skonen_blades: (hamused)
I feel that this poem needs an introduction and a trigger warning. This society portrays women as end goals. Things to be achieved. Objects to be won. It tells men that there are winners and losers and nothing in between. I have heard that there are rapists out there that don’t know they’re rapists. I can start to understand how that’s possible when I see the inspirational messages that can be taken as pro-rape in the wrong light. I start to see how that’s possible if every sexual experience a person has had has been a power struggle and they don’t know any different. This poem is an exploration into that mindset to try and understand that mindset. Trigger warning for sexual assault.


First they laugh at you. Then they fight you. Then you win.
Winners never quit and quitters never win.
If at first you don't succeed try try again.
A winner is a dreamer who never gives up
Don't take no for an answer.
You deserve it.
It's not your fault.
Haters gonna hate
It's easier to ask for forgiveness that it is to ask for permission.
Just do it.
Fortune favors the bold.
Never give up.
You always regret the things you don't do, not the things you do.
Your desire for success should be greater than your fear of failure
Overcoming challenges is what makes living worthwhile
The good guy gets the girl
The good guy gets the girl
It doesn't matter how slowly you go as long as you do not stop.
He's so strong.
You throw like a girl
He's so strong
You're such a pussy
Resistance is futile
Home run. Home base. Equate body parts with objects. Sell sex as an objective. Sell vagina as a goal. Sell women as gifts.
Willing equals desirable.
Willing equals slut
You can't rape the willing
You better be willing
What if she says no
Fucking is winning
Winner is balls deep
Winner is getting sex
Losers always whine about their best. Winners go home and fuck the prom queen.
We must win we must win
What if she says no
Never take no for an answer
Alpha males don't back down
She doesn't want to be seen as a slut
She has to say no at least a couple times everyone knows that
Tell me more tell me more did she put up a fight
Evolution nature strong survive might makes right
It's just nature it's just nature
He couldn't help himself
She was so tempting
She came to him in his dreams so we burned her for a witch
She enticed young men so we sent her to a laundry in Ireland
She’s a tease
He hates it when women cover themselves up
He hates it when women wear revealing clothes
Guys want sex all the time why doesn't she
He’s just playing devils advocate
He’s just playing devils advocate
You have to understand
You have to understand
Men have it just as bad as women
Men have it just as bad as women
Woman are goals
they're not people
they're goals
to the victor goes the spoils
all is fair in love and war
he just loves you so much
you'll let him if you love him
and you better love him
or he'll get hurt
and he likes to spread that hurt around
and there's two ways we can do this, he says.



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skonen_blades: (hamused)
I love Granville Street
clubs on a Friday night. They
are a cure for hope.




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skonen_blades: (dark)
My heart is not as black as crude oil.
My soul is not a broken mirror reflecting a thousand angles of a crime scene.
I take pride in my accomplishments.
I always look on the bright side.
My ego is not a sponge vampiring up all your compliments to feed my justifications.
I feel attractive and smart.
I feel like we're all headed in the right direction.
My sense of self is not a diseased puppy going blind and hoping for death.
I feel good most days.
Happiness is not alien to me.
My mind is not an opportunistic, power-hungry, self-defeating, abuse whisperer.
I do not bully myself.
I don't kick my own crutches out of my reach.
I hate burritos.



April Fool's.


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skonen_blades: (hamused)
In France a French kiss is just called a kiss.

In China, Chinese food is just called food.

And here in my heart, your name means love.



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skonen_blades: (hamused)
The other day in December I heard two old men talking on the bus.

It was on commercial drive so they talked loudly. Not shouting, just talking loud enough to hear each other on a crowded bus. They didn’t try to lean in closer or trade places with anyone even though they were a few seats away from each other. They didn’t have the apologetic whisper that people have on the buses west of Granville. They talked comfortably like we were in their living room.

“Hey Jerry I haven’t seen you for ages.” Said one.

