skonen_blades: (Default)
You can BE a good person with mistaken beliefs.
The fact you can change does not make you weak.
If YOU try to COMprehend other folks’ views
Accepting them doesn’t mean “they win, you lose”
Invisible privilege is real hard to see
I’ll tell you a tale of what happened to me
Of the ignorant person that I used to be
Of the changes I’ve gone through. And I MEAN recently.
I grew up poor in a small BC town
We didn’t have much that was non-white around
But I grew up odd and was bullied a lot
Often lamenting the life that I got
Believing that I was a downtrodden boy
A victim oppressed without that much joy
A person in touch with ev-er-y-one
A judgement-free liberal, enlightened son.
BUT AT THE SAME TIME I was steeped in my whiteness
My maleness, my ignorant, cisgendered rightness
But still I allowed my young mind to believe
The rhet’ric of privilege didn’t PERtain to me
I thought I was kind and, ironically
I raged at the people who dared disagree
But as the years passed and experience grew
I realized that THERE’S less of ME than of you
That being locked into this skull is a curse
That bias is natural. And what makes it worse.
Is it’s easy to never examine your mind.
Cause we’re all the good guy. We’re all fair and kind.
My point is I changed. I’m still changing now.
I ask myself why. I ask myself how.
I try to unpack and in-VES-tigate
I try to reflect more. I try to relate.
I feel like I’m woke but I know that I’m wrong.
I know that the path to awareness is long.
I know that I’ll never be fully awake.
No matter how hard of a path that I take.
There’s racists that don’t know they’re racists out there.
Misogynists thinking they’re fully aware
I saw some graffiti down in the east end
In spray paint it said “If you ain’t white, pretend.”
Shutting off empathy can make you feel strong.
Certainty can feel like power. That’s wrong.
Rigidity can feel like pure confidence.
But that doesn’t make any actual sense.
In closing, it’s hard to be called out on stuff.
No one likes being ‘accused’ and it’s rough.
But open your ears and your eyes and your mind.
No matter how woke. No matter how kind.
‘Cause while you can feel so enlightened you’re glowing
Stay humble. The process is always ongoing.
I was born on lost ground. There’s a lot to make up.
And miles to go before I wake up.

skonen_blades: (bounder)
I used to be a clan leader. I used to facilitate communication between separate groups. I used to keep people in touch with each other.

Now clan leaders keep in touch with me. Other leaders invite me to their parties where there are people I don’t know. I am no longer a leader but I still know a lot of people.

I feel as if the wheel is turning. As if I am making a transition into something like a supporting cast member if not a background character.

skonen_blades: (jabbadoubt)
My consciousness is merely a fender on my brain. Much like my skull is a helmet. I see what I’ve been told I should see, I hear what I’ve been conditioned to hear, and I interpret the world as a tall white man living a life of comparative luxury in the first world.

It’s a straddle and no speakers about it. I have airplane lottery tickets dangling in the dozens around my neck, backstage passes from all the concerts I’ve ever wanted to go to. My eyes are twin modems and I see the world downloaded through my vision. My skin is a camera. My bones are made of glass and it’s only a butterfly wing away from reminding me how mortal I am. Diseased meat stretched around a filament of bone sticks and bone pegs.

I am a median. I am a traffic cone. I am yellow lines painted down the middle of basket-weaving courses funded by professional distractors. My voice, when unified with the rest of the voices, is powerful. My voice, when given the ability to change the opinions of many minds at a time, is powerful. That goes for all of us. Keep us down. Keep us segregated. Keep us entertained.

This is not news. This is what my eyes say to my brain all day. This is not news. I am on a ferris wheel and the ride is getting monotonous. I am not bored. I am not ungrateful. But I am worried at the gathering speed.

I need to remove my filters. I need to uncondition my hair and bequeath bare feet to my soul again. The gravity of time has me. The gravity of this planet has me. But I need to life up my mind. I need to light bulb higher. My thinker is gathering precepts and defaults. It’s accruing a mess of ‘knowledge’. It’s becoming glutted with facts, making it too smart to realize, making it too stuffed to think. My brain is a saturated sponge in need of a wringout or a drying.

I need a cleaning. And I need it soon.

skonen_blades: (Default)
Sure, come live inside of me. It’s not unlike a seal’s mouth. The ghost of wine-glass weekends with smooth skin and not a lot of talking stud my trachea with pepper. Look out for the growing crystals. I’m unsure if they’re diamonds or cancer or salt. Keep in mind that it’s all collateral damage in here when a gun goes off. It’s all hit. There’s no miss. So be careful.

