts. To the left two older gentlemen play pool, wearing rugged clothing, contrasting their worn, and tired frames; too thin and frail to empress even the weakest of men. The clicking and clacking, thumping and tapping gives the bar an aroma of infinite existence. Time feels worn, like a well used path; the path to the promise land. The carpets have been walked by many dragging feet, with blood stains soaked into the ragged fabric, exuding the pathetic cycle of alcohol, violence, and frustration of lost time and failed endeavours. Above the waitresses head line many famous quotes, most from celebrated alcoholic writers. The men care not that they may share a similar end to those of Ernest Hemmingway and Hunter S. Thompson, without the arrogance or brilliance to leave a bit of themselves behind. To the right the tinted windows show a deserted street. The street light strains to light the darkest of corners, as the rain falls upon an empty street. Once in a while a car will drive by, lighting a back ally, or maybe illuminating a hollow window. 

"Hi." His shy words clash with the scenery. The waitress looks up. She isn't startled, she isn't surprised. She is only awakened. Her eyes lose the faded facade she implements when she wants to be left alone. The man sitting at the bar is looking at her with quiet eyes, eyes that hold the promise of intelligence and sympathy. Anyone who says they don't want pity are liars or derelicts. 

"Hi" she replied. He stood there sovereignly. He had a grey specked soul, and dirty blonde hair that matched the stained and grotesque ceiling, yet it added a beauty that she never noticed before. She smiled, unable to hide the sheepish confusion that played across her lips. 

"Can I help you?" The question evoked a quizzical look from his features. 

"Everyone can help anyone" he replied solemnly. She raised her hand. She dropped it, unable to respond to his statement. She had spoken the same four words in the same order, mechanically, for years. She hadn't realized that she had forgotten what they meant.  Can. I. Help. You. She thought for the first time what each word meant. Can represented an action, or the future of one. I represented herself, the word that helped her explain her own existence to another. Help. Help is what she did everyday. She helped men cope, run, and die. You. Who is you? what is you? This man? 

"I can't" she replied. The man looked at her. He raised his hand, and held within it a coin. He than flipped it. instinctually she closed her eyes, and muttered "heads" as the coin fluttered in the dense air. She heard the sound of metal striking skin and the slapping of a hand against another. She opened her eyes. He stood there, with the coin beneath his fingers and palm. 

"if its head, you can't." she looked down, and saw a head looking back at her. He looked at her. She looked at him. He stood up, and placed the coin on the table, and walked away. She looked down, and placed shaking fingers upon the cold metal laying on the table. She flipped the coin.           

An Imagined Love

On days when I am stifled by the walls of my room, covered in posters of past and current musical heroes (and a massive burger poster stolen on an expedition in mexico) I take the initiative to go for walks in crowded areas. I enjoy malls, cafes, and any other areas filled with people. On a C-train ride to downtown I see a young woman. Before I can continue I must first explain. On my travelling walks I like to look at people, and they become an escape. I see interesting individuals and I imagine them being best friends, intimate lovers, and unparalleled enemies. 

The young woman on the train clearly had lived a difficult life. I don't believe she was much older than I, but she had a worn look of a woman who has been forced to work diligently her entire life. She was being ticketed by a peace officer for not having in her a possession a train ticket to allow her to ride the train legally. As the Officer was writing out her ticket, I saw her hands picking at each other in a cannibalistic manner. Her nails where tearing at the skin of her thumb, which was dry and scaly from some unknown work. 

I pictured myself being in her life many years before this moment. I was shy and in awe of her deeply green eyes and reddish tinged haired, and found her soft hands (for I believe she once possessed them) comforting as they would run through my unkempt and curly hair. We would have our first kiss behind the school gymnasium, which would undoubtedly be ruined by a male friend of mine who would run gleefully from my glaring stare. We would consummate our love during a run away adventure from our parents, drugged with a euphoria that one would imagine an escaped convict would enjoy. 

As time went along, our lives would drift as our economic classes clashed with our futures, I, destined for the universe of university, as she, caught in a whirl wind of lower class politics and family responsibility would feel ashamed and unworthy of me, a man from a different world. We would fight, we would cry, we would hold each other, but the end was near, and we would break each others hearts. It would be done below a bridge, when she would make the ultimate sacrifice and tell me that it would not work out. My pleading and my begging when unleashed upon her to no avail would act as knifes into her already tattered heart.