“Yeah, I’ve been in jail. Just got out.” The other one replied.

“Oh yeah? How was it?” the first one asked.

“Pretty good. Fuckin’ crowded.” He answered. No bravado. Like he was talking about a mall or a movie theater.

“Yeah. Well, it is winter.” The first one said.

And I realized that the jails were full because it was cold out. It hit me that people were purposefully going to jail because it was warm.

They both smiled through sighs and I realized once again that there are vast worlds out there that I am unfamiliar with.



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skonen_blades: (hamused)
Everyone hates being little.

And we are all little.

We are all ants wishing to be whales.

But when you are little and you want to be bigger, you have to find something that makes you feel bigger.

For some, that comes from accomplishments. A trophy, a promotion, or even an encouraging word from your boss can go a long way towards making someone feel bigger.

For some, that comes from belonging to a community or organization with a goal. By belonging to a group of other little people achieving something big, a person can forget how small they are.

For some, that comes from love. To feel love to is to feel that illusion of bigness. That sense of being involved in something greater than the sum of its parts.

For some, it’s helping others. By shoring up the faults of other little people, you can bleed bigness into the world.

For some, it’s gaining a skill and using it. If you can build a bookshelf, fly a plane, fix a car, craft a bowl, or calculate an equation that allows us to move forward, you feel useful.

The problem with wanting to be big is that if you have no accomplishments to speak of, no real love in your life, no true skills, no organization to belong to, and no urge to help others, then the only way to feel big is to look down on other people.

It’s what enables people to kill others branded as inferior.

It’s why Alan Turing was pushed to suicide even though he enabled us to win WWII.

It allows people to dismiss the successes and lifetimes of hard work put in by women, homosexuals, people of other races, and transgendered people. They might have accomplished more than you but you can still look down your noses at them.

Everyone hates being little

And we are all little.



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skonen_blades: (hamused)
2/30

In a time before coffee. In a land before space. Deep within the lungs of God I awaken. There is no complaints department because there are no complaints. Duct tape holds together the model airplane of my soul. My hard drive is made of meat. My bug eyes bug out while I drive my dune buggy. I’m a violinist on a vacation. I’m a six-string-puppet guitar and there’s blue fire in my heart.

You put a key in to unlock something and you turn a key to wind something up and you pull a key out to make it explode. Cats run wild on this farm. Your teeth float to the top like your mouth is made of cream. You need to be limber to be good at limbo


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skonen_blades: (dark)
1/30

And then the ghost of you arrives. I’ll be sitting in a coffee shop, hanging out in a bar with friends, even reading a book by myself at home. You’re not actually there, of course. You haven’t been here for six years. But there’s a feeling I get when I know that a person who really knew me would know how much fun I’m having and then it makes me sad because now I’m the only person who knows. It’s like remembering that one of the Beastie Boys is dead after rocking out to their music for a few minutes. But this isn’t about my sadness or the idea that I’m lonely. Because I’m not.

It’s just that when you breeze in, it’s unexpected. I’m happy to see you but I feel a little tainted that you’ve chosen such a good time to show up again. I miss you so much. I miss you to the point that I wish I’d never met you but only for a second. You cross my mind and I immediately remember how much better right now would be if you were actually there. It’s a stroke across my heart from a cold paintbrush.

And this is where I live. At this crossroads of memory and reality. A yearning for a past that was never as good as this present. I have plenty of people to share my life with but I want to share specific parts with you and that’s impossible now. It’s possible in the way that hopefully you’re in the universe somewhere or maybe heaven exists or whatever but not in this earthbound corporeal way that I’d like to happen.

So in the middle of telling a story or really enjoying the sound of the leaves outside, I’ll go silent and you’ll be there being silent with me. My other self. The mixture of what could have been and the helping hand I need more than ever. Your absence is more than a hole in my life, it’s a halving of it. Your departure turned me into a different person and that journey is still happening.