See how perfectly preserved the fingernails are. You can still see the wrinkles on those hands. It’ll all come to powder if you touch it but it’s like the tendons sank into the quicksand weeks ago instead of centuries.

And here is what I’ve always mistaken for love. It’s the close-up of a fly’s face. The eyes see several thousand different kinds of affection, each of them in only one direction. Its mouth parts want to kiss and its hair is like guitar wire. It’ll want to talk to you about math. Probably best to keep moving.

Ignore the dueling pelicans.

As you explore, I’ve heard that you will find a glade of cherry blossom canopy oasis branches spreading shade and summer evenings near a clear stream. It’ll reek of flowers and it’s the kind of grass you could roll around on naked. Please let me know if you find it.

This pit here contains the skeletons of two people that were married for a long time. As you can see, they have antlers and are wearing jewelry. The seashells suggest that this entire area here was once an ocean.

That bridge rising out of the fog is the way out.

You’re welcome back here whenever you want to return.

skonen_blades: (gasface)
The gorillas we’re using to power ships to the moon are on strike.

Mail me a heart. Make sure it’s perforated and easy to tear apart with instruction on how to squeeze lemon raspberry juice of it. I want for to slip up the forgive on the tantrum engine of my own skull. People who live in glass houses shouldn’t reach for the stars. People who wear black hats shouldn’t try to save people from cliff-diving in canyons. Pets who wear dresses just shouldn’t.

Rebel against the tyranny of government-sponsored free dessert. It’s not free. Suspect keys and only give lobsters a second chance if they’re missing a claw. I’m no swimwear store but I am a wardrobe full of lions and lessons hiding a winter of a past. It’s hard to handle balloons and cutlery when one’s claws aren’t retractable. I have a small need to pit cherries in the darkness and hate in basements. I need to fight the flags that keep threatening to spring out of my pores. This isn’t magic, I tell myself until I believe it. I have to keep reminding myself of Versailles ceilings and Roman church promises that crown to the one point of proving that God looks down on you.

Shatter me home. Take my bark-driven hand and Smokey the Bear my love lottery ticket to the forest fire accident I run from, on fire, into your arms so we can both go swimming. Wet clothes stick to commitment the way applause sticks to lonely singers.

Your eyes track trajectories the way that no one else I’ve met has the knack for. You see existence play out like toilet paper unrolling and police-confiscated fireworks going off like a human life. You are an amusement park speaker. I am a grave of laughter coming down like a famous trilogy on a populace of eager tweens. You are the not-scary kind of future. I’m a wheelchair enthusiast with hang glider dreams. So become my love twin. Whistle me up the dark staircase to the attic full of light and let’s get used to this unicorn together. Wiggle me peaceful until the last remnant of rat leaves my bloodstream. I’ll keep showing you the funny side of darkness if you keep showing me that light is all around us. Let’s trade peaches until the military needs a lemonade stand. Show me a grape juice future.

School courses through my veins and it causes prom night promises to spill from my love-stained lips.

skonen_blades: (gasface)
Desperation leaves us open to new things.

You are the evil opposite of sexy. You make as much sense as capital numbers. I made a mayday in my pants. I’ve chosen entertainment over education too many times. It always gets darker before it gets brighter but it’s been getting darker for a long, long time.

I have this theory that time lasts forever laterally.

I am as cliché as a sinister tv game show or a haunted science installation. I left a while ago and I didn’t even realize I was gone.

On the other hand, I am also a wood stork.

skonen_blades: (saywhat)
I am half-umbrella and three-quarters curtains. The soles of my shoes are made from the floorboards of the stage I’m going through. I’m a three-ring circus in a bunk bed. I’m a good mood tied around a candy cane quivering in an arrow hole. Pull back my eyelids to see if I’m sleeping soundly. I am show-business finger-pistols at a funeral.

I am enjoying this brief respite from death. I am a wild goose in a travel cocoon swinging through eighty assumed years of living like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. I am the arc of the covenant. I am a blow-up doll that blowed up real good.

I asunagize. I’m starry. I want to make it down to you. Onwards and upwards. Back and to the left. I can’t fine the words.

You know men better than I do. All I know is that I am not all men but I don’t know if I’m wrong about that.

skonen_blades: (Default)
The Christmas future ghosts of men walk past me. Bachelors right up until choice is no long theirs. Homeless Santas littering the summer streets. Players who have won the game only to find out that they’ve lost.

