Dream (A Poem)

Dream

walking down the abandoned hallway

the cold building wavers like broadway

got a feeling of dread inside my bones

this night don't feel right as i walk alone

the lights flicker above my sweating head

we reach a door that fills my soul with dread

its time to enter into the abyss of this place

the walls around me quiver as if to displace

the door creaks open followed by the scent

this is the smell of death and those hell bent

i walk into the place of my worst nightmares

this is where my soul is shown, this i dare 

on top of the table lies a blood soaked sheet

women lies underneath crushed like raw meat

she was the women i loved with all of my being

shes dead and i feel like there is no reasoning

i raise the sheet from her broken body and gasp

my body shakes and i don't care if i relapse

a smile slowly grows on her torn and shattered face

i cant help but feel that fate has shown some distaste

"dont u still find me beautiful my one and only love"

cant help but stare at the ceiling and what else above

this isnt happening this just cant be real i cant cry

struggles to lift herself from her position. let me die

the sheet falls to the ground and reveals her death

she died on a trip to edmonton in a car accident 

her body is mangled and her scalp was torn

she looked like an old doll that has been worn

i want to look away and find some peace around

but this is the price for my sins of which Im bound

i wake up in a cold sweat with a scream and a cry

this is the moment i wish i had said my last goodbye 

A Blackbird (A Poem)

A Blackbird 

alone in a forest of vague, unsure loneliness 

I hear the fluting call of a shy yet forceful bird 

Young and diligently sewing together its nest 

Taking pieces from a previously broken lost home

the young blackbird sat quietly when I came to sight   

Skin and bones, but beautiful in its strength, dignity 

I call to it with my fingers and my hands stretched out 

I wish to feed her and to care for her till she is strong 

No longer shall the slight of build Blackbird be deprived 

I wish to see her fly and spread her lovely simple wings 

I waited until it flew down, wary of my stance 

It moved forward considering what is in my hands 

She glimpses at me and I saw myself in her dark eyes

I saw independence, yet acceptance of raw need 

One that I felt could be filled if she trusted in me 

quiet demeanour hinting at a quaint leadership 

lover of melody, the importance of ones self 

I waited patiently for her call once again 

black feathers and gaze glazed with a beautiful starkness 

I want only to hear her sing, to be my true muse 

Waiting

The lobby stood empty except for a few stools and a single man drinking. In his hand a glass filled with a smokey drink, perhaps a scotch or a whiskey. Its colour vaguely resembles the smoky air that hung in the lobby, stifling the room. The hand grasping the stained glass shook slightly, raising the glass to his lips, which parted slightly when the oaken taste of alcohol touched his tongue. There are few things like a good well aged scotch they say. The appreciation of alcohol goes through stages. At first, we are all disgusted by the taste. It is wrong. Bad. It makes us different, and it is far from enjoyable to drink. Overtime it has it uses. when drunk fast, and with the intent of experiencing the change in ourselves, we can learn about ourselves, if anyone is willing to tell us. As we age, we learn to experience the subtle tastes of a drink, and move up to more expensive examples. It calms us. It relaxes the mind and simplifies the nerves. The rim of the glass is moist. It is placed on a coaster that lays on the table. The thud of the glass is a measurement of time. It isn't as accurate as you or I would think it. Looking up at the clock it is clear it is that time again. Time for another drink, another thought and another reason to drink a little more. Raise a hand raise a fist and raise a toast to the men and women that go to it alone. A toast. When does that term come from? It seems funny of sorts to picture a party raising toast in the air, yelling in happiness. Warmed bread, crusted and hard, resting in hands raised in the air in imperfect unison. A toast. Reminds many of Rocky Horror Picture Show,

The lobby is still empty. It always will be. It stands as a testament to the human condition. With each passing hour it fills and empties. People come and go, and the juke box repeats the same song again and again. Like a rolling stone, the stone collects no moss as it makes its way down the hill. The Lobby is still empty. Purgatory? Perhaps the lobby represents purgatory? It seems unlikely they would serve alcohol in purgatory. It would make infinity a bit to enjoyable. The Lobby doesn't have that feel. It wavers to much to be hell and heaven would never be a lobby. Perhaps it is not the place between heaven and hell but the place between death and life. It would make sense to sit in a lobby, have a drink, and wait for death to arrive. In a coma. Of course. It all makes sense. The lobby is a coma, a waiting place for death. They would serve alcohol there. It is never fun to die, and what better place to wait then an empty lobby with a good glass of scotch. The sweaty and poorly tailor suit also fits the moment. The grey haired temples, and the shaking hand also fit the scene. Perhaps angels will come and take him away. 