I’ll have so much to tell you when we reunite. Hopefully you’ll have a lot to tell me, too.



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skonen_blades: (Default)
If you’re a machine gun, I want a subscription to your magazines. It wasn’t so much a loss as it was a purposeful unwin. Entropy keeps us all from becoming palindromes. I want the beating you give me to end up on posters. Your eyes are the colour of my favourite flavour of life savers. No matter the time of year, you are a summer drink and I’m thirsty. Let’s get some towels.

It’s a twenty-two snowplough pile-up out there because none of them saw the stop signs in this blizzard. Let’s bring the best parts of Brazil to this dingy one-room apartment and support noble warming in the face of adversity. Turn up the Tragically Hip and be happy they never caught on anywhere else. Let’s leave Canadian-flag handprints on each other’s pale skin like applause was going out of style.

Each pursed lip will add a wrinkle, they say, and every story has an end. Personally, I want to be your convenience store until they tear me down for condos. I have an addiction for you, my heroine, and you go straight into my arms. Let me band these arms around the best of you and hug you like I’m afraid of islands. Every Thanksgiving, every birthday, every New Year’s Eve hope of redemption is left on the bedroom floor with our clothes and left behind.

This house is a sailboat and we are at sea. With your help, we can use the sun and stars to navigate.




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skonen_blades: (whysure)
Dance.

This is a dragon-tooth reminder about the value of hot jazz. Watch the fingers dance over bongo skins, saxophone valves, trumpet plungers, and piano keys. Feel those drum brushes on your skin as the dark room of improvised music turns you in the wind from hurricane to calm-day cornfield and back again. Let each tick and sharp turn of the musician’s unified timing cull your boredom with the now. Become the present and move with it.

Meet each solo with your hands up and your eyes closed. Feel the scarlet ribbons and blue nooses trip your hooves. Feel the very air around you reek of mistletoe as you slip from appreciation into full synesthesia. Smell the music and let your nerve endings listen. See the rise and fall of stabbed melody curtain in front of you around the ghosts of accordions and meat-cooking fires throwing shadows on cave walls while it rains outside.

Let your tongue trace headlights across the roof of your mouth and realize that blood tastes like batteries if you want it to, like legal-tender pennies to buy thoughts. Communicate in erotic semaphore to others on your page with eyelash sweeps, leg stretches, and barber-pole hair. Show the music how your clothes fit. Test the limits of the silly strings, the super strings that hold you. Become the drumroll. Become the present.

It’s not a trance, it’s a lack of trance. A vacation for as long as possible from the demands that society, rational thought, concern, and the fear of consequence squeeze from you daily. Let life flow into you, not out. This is the dimension-shattering, quantum continuum that people knew before language and will always know. Dance is what breaks the shackles and music is what drives dance. Dance is the most important component of humanity, the truest form of meditation, and the key to living.




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skonen_blades: (Default)
In Tromso, Norway, the sun has gone down and it won’t come up again until January. This period of time is called Morketid. Children mark the beginning of this period by lightning candles and setting them out in the town square.

In Flemsen, Sweden, the winds have started and they won’t stop blowing until Valentine’s Day. This period of time is called Varsagod. Rat Catchers mark the beginning of this period by climbing on top of fridges in the dark, wearing night-vision goggles and aiming paintball guns at their kitchen sinks.

In Bogota, Colombia, the milk factories stop production and don’t start again until the Dia de San Jose. This period of time is called Primero de Mayo. Hang gliders mark the beginning of this period by rocking out to Bon Jovi on vinyl through vintage headphones turned up too loud.



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skonen_blades: (Default)
I’m a demon made of crayon with a bass-drum throat whispering the stars down to play with them in a one-piece orchestra. A four-person one-man band strung like popcorn on a string for the apocalypse. Three roads met in the wood and I stood in the middle of that intersection, feeling the last-stair impact of three journeys collide at my heart.