She would leave appearing tall and strong, and I shattered and unkempt, but we would both feel the same inside. I would not understand that she felt as if she was weighting me down, keeping me from a future I was meant to have. She gave me up, not because of spite or lost love, but because she was willing to make the ultimate sacrifice and allow my future take precedent to hers, and my ultimate happiness be at the expense of her knowing she let us go forever. The years would dull the ache in my heart, and I would go to university, meet new people, and grow to be a smart, bright, and well educated young man. I would ride the train daily to go to school and one day I would see her, sitting with her frame dejected and withered, broken down by a lifetimes worth of pain, regret, sacrifice and misfortune. I would feel the ache in my heart once again, but I would not move to her, and pretend I do not know her, as she begs for me to say hello, to help her, love her, and hold her as I once did those years ago.  On that train, picking away at her skin, with a peace officer writing her a ticket.  

A Sales Pitch

Hello and welcome! My name is Jerry and today your life will be changed forever.  I shall introduce you to a new and fantastic product which will revolutionize everything around you. Now before I begin I would like to ask you, the kind viewer, a few simple questions. Do you find life a bore? Does life weight you down, does it get in the way of "happiness" and "fulfillment" which are empty words for gigantic promises and untold lies. If you answered yes to one or all of the above questions than I have the answer for you! 

Death!!!! 

Now hear me out. "Life" has been a fad for much to long. It has become a vibrant part of our society and is sold to us from one end of the world to another. Life, not only being an unstoppable fad, is filled with stress and annoyance. It is incredibly expensive, and has consistent payments year in and year out. What a bore!!! But what if I told you that I could sell you death for one simple price, and it ends there! No more laborious payments and oh those taxes!!!! It would all come to an end. 

In our studies, we have not found a single person who has been unhappy with their death experience! Not a single letter has been write by any of our customers complaining about the new experience known as death!!! Now this stands in stark parallel with life! Costumer satisfaction for life has been declining for years. Throw away the path to life and embrace the positives of death! No more stress, no more taxes, no more payments, no more aches and pains, and age means nothing when you are dead!! 

Now Jerry you may ask, what about happiness?! what about fulfilment and all those good things about life?! Well good question! The answer is simple, all those "things" you listed are simply human constructs. They don't actually exist! Now I know you are no fool right? I know you, the loyal customer, can see a great deal when it is presented to you! You may ask yourself, but Jerry, death sounds like such a great deal, there must be a catch!? No Catch!! Death is simple, easy, and cheap, a stark contrast to the expenses of you now pay to remain alive. Thousands of dollars thrown down the drain simply to maintain the same boring and senseless state of existence. But death will only cost you one easy payment of $5,000, and then you can enjoy the blissful neutrality of non-existence! Thats right, only $5,000! 

Call now at the number at the bottom of your screen! and it gets better! When you purchase death you will also get to choose what happens to your worthless corpse! That will be thrown in for free, but only if you call the number at the bottom of your screen within the next 10 minutes! Don't hesitate now!! Get your chance to enjoy death, a one time offer for only $5,000! 

Troubling Journey (A Poem)

Troubling Journey 

Brilliantly on you own 

comprehensibly lost within another day

Cursed by blind fate to lose all that is dear

A military man at sea for over 120 months 

Post-traumatic loss 

Greed turning his peers into pitiful swine 

No choice but to make a great sacrifice and honour

Lost a year being in love with a dangerous remedy

I broke my mothers heart

When I had given my heart and loyalty to country 

I missed her last breath and received her final warning

Beware the touch of a femme fatale in the shadows 

For she shall sing 

A song to seduce men into the dangers of beckoning rocks  

We must sometimes tie ourselves to the mast to remain 

Some must have trust in those while being willfully blind

Then we lost 

caught at sea, the guns blazing as the sun was rising 

I knew we shouldn't have taunted fate with arrogant banter 

Some hunts are never worth taking as I brutishly interpreted 

Morphemically simple

I lost myself into an old love who become my femme fatale 

Seven years unrecoverable on the island that was within 

Inexplicably disoriented with the knowledge I singularly survived

Unpretentiously vague  

Every overseer must revert himself to an apostle in order to lead himself 

I learned to let myself go and to be revived by those that I once loved

It seems you can tell a path a man walks by looking closely at his soles

Dejectedly suited 

Only way to remind her of that olive tree planted in our beating hearts

was to remind her why she adamantly rejected those bustling suitors

That she tore their hearts with the arrows of her youth for a reason 

The Vengeful dreams 

If only those Images could be freed from my over stimulated cranium 

Post Traumatic stress disorder is always in-order when I fall asleep  

Deus Ex machina. why does it only exist in the greek tragedies?