When my father’s friend Barry got the tip of his thumb cut off in a construction accident, he took part in some experimental surgery. The nerve ending in his thumb had been lost so they took the nerve from his index finger, split it in half, and rerouted one half of it into his thumb, going on the theory that his brain would get used to the new position in time and figure it out. It did. However, before it did, Barry would touch his thumb and forefinger together and trip out because for months, when he did that, it felt like the left side of his index finger was touching the right side of his index finger. Which is impossible. But that’s what it felt like.

I think you have to quit while you still have options. Otherwise, it’s not a choice.

I am Barry’s fingers. I need to reconcile the new paths my life is taking with what I had hoped for. I have almost never gotten what I wanted but what I’ve ended up with has usually been way better than what I had hoped for. I’ve been too petulant for too long.

skonen_blades: (didyoujust)
I am the chronic doorman lapchild that makes success as improbable as trout lice. I walk into the room like a greasy high five and people immediately want to wash their hands. They have their beard theory ready as I throw the net of my calendar out over the month, fishing for dates. I cut a fine figure dressed in my barbeque smock and carrying my pink axe. I feel like a Turkish jackalope. The sadness in my eyes is becoming permanent but I’m fighting it. I want to be mean, efficient, and ready to go but I end up being a ripoff artist with swollen, tattooed hands. I’m a bearded, poolside drink girl getting jug burn.

You are my mile highness. When you left without saying goodbye to me, I knew it was love. You’re a beautiful day in the poor part of town and your sunshine is fermenting my mind. When you walk across the room, the men’s heads track you like sunflowers. You are a radium rose shining brightly in the darkness. There have been too many classic rock songs, topless vampires, and all-day buffets in my boot ransom life. You are a reminder that aspirations are necessary.

Replace my collarbones with your wishbones. Show me that fingers have no sense of smell. Ignore my unpheromones and touch me. Let the identical twins of Trashy Outskirts and Dusty Suburbs become a smooth city under your hands. We can become the two-headed lama. I’ll be the moth. You be the big pink sea snail. Call me Misty Spoon. Sure, my pillows are stuffed with money but I still can’t sleep. Let’s let dreams rent out smiles for a while. Come closer.

skonen_blades: (incredulous)
Radiohead. I don’t have the words but I have attempts.

I am reborn. He calls the tune. By reborn I mean baptized in the unending sheets of blood-temperature rain at the Thunderbird stadium. By ‘he’ I mean Thom Yorke. I am soaked to the bone. We, all twenty thousand of us, had fun. Not in spite of the rain, but because of it. It was quintessentially Vancouver.

My tears mixed with the slickness on my shining face, turned up to the gospel of a band that never even veered near to playing Creep. And the crowd was grateful for it. I felt myself experience moments of bliss. I was far from the only one crying openly. There were thousands of people. Thom Yorke was right there in front of me. It was raining steadily on the steaming, smiling crowd. It was intense.

I felt something similar when watching Sharon Jones and Dap Kings at the Commodore back in February. Like I was in the presence of true magic, true artistry, true legend. I tell people that if everything happens for a reason and that I came back to Vancouver to be close to my father while he died, then I also was pulled here so that I could see Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings in concert at the Commodore.

Not that I’m equating the two events in my life. But I’m glad in parts of my very soul for both experiences. That’s how amazing Sharon Jones and Dap Kings were in concert.

I felt that again tonight. The rain, the people I went with, the people I met there, all of it. I feel like it was the high-water mark in an already incredible summer.

A woman I was desperately in love with in a different city married someone else two weeks ago. This concert made up for it. That’s what I’m talking about.

On Saturday, I dressed as a zombie at noon and then as a rampaging space beast in a play that night.

On Sunday, a woman killed two giant crabs in my kitchen, cooked them, and then we pigged out on them and got good and drunk while slathering our fingers in garlic butter, crab meat and smiles. Afterwards, we watched The Princess Bride and Labyrinth.

On Monday, I read poetry to a packed house at Café Deux Soleils. Living legend Shane Koyczan was there. Afterwards, he shook my hand, called me by name, and said that I had done a good job. I practically floated home in a trance.

And now tonight. Radiohead in the rain for two hours of solid transcendence.

These are typical experiences in these hot months. This is only the latest batch of days in a summer that is threatening to be the best summer I have ever experienced in my short life.