Ring a bell. Drop a hat.

If you don’t back your hunches, you become a hunchbank and if you don’t go with your guts, you’ll become gutless.

I am half-weathervane and half-scarecrow which is not to say that I’m useless. I’m just afraid of fire and ruled by the wind. I think that goes for all of us. Stuffed with a mixture of horse hair and dance floor. I can bounce back and bullets go through me. My bones are supple chalk reminders of why not to be confrontational.

I am bursting at the seams with lessons. They poke out from inside of me like the beaks of crows, like I’m shoplifting porcupines.

I’m a shepherd of corn with no real power but a lot of responsibility.




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skonen_blades: (heymac)
I won’t stand here and say that the colour green is actually August wearing a thin dress on a beach, facing away from you so you don’t see her tears. I wouldn’t say that green is hurt that you’re leaving. Leaves know they’re part of nature because of that colour and here you are dying. It’s saddening to this colour, this middle band of the rainbow. Every lime feels your absence, every lizard in the sun, every jungle fan of shade.

You can say that my heart is red but I know that it is not. I know that it is as green as mold and that our summertime has drawn closed like curtains on a future of American dollar bills, traffic lights telling us to go forward, and emerald nights glowing in the dark.

The trees no longer shade me from the rain because their leaves are gone. The cold death of Christmas is upon us, reaching skeleton-branch fingers towards uncaring skies, abandoned by the sensible birds who have fled south.

Green is still standing on that beach, missing you, and not showing you her tears. It is not her that returns to us. It is us that return to her. And she will be so happy when we do, the eyes of a panther blessing our return as she runs into our arms.

Now, green tells us to look for her in Christmas lights and neon signs until the summer floods the air with ivy. Hold a clearing in your heart for heat, for the stink of life and the laughter of no-school afternoons near swimming pools, and for the blood of cut grass reeking of adventure.




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skonen_blades: (gasface)
Basketball-court halos hobble the ankles of streetcar villains that started out as heroes in their own narratives. Turtleneck mob bosses dictate the rules to a forgotten section of the population. Poverty is pulling pork off of human bones to make sandwiches. Too many people are on the wrong end of the current equation. Change has been coming for a very, very long time. Too long for most. Each violin case holds the body of an infant, every floating box on the river holds a lost home. The winters here are milder than the rest of Canada but I’m sure that doesn’t matter to those who make their homes outside.

The clock is unforgiving. Those who wax poetic about the wonder of nature have never felt it’s lack of mercy. We make our way here because we don’t fit in. And Christmas is coming soon.





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skonen_blades: (Default)
I’m not a force of gravity but I play one on t.v. The devil’s background check is a yellow-paint promise given to children on the wrong side of a needle to string them along, Christmas by Christmas, to a flash gordon future that will not be what they were promised. All predictions are fake beards. Every halo is just as good at cutting bread as it is at saving lives. I’m no connoisseur but your teeth look like they could do some damage. Looking at you, I really, really get that I’m one phone call away from an ambulance that will take too long to get here.

Fight fire with money. Go ahead. Fold diseased paper cranes out of dumpster napkins. Let’s make unique snowflakes melt on our common tongues. The continents are shelves and we are books. We’re not in a play, we are a play. And there’s a big difference.

Turn up that collar and take over the earth. You’re the only one who can. Keep the laser gun holstered and stare them all down. When there’s a will, there’s a next of kin. When there’s a way, there’s a way out. Each arch of back that you strut forward kills the names of children. Emperor’s concubine. Ticklish apocalypse. Pear slices on a prehistoric bone. Mail me an apology in letters cut from magazines for the blind. Roll me through your typewriter and label me lost.

If it wasn’t for the flashlight of your smile, I wouldn’t know my way home.



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skonen_blades: (dead)
It was that day, that birthday, where you became a metaphor.