The glass thuds once again on the table. Raising from the stool, the single man stands and stretches his old legs. The suit jacket is a couple sizes to small. Must be old. Girth is known to grow when one gets older. The jacket is a bit too long as well. One does shrink with age. Fitting. A five and a couple of crumpled ones leave the pocket of the poorly maintained pants. The soles of the shoes are worn at the front of the left foot, for it drags. The cane in the right hand also makes sense. It all makes sense. An old man, an old drink, and an old life. When in doubt, everything is old. The lobby is empty. The old man is gone, and there is no movement. From a distance you hear foot steps, and a young man sits at the same stool, orders a beer and waits.   

The Christmas Party

The cold cuts through like a knife, piercing the skin. Each pore is knifed by an icicle of air which penetrates deep into the muscles and further into the soul. The air hangs heavy, burning the throat when breathed in too deeply. Such is the winter nights in the mountains, which can be harsh, merciless, and beautiful. It is so cold that the door hinge is covered in ice, and the door has a thin veil of ice that covers the front of it, spidering across the oaken wood delving deep into the porous density of the wood. There stands a house, an old house with an old way of standing. A home is much like a man. Much can be understand about its age simply by how it stands upon the ground. The old home holds a majesty that compels you to nod in agreement at its age and its wealth of knowledge. Much can be understood by how a house sits upon the ground. The lights lightly splay across the snow covered ground from the back of the house, darkness maintaining its almost absolute monopoly everywhere else. The cold has not taken all. Youth fights its powers with acts of social dissonance and apparent individuality, wishing to break free from the confinements of nature, and more importantly, past failures, which hang lightly, like mistletoe, teasing with abject innocence. 

Voices cut through the air, echoing with greater power than if the sun was out and warmth was in control of the landscape. Although less is allowed to live in the cold landscapes of a barren mountainside, what does find a way to exist is magnified and is allowed to control its own destiny. through thinly veiled paned glass and plastic wrapping hugging tightly the wooden outcropping of an old window, the night looks into the home filled with both old and new stories asking to be told. Smoke, hormones, and voices hover as thoughts, ideals, and hopes attempt to mingle. Neon screens glow in the brightly lit rooms that hold to many people with to many urges and not enough time to expound on all the questions of life and petty pains. 

When hovering above the home one sees two lone fingers filled with internal energies wanting to be releases. Braving the unforgiving cold, the two poorly dressed souls venture unto the cold landscape and attempt to knee step through high snow and higher passions. One runs quickly behind the tree, another follows close behind, grabbing the arm of the other. With a quick short giggle she escapes and flees behind another tree, allowing the cold to sink deeper into her fiery heart and her passionate mind. She is kept warm by the furnace within herself, working through her limbs, torso, and expelling from her pores. The other runs again, grabbing her, and pulling her into the snow laying on top of her, enjoying the success of her hunt while regretting the decision of falling into the gripping snow which drains life from her bare fingers and exposed neck. 

A squeal is expressed from the mouth of the young woman bellow the power and grip of the other young woman. The two women wrestle lightly before realizing the folly of their ways and enter the warmth of the old home filled with young souls. The home stands alone. All else is empty, cold, and unsurpassed in cruelty. With youth caught in a cycle of reinvention that plagues all generations with its reality of inevitable failure, laughter, hunger, passions, and urges are controlled, unleashed, and rejected within the walls of a home. Some will go home, some will stay. Some will forget, some will remember. Yet all will live, die, and understand. 