On The Train (A Poem)

On The Train 

Part One 

Beneath stained and worn glass we are enticed with the image of success 

Post-secondary dreams on which we lay our deepest hopes 

A nice home, and flowering garden, with children playing 

mild comfort unbroken by life that exists outside of suburbia 

The figure below the opaque glass is smiling and seemingly knowledgable 

Though signs of disability dot the walls of the train station 

bringing into focus the reality of pain and all that life can take 

From one train station we are shown hopes of the future 

In the next we are witnesses to the crumbling infrastructure of the city 

For we all can't live within a mild mannered utopia upon gods graces 

It amazes me what can be found when one watches from a moving train. 

Part Two

2207 is the number of my slow moving train on which I ride 

I can see a middle aged woman running trying to retain slipping youth 

I see youth dressed in old world elegance trying to pretend they are old 

I see two men standing side by side, fated to know the other exists 

Though cursed to never know what the other could have done  

if they had only decided to interact and exchanged a few words   

So many lives crisscrossing yet never interacting directly 

feats of avoidance we rarely consider except in artistic mediums 

This is what I see on this train ride 

Part Three

Greasy hair and a pulled up collar 

fitting, amount the human wreakage known as poverty

a frightful gaze and fades jeans hinting at fear within the home 

while an uneasy cross of the legs portrays raw stoicism

A reflection of the glass of the train enlightens more perception   

a couple on the rocks, turmoil dwelling below the calm exterior

an acne riddled face looking at itself with sadden distaste 

willing to sell her honour for the utterance of the word love 

though one day she will be majestically beautiful though lost 

A glass man sits next to her easy to read, full of cliches 

External confidence hiding internal self hated and pity 

Told by society to love that which is beautiful and important 

though never being told where to look and find that beauty 

So skinny, her greasy hair failing to express her deep hunger 

Red eyes telling a story of which I cannot truly understand 

Part Four

Owl earrings upon a youths glazed commitment   

Engrossed in the technology that exists in her unsure hands 

Such is the quiet freedom we have granted the youth 

Released from the realities of scarcity for a short while 

Ignorant of the chain of events that made it possible 

For the mild message of boredom which encompasses her 

Red coat possibly expressing her innate belief in life 

Yet truthful she shall never know what her opinion is 

among so many yelling voices telling her what to think 

Me (A Poem)

Me

I was born, in ninety one

the year that kurt had won

nevermind kurt cobain

brought the year of pain

interesting parallels of life

Me surrounded by strife

Than at three i moved

What does that prove?

learned to change my name

Reinventing life as a game

I became the boy alejandro 

Had a friend named predro 

thats not true. just pretending

Im sick and always reinventing

Thats okay it could be worse

I could be living a terrible curse

at seven I was back in my land

It seemed boring and bland

it was cold and bold and old

and i decided to sit and fold

stay warm by staying lazy

Slowly becoming crazy

loved my television and chips

Staring at small lives in clips

transfixed by lips and lies

they are deep seeded allies

When i turned ten I delayed

i didnt want my soul to decay

of course at ten i wasn't dead

far from it, I was ready for bed

I was aging faster than rust

my lungs filling with dust

parents smoked and laughed 

my lungs getting cut in half

at 12 i had my first true kiss

oh boy was that true bliss

she had long black hair

 shit was she tall and fair

at 13 i had my first real fuck

and well i sure was in luck

cause I later fell half in love

i could see that she was above

her soul was mine to keep

sadly she had to go sleep

they say it lasts forever

ill see her whenever

at 13 i fell in love once again

i guess it was heavenly ordained

though i dont believe in that

maybe thats cause im a brat

anyways at 14 i ran away

I just knew I had to pay

sadly life wasnt meant for you

as such my depression grew

when i was 15 my life wavered

I was in dire need of a favor

got some friends and stability

what can I say, I was a liability

i become inter-perspective  

not always very reflective 

though i was still a child

haha i felt almost defiled

that doesn't surprised me

I find life is full of hard fees

When i was 16 I meet her

the year was a bit of a blur

I fell in love and so did she

sadly it wasn't with me

I moved on and accepted

I think i finally intercepted

The strength of my existence

i wasn't fighting a resistance

I become more mystical 

some could call me fiscal

at 17 I slowly understood

and kinda ate some food

sadly I didnt become lean

nor did I become mean

I fell in love with Emily

she was so cute, friendly

I leaned on her too much

I used her as a crutch 

I dated her till almost 19

She was my true queen

now I'm in university

Met people like shifty

and have grown a bit

though lets not have a fit

im Olek and am happy

that may sound pretty sappy

thats my life's story for now

and I have survived somehow