That night we were drinking and decided to go swimming in the ocean naked. There were six of us but only three of us were into it. Me, you, and another girlfriend of yours. I was the only man. You’d only do it if we did it, you said, so some of us did. Naked in the darkness on a rocky shore, we clambered stupidly into the dark water in the summer like we were sliding into night. Our pale bodies disappearing inch by inch, freckle by footstep, nether by waist, elbow by shoulder, into warm ink.

I’m not much a swimmer. I hung out in places where I could still touch the bottom even though there were treacherous rocks. Your other friend swam out a little further and came back quickly. Both of us happy with the courage we’d shown so far and drunk enough to be laughing at the fact we were naked instead of being awkward or embarrassed. The people still on the beach seemed to be cowards.

But you. Troubled. At home only during chaos and quite drunk, hard to employ and carrying a home life that I hated, possessing domineering parents and a broken compass where your heart was, announced you were going to swim out to touch a buoy. As you left us behind and went farther than any of us dared, we looked at each other in fear. Neither of us was capable of catching you and the people on the beach wouldn’t even come into the water.

We knew you had a competent history of swimming. We knew you loved the ocean. As you headed out towards the buoy, you went in the wrong direction. We had to yell to you to direct you in the right direction. Your eyesight isn’t good and your glasses were on the beach. You have to imagine the growing sense of worry we were tending.

We tried to cajole you into coming back to shore but the night air stole our words. You stayed out there, impossibly far in the night, a fleck of white in unending black, for nearly twenty minutes while we occasionally lost sight of you for seconds at a time with our hearts in our mouths.

You came back unscathed, undrowned, and calmer than I’d seen you in months. Your emergence from the water was like a rebirth. The moon shining off the curves of you as the other girl who’d come with us brought you a towel. You didn’t shiver, you didn’t speak. You smiled peacefully. The two of us had been back on the beach and dressed for a while.

You’re a creature of extremes trapped in this boring predictable world. I see now that only those troubled enough go the farthest. That the extremists are the ones who change the world. That the idea of running away can lead a person out into the night-time ocean while friends cross their fingers on the shore.

In that moment, I saw you as more than human. You became metaphor. And I’m so glad I know you. I got your back. I’m proud of you.



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skonen_blades: (Default)
The realization came to me on my own personal highway in the darkness like a wild mustang. The horse that drives my life is a living creature. It’s a symbiotic relationship. Am I driven by my horse or does it lead me? It has to be both. My hope is that my horse is allergic to cliffs, a fast runner, and has good night vision.

Two out of three ain’t bad.

With life lasting no longer than a sneeze, there are small moments of opportunity for rein-pulling direction changes.

I want my horse to buck more. I feel as if I’ve broken that horse properly over the years but that the most it does these days if flick an ear or swish a tail. I need adventure but that’s hard to do when so much experience has already bored your eyes to indifference. Nowadays, only loud noises causes reactions.

I want to lead this horse to water. I want to ride into rough towns and clean them up. I want the decades of my life to be westerns with happy endings.



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skonen_blades: (didyoujust)
Responsibility is the new black. The watchword that lets us know that even though we are men, we are still people. That even though I myself do no control the world, my brothers do. That even though I can lift the heavy things, I cannot push a relationship into starting. Finesse is something I need but possess only in spurts. We can leash the lightning and we can change the face of the planet but the inner journey of ourselves as males is what is important. The mannequins have come to life. The dress-wearers. The baby makers. They have sparkled into life and self-awareness in a way that causes us to see unicorns where before there were only ovens and dishwashers. And how does one talk to a unicorn?

This list of new directions is a treasure map with fresh ink. Those amongst us literate in pirate cannot read them. I know the past was hard and the future is going to be a trying place but it’s all for the better.