I am grateful and stunned and filled with love.

skonen_blades: (Default)
Oh, the insecurities of an aging male. How they buffet, rage and swirl. My hair! My physique! My prowess! “Obsess”, the reflection says. “Compare”, the young bodies say. “Overcompensate”, the ego says.

My material accomplishments! Let me list them at every opportunity! Let people know you’re worth it, even if you yourself stopped believing it years ago.

I feel, sometimes, like I’m living in denial of the fact that I’m an out-of-shape, mid-life crisis having, almost-old guy trying desperately to surround himself with hot girls and cool parties so that he can avoid looking at mirrors.

It’s a voice that has to be silenced before it becomes my master. It’s the whip that I try to outrun. I have felt apologetic for my entire life, like I have to make up for being less than I could have been.

I believe in supporting those around me. I believe in giving. I believe in affection and love. “I want to help” should be tattooed across my chest. I see the creativity and beauty in every one.

My ex-wife used to kid with me. She’d say “You see everyone as a super hero” with a little shake of her head and I’d say “Well, what’s wrong with that?”

All I know is that this summer is the best one I’ve ever had, at least since the death of my father and my divorce. I feel like I’m waking up, like I’m shedding a skin and coming out of some dark and isolated place. It’s all baby steps but it is happening.

skonen_blades: (hmm)
This unbroken chain of events that I call my life links back for three and a half decades to the time of my parents. My mom was born in the fifties. My dad was born in the forties. He remembered, through a child’s eyes, the end of World War 2. That sounds ancient to me.

I was born in the seventies.

‘The seventies’ sounds ancient to some people now. I talk about how the 1982 version of Flash Gordon is my favourite and I’m sheepishly told that the person I’m talking to wasn’t born until 1985.

Post-Ghostbusters. Post-Blade Runner. Post-E.T. Post-Poltergeist. Post-Star Trek 1 and 2. Post-Raiders of the Lost Ark. Post-Ferris. Post-The Thing.

My mind reels.

Soon enough, I’ll know people that were born after the turn of the century. The nineteen-hundreds will sound like Ye Olde Times to them. I was born before personal computers were common. I was born before the internet. I might as well have been making fire with sticks and flint and hunting mammals with a bow and arrow.

I’ve managed to fool the mirror into thinking that I’m not doing too bad. Then I go outside. The summer reveals the flawlessness of youth. In some cases, I simply can’t believe that humans can be so vital, so healthy, so sculpted.

We’re all lifetime members of the same club. I realize how fast time is going by now in little revelations. Seeing pictures from a party and realizing that they’re from an entire year ago is a common occurrence. From what I hear, it’s only going to get worse.

I think my life is pretty good. I’m not complaining. It’s just a trip, that’s all.

skonen_blades: (mask)
Such an amazing Saturday that I had to make a new LJ icon just for the occasion. Here is the story in pictures.

Housewarming, going away party, Megatron concert, Battlestar Galactica wrap party, Masquerade concert.

skonen_blades: (Party)
Here's the footage of me crossing the finish line at the Underwear Dash. It's from the coverage. I love how they gave me the comedy harmonica music.

Check out the full coverage ->here<-

and here's the photo that Sam thinks should be on the cover of the Georgia Straight.


skonen_blades: (Party)
So on Thursday, I helped a friend of mine (the lovely and talented Kimmy Shimmy. She puts on a great show if you see her name on any of the things happening around town) in her burlesque performance. I was the 'angry customer' in the routine and she was the server. The food ends up having underwear in it. Horrified, I go to leave. In order to get me to stay at the restaurant, she takes off her clothes. In the end, I slip money into her garter belt.

And then on Friday, my good friend Sam and I ran in the Chip Wilson's Not Dead Memorial Mile. There were costume-themed waves that left every fifteen minutes. Rockstar, bride, businessman, and (you guessed it) an underwear wave. Those are little hot dogs on my briefs. I ran the mile in 10 minutes or so. Rumour has it that I had the smallest briefs there. It was uphill from Alma up to Blanca on 10th. I got a round of applause when I finished the race. I'm not dead!

All in all, not a bad couple of days. Pretty sweet in terms of putting myself out there in public. There'll be more pictures and hopefully video soon but there you go.
skonen_blades: (Default)
So it's like this. Ed Wood's movie Orgy of the Dead has been turned into a burlesque production for the stage by the Screaming Chicken Theatrical Society. They do it every year.