Pleasure

In the left corner of the room smoke billows towards the ceiling licking upon nicotine stained paint. In the shadow of an open window, a figure sits, looking upon an empty street lit by the light of human creation. Her eyes cast guilt and judgment upon each shadow and reflection that her squinted eyes pick up. In the back right corner of the room there exists a bed, though to call it a bed would be kind. It more accurately represents a space in which to lay. Laying beneath stained sheets lies another solitary figure. Although there exists two human beings within the confinements of four walls, there exists an intolerable loneliness which hangs in the air, adding a mist of despair and agitation. Both figures are naked. Both are silent. To the left of her there hangs a picture. The only picture. It is abnormally bright and cheerful with bright impressionist colours, and a robust thickness that conveys impatience, but mild reflection. It hangs at eye level, slightly askew. 

The rustle of crusty sheets interrupts silent thought. Eyes fall upon the sleeping figure in the back right corner of the room. A bare foot taps the cold floor, working in a strange rhythm. The room smells cold, heavy. A frost is noticeable on the thin paned windows. She lowers her hand, still holding the smouldering cigarette. The light glow of the end casts shadows onto her visage. Her lips are thin, with the left side of her mouth permanently risen, as if a string holds it in a half grimace. He hand is held aloft, echoing the same puppeteering image, with a finger out stretched in 50's elegance. 

The foot stops tapping. The heel is held upright, ridged. When looking at the foot alone it calls to mind the foot of a deceased, caught in rigor mortis, as if the departed was killed in mid-step, fleeing. He stirs. 

Her eyes widen, but not in fear. There exists a mist in her blue eyes. Some would call it love, others passion, but she calls it pleasure. Her leg curves, her back straightens, and her hand tightens upon the burnt filter. His head lifts, and he roles unto his back. Pale brown hair rests lightly upon a yellow pillow. Eyes lift open, beckoning her. A smile plays across his tired lips, matching his half opened eye lids. A man at ease. 

His eyes follow her. Her pale legs reflect in the morbid light, adding death like beauty to her youthful contours. Her walk, as her smile and pose, summons images of strings, delicately controlling her movement causing her to glide across the bare wooden floor, unhindered by gravity. Light plays across her bare back, bringing forth images of darkness, decadent playfulness. Jaws, teeth, and claws splay across her arched back, melding with the scars that lay painted and pale. 

She lowers herself slowly to the floor, her knees touching ever so lightly, grazing the frozen floor. A shiver wavers through her body, the only signal of her humanity, of her existence in this world. He raises his hand and strokes her cheek, resting his thumb upon her bottom lip. His index finger rests at the corner of her left eye, just below her brow. 

His eye lids lower, though his smile remains vaguely on his lips, ghost like. There comes the feeling that if one simply squints, they will be able to see the same smile laying transparently upon his lips. She climbs slowly beneath the sheets, feeling his body, his skin, upon her own. Her breath quickens, her heart beats faster. His presence sends fire and ice through he veins. She feels her entire being tighten. She lays upon the bed softly, stroking the air with her hands, with a puppeteers smirk curled over her yellow teeth.  

Jeremy

Day after day, Jeremy worked the line. He took a small component, which he didn't understand, and he placed it into a compartment of a device he didn't comprehend. He took great care at his job. He first lightly grasped the device, making sure to hold it between his thumb and middle finger. He tried his thumb and index, but he squeezed to hard and broke the mechanism. Once he had taken ahold of the machine, he placed it lightly into a square box, in which it snapped into a smaller box. He originally pushed with his thumb to insert the device into the perforated plastic box, but, as was the case with the index and thumb grasp, he broke the vital component. He learned to push on both ends, for the device was rectangular in nature, and as such the steady pressure allowed it to snap into place safely, as was intended. Once this was done, he had to lift his hand quickly, for it had to be prepared to repeat the process. 

If he hesitated, or wasn't prepared for the next identical action, he would slow down the line. He hated to slow down the line, as he hated when others did so. Didn't they realized what their job entailed? they where all trying to making a living. He loathed his co-workers. They complained about their menial responsibilities, and they always lagged in their work ethic. Jeremy was far from a simple man but he was neither complicated. 

He was handsome, though he bore some odd scars above his eyes, of which no one asked about and no one wished to know about. He had large, but deft hands, which possessed out of sync callouses which did not match his work. His shoulders where broad, but his hips where narrow. Jeremy had green eyes. 