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skonen_blades: (dark)
The stairs that fall up themselves in a timeless inner-tube whirlwind of moebius change. The streetlamps that pull up their tights and adjust their skirts after the last customer’s warm money changes hands. Aucht tober. The upside-down painting of reality on the back of each eye and it’s not that I feel stupid, exactly, just radioactive with awkwardness and ill-informed notions about who I am and how much charm I posses. As soon and I think I have a handle on who I am, I get older and I need to re-evaluate.

I broke off my unicorn horn years ago. Too many measuring contests and ruler fights. I hang toilet paper rolls off of it in the bathroom now. Once I used it as a magic wand to restore virginity to a young woman but it didn’t turn out well. Chances are that if you want a cab, a lot of other people do, too. So force electrons through me and make me into a loud speaker. Force electrons through my partner so that we become a stereo. These days, I feel like the eight arms of my octopus mind all have different ideas about where they want to go.

All I know is that snow comes darkly in the night and lies light in the morning. It’s a blanket covering the homeless, doing the opposite of keeping them warm. We have snowball fights, they have back-alley funerals and I wonder what part of me lets this occur to me.

On the other hand, my good twin upstairs pulls out the libra card, the inherent duality curse that make me well-informed yet dispassionate, and says that there are good things co-existing with what we would call bad things all the time. If Earth had a family crest, it would have to include both or it would be a lie. I’m eye-deep in sightlessness because the adventure has started and I can’t remember where I packed my compass. It takes courage and strangeness to smile during a storm.

So I try to smile. Most often, I win.



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skonen_blades: (dark)
Even death can be laughed at. Should be laughed at.

In 1478, George Plantagenet, Duke of Clarence, was executed by drowning in a barrel of wine at his own request. The ancient Celts would burn their leader after a four-year term and have a party. The leader’s body would be cremated and the ashes mixed into the wine.

Dissent is necessary. In a society gone dumb and afraid, in a society given over to fear, that is starting to tear itself apart, dissent is not necessarily dissent. It can be a voice of reason that it merely unrecognized.

The blacklisted mathematics instructor Chandler Davis, after serving six months in the Danbury federal penitentiary for not cooperating with McCarthy’s House Un-American Activities Committee, warned the universities that fired him and thousands of other professors that these firings would destroy the country’s intellectual life.

“You must welcome dissent; you must welcome serious, systematic, proselytizing dissent—not only the playful, the fitful, or the eclectic; you must value it enough, not merely to refrain from expelling it yourselves, but to refuse to have it torn from you by outsiders,”

One theory about why antimatter exists was developed by Nobel laureate Richard Feynman. Antimatter is just ordinary matter going backwards in time, he theorized, which would explain why antiparticles have an opposite charge, since if an electron is repelled while going forwards in time, then backwards in time this becomes attraction. This also explains why matter and antimatter annihilate. They don’t destroy each other; it is the same particle suddenly stopping and going back in time, just one particle going in an endless loop, forwards in time, then backwards, then forwards, and so on.

I believe that the reality television shows of this world, the Glenn Becks, the waves of ignorant programming feeding directly into our eyes from the boxes in our homes that spew out electrons, are intellectual antimatter units. They are arcing back from our stupid, stupid future. The echoes of where we will end up getting louder as we get closer to the source. The uncertainty principle says that this is not a certain future. We can change it. We are all probability waves.

All electrons in the universe have identical properties, an observation so obvious that it is generally ignored. John Wheeler suggested that maybe it was just one electron, constantly darting all over the universe, from the Big Bang to the end of time and back again.

Even though this idea involves backwards time travel, it can’t be used to send any information back in time. You cannot move a piece of antimatter to affect the past, since in moving it you only affect the past of the antimatter itself, that is, your future.

If we express enough love, enough intelligence, we can cancel out the antimatter of fear, the antimatter of a future given over to darkness. The particles of anger and ignorance that we could become will come backwards down the timeline and be cancelled out by our need to have smiles and to read. To think and to be calm. To laugh.

We are everywhere right now and we always will be. That is how our outlook affects reality. We can change everything.





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