In the play, a young couple get caught in a car wreck and wake up in a graveyard only to be kidnapped by a mummy and a werewolf. They're brought to the Lord of the Underworld and his dark mistress, chained up, and forced to watch a cavalcade of grotesque members of the undead. The members of the undead are burlesque numbers.

On the stage, there are a couple of oiled-up giants that interact with the ladies if they require it and keep the stage clear of discarded props and costumes. No lines but they're on the stage for pretty much the duration of the show.

One of thier giants quit two weeks ago. I go to a lot of their shows and I know a few of them to say hi to. At one of their shows recently, they were lamenting the fact that they had no giant. Where could they find a giant on such notice? Where on Earth?

Well, I'm really tall. They asked me. I volunteered. Bob's your uncle.

So I performed two shows on Friday night and two shows on Saturday night.


My friend Kryshan is a director of movies. A real up-and-comer, if you will. He's always got a film going on. He needed some extras for a television pilot he was filming this weekend.

The television pilot's set in an office so I had to look like a high powered businessman. I had the ponytail (the 'ponis') and the suit.


Me at 10 AM.

Me at 10 PM.

Not the most surreal or crazy day I've ever had but looking back on it, it's up there. Man, it was a great time. I'm not an actor anymore but apparently I play one in the movies and on the stage.

Good times.

skonen_blades: (haBUUH)
I’m a weasel in wolf’s clothing.
I’m a sheep that only counts on himself if he wants to go to sleep.
The first date goes great.
The second date goes horribly awry.
I throw myself high onto ledges so that I can pull myself up.
I’m almost aggressively alone.
I am the grand illusion of life, the cosmic self-aware gift, and I’m common.
As Shakespeare said, Man is a real piece of work.
I’m part of the wave that Coke told us to catch and here, years later,
I’m still surfing.
My personal trade deficit is four old VHS tapes and a dog collar.
I marvel at my own Gross National Product.
Am I the only person that misses the busy signal?
Drinks on coasters help me drink and coast while friends in bands I’ve never heard of tour the country.
I feel success leeching my youth out through my backbone.
I feel over-responsible and I don’t even have kids.
I’m wrapped like a Christmas present in bills and investments.
Open me up and change will spill out.
The beginning of the iceberg.
I’m what you get back after you pay for something.
I’m short-term goals stuffed under a mattress.
They say that some monitors use up more power on standby than they do when they’re turned on.

I know exactly what that feels like.

skonen_blades: (hluuurg)
I was a busy guy. I went from party to party and popped my head in the door for minutes or hours at a time before having to go somewhere else. What can I say? I was popular. I had catch-phrases and witty retorts that people came to respect, look forward to, and admire. Lines like:

“That was my nickname in high school”


“That’s what SHE said!”

And the ever-popular:

“Your MOM!”

People generally acknowledged that the party hadn’t started until I arrived and that the party began a downhill slide after my departure.

Now, being the life of a party stretched a person pretty thin. I was needed at several social functions every night. I felt selfish, only giving a little bit of myself to most parties and none of myself to the parties who didn’t have the foresight to book me at least a week in advance. I knew that short of cloning, I was in a fix. I didn’t want people to hate me.

The stroke of genius smacked me in the face while walking through a video store. I was browsing through titles when, in my peripheral vision, I noticed a person standing beside me. I turned to him to ask him a question. It was a cardboard cutout of Bruce Willis from the latest Die Hard movie. Startled and embarrassed, I looked around to see if anyone had seen me. No one had.

There was a button in the center of his chest that had ‘press me’ written around it. I pressed it.

“Yippee Ki-Yay” said Bruce Willis. I pressed it again. “Welcome to the party, pal!” said Bruce Willis. Someone was waiting behind me to press the button. There were people watching and tittering.

A light bulb went on above my head. My problems were solved!

I called in some favours. I went to a recording studio. I went to a photographer. I went to a sign shop. Soon, I had six laminated cardboard Duncans with buttons in the center of their chests that one could press to get one of my three hilarious copyrighted taglines.

No one needed to go without a Duncan again! No longer would I only inject an hour or less of fun into a party. Now, the party could go as long as the host wanted if they had one of my cutouts. Initially, people were confused but soon they got into it.

Demand rose.

I opened up a toll free number and a website. I became a small-business success story. With a valid credit card number, the cardboard Duncans could be couriered to anywhere on the west coast within hours.

I became the life of every party. People would say something, stumble over to my cardboard double, and press the chest button to hear me say “Your MOM!” and everyone would laugh uproariously.