Curiosity is a trait best hidden away if you wished to work at the factory. Names where useless to remember and friends where seen as a hinderance. For most, it was a short term existence in order to fulfil long term goals. Sadly, what they didn't realize was that the moment they took the repetitive and mindless work, they had sub-consciously given up on their dreams. Jeremy not only knew all of this, he choose the life. No one knows why. Jeremy, though seemingly stupid, was far more intelligent than anyone else in that densely populated factory. He choose ignorance, though why is once again a mystery. Jeremy though was good at what he did. He placed that single piece of hardware into its chosen place with the utmost care, speed, and dedication. He was meant for that single movement. His hands working mechanically, noticeably and understandably working on autopilot. 

During the entire 8 hours Jeremy thinks. One co-worker, a young man, looked him in the eyes, and he saw something. When asked, he simply replied that he saw answers, though what the questions where, he didn't know. No one wished to examine Jeremy, they where more than happy to accept the oddity of his creation and maintenance within the factory. 

One day Jeremy didn't come to work. That had never occurred, for he had come to work everyday for 20 years, placing that piece of plastic into another piece of plastic. Jeremy didn't know what he was building, no one did. They simply built it. One day though, someone found something on the floor. It was a slight strip of paper. It simply read "Create. Destroy. Create. Destroy." It was in jeremy's hand writing, though no one knew this. Jeremy never returned to work, and someone else came to replace him. He worked slower, less productively, and less carefully than Jeremy did, but it didn't make a difference. He was completely in tune with the macro-sum, and his individual actions were not going to change the reality of the factory. Still, Jeremy was missed by the machines he helped to create, for there once was a man that knew what it meant to place a piece of electronic plastic into another form of it. Where he is today no one knows, and no one cares, just as Jeremy would have liked.  

Goodnight and Good luck

There are fascinating nights. Some are filled with sorrow while others with jubilations. Below me three wonderful individuals are caught within a strong embrace feeling the warmth and comfort of each other. Although it craves sexual tension it doesn't. There exits a comfort which defines all of human interaction despite the explicit sexual sarcasm that envelopes all relations. It doesn't mean things will continue as they will. The future is not known and the past is a dull ache that is able to express itself in both constructive and destructive manners. With that in mind the moment is that which lends itself to itself. A cycle of subject experiences that follow a unique version of time. The touch of bare skin can feel as if it has lasted for hours while the brush of hair lasts less than it takes to draw a breath. 

Intimacy can take many forms. The sexual and the platonic forms would seems miles apart but in reality they are barely discernible. An embrace has many layers but they are all based on the basic principle of comfort and caring. With a friend in my arms holding me as one that loves the other I can't help but feel thankful for that small token of intimacy. It means more than anyone would know. It acts a release and a reminder that although I feel alone I am not. I am surrounded by those that love and distance does not apply. Distance like many other concepts is one of subjectivity and inherently dependent on technology. 

Listening to technological music and caught within each other the two lovers and the man away from his beloved lay in bed. They hold each other while remaining apart. It seems contradictory but it isn't and I ask only for your faith in my interpretation of events. I understand that certain things may seem unlikely but fact is stranger than fiction. I lay in my panda onsie considering the sight before me with a mischievous smile. Write what you know hemingway would tell me despite my lack of masculine traits. I unlike hemingway am not the man's man. I am still a child caught in a vicious cycle of sexual intrigue and moral dilemmas. Some will pass without beings unhinged while others will remain haunting my conscious. I am afraid of everyone and anybody but the ones that I need to fear the most which is myself. It is peanut butter jelly time. I am very lucky as I receive a kiss from the man to my right. Hands tangle together as limbs intwine between I and the rest of the people in the area. No dutch rudder for I replied silents and abstractly to the friend that stays below me.

Perhaps I don't exist in this world. Perhaps I am lost without a way towards happiness and more importantly perhaps I will never be allowed happiness for all those that remain bitter and sad shall receive my support before my own. I am that way. Forgetful and neglectful to myself. A shame. 

Goodnight and goodluck.