A lot. I was more popular ‘on paper’ than I was in real life.

Soon, my list of invites started to dwindle. My VIP passes shrank in number. Disturbingly, I was noticing a rise in my duplicate’s popularity but a decrease in my own personal popularity. It was flattering and alarming all at the same time.

Some of my duplicates were going to places I had never been. One even attended a party at Hugh Heffner’s mansion and showed up in Us weekly the following weekend.

Last week, I had a night where I had nothing to do.

It was the first time that had happened in over three years.

In a barely disguised panic, I went onto my database and looked up the address of one of my cardboard Duncan shipping recipients. It looked like a fun party. An end-of-the-year modeling school graduation party that had previously used my doppelganger for their Halloween and Christmas functions. I got dressed the same as my duplicate and went to the party in my new Porsche after canceling the delivery of the cardboard me.

I arrived. I stepped up the steps. I rang the doorbell and adjusted my tie. I was sweating. My face didn’t feel real.

A beautiful woman answered the door. Her smile faltered when she saw me. She even looked over my shoulder to see if anyone was behind me.

“Oh.” She said. Then a fake smile lit up her face. “Well, this is a surprise! Come on in! The real Duncan! Everyone will be thrilled!”

I entered.

“The Duncan’s here everyone!” she yelled. There was a rush of expensive shoes on marble to the foyer where I was standing.

It was the worst moment of my life.

I got to see a hundred well-dressed, beautiful faces rush forward with wide smiles, look at me with a confused expression as their smiles became quizzical, and then saw their eyes glaze and their smiles falter before fake smiles snapped into place.

They were dealing with the fact that their party was going to be just another party.

I was in hell.

People started looking for their keys and making lame apologies to the host ten minutes after I showed up.

All night, I tried to be funny. At the buffet table, someone mentioned that the éclairs had a ‘hint of nougat’. Beside them, I said “That was my nickname in high school!”

They didn’t laugh. I heard the woman whisper to her boyfriend, “It’s better when the other Duncan does it.”

I started drinking. I remember crying at one point. I remember a few people laughed at that.

My last memory of the night is ending up on the front steps, waiting for a taxi, while a drunk runner-up for Miss America kept pressing the center of my chest and looking confused.

I withdrew from the public eye. I put on weight.

I own the Duncan Empire now. My cutouts are all over the country. No socially active house is complete without one. They now have over sixty-five ‘zingers’ in eight languages and a wardrobe of over fifty outfits. I’m looking at expanding into international markets.

I am rich. I haven’t laughed in months. I am not myself lately.

skonen_blades: (gimmesommo)
There are two things wrong with this picture. One: For real? Global warming will mean warmer summers? What? I don't believe you, scientists. You're making it up. Two: Ladyface in the white shirt is smiling. The picture seems to insinuate that this is good news. I don't know. I mean, I know the media is dumbing down and all but really.

Here is a very funny cartoon from the Georgia Straight a few weeks back that's very funny if you remember Expo Ernie from Expo 86 and the fiascos that surrounded pretty much all of the low-income housing in the downtown core being emptied in preparation for rich tourists and property developers.

And lastly, I got this picture from a friend of mine a few days ago. I think it was taken in like 1993 or something. Maybe even earlier. It's a little hard to place. Yeah, it's me. Time, eh? Geez.

skonen_blades: (hmm)
I’ve dug myself a foxhole in the bedrock.
I’m awake and alone, part of an empty world of insomniacs and to dream,
A person needs to sleep.
I’m a flipped coin and when I turned thirty-two I stopped and came up tales.
So let me perform a play on words.
Because this is just a stage I’m going through.
I take my mask off for Halloween.
There’s a reason why flesh is called tissue.
People use it and throw it away.
It’s used to absorb the wet pain of crying.
I’m a paper-thin working actor wrapped around an iron ball of guilt and anger.
Just like the earth.
My rage wants to hurl lightning back at the sky and make it rain dead angels.
While my guilt wants to catch their smoking bodies and apologize.
Love and faith were my parents and that one broken heart made me into an orphan.
I’m a fatherless architect working with no budget.
My birthdays are buttons in an elevator that’s speeding up as it ascends.
Buttons blurring and turning into a zipper as the odd years and even years interlock together like teeth on my past.
Like life is the action of doing up a jacket to keep a person warm when one finally sleeps.
Like the finishing stitches on the autopsy scar spelling that capital Y.
He looks like he’s sleeping.
They did a good job.



skonen_blades: (Default)

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