skonen_blades: (Default)
Half of my life is conversations I was too afraid to have
Conversations I rehearse even though the moment to have them has long passed
Once in a while I get it right
I say what needs to be said
When it needs to be said

But sometimes
When I'm alone
I tell
The walls
That I love them
In clear ways that can't be misinterpreted
I am articulately angry at
Deserving people
Mute people
Shocked into silence by my eloquence and given insight by my clarity
A fantasy world
Of triumphs
Of clear communication
Of victories leading to victories
That make my real wins
My here-in-the-flesh successes
These conversations ghosts are powerful and sway reality
Much more than they should
And I can't decide if they are wise
Or stupid
Fuel for my engine
Or sugar in my gas tank

skonen_blades: (Default)
The curves of Saint Monday call up the interlocking pieces of forgetfulness that I call life.
The carpet salesman will always undermine us.
Second place can be a nuclear power plant in the right hands.
If it’s bank left and hard right then it needs to be full throttle on the straightaways.
My face is relaxed in the storm.
You don’t slap fight with the hand of god.
You don’t high five the one hand clapping.
There’s a blue square in my chest instead of a heart.
A smear of paint where my worry used to be.
I don’t see a doctor about my brain.
I see a botanist.
There is ivy in my meat.

I want to fedex myself a real life by speedy delivery but that’s a serious charge.
Shipping slash fiction to greedy eyes can’t reproduce the big finish.
We’re all wireless but the server went down 4000 years ago and we’re still searching for a connection.
Art, religion, and science were all created to take up the slack.
More like opposable dumbs, amirite?
Give me the utility belt that Adam West took to the afterlife.
I want to use shark repellent in hell.

I don’t have a steering wheel big enough to turn my life around and besides, it’s hard to steer an elevator.
I’m infested with tourniquets.
Rechargeable batteries are sewn into my skin.
I’m a scratch and sniff house fire.
I’m a barrel roll in a monkey factory trying to make it more fun.
You twist my hoof and I’ll shit money and old glue.
I can’t see the future but I think it sure packed a punch in a suitcase for me.
I bank on the unsafe deposit box.
You can call me night cactus.
You can call me barbed lyre.
You can call me short-short cutoffs drying on a surfboard near a bonfire.

I chewed up the rewind button.
I made a smoothie out of my regrets.
It’s only by losing baggage that you can see what you won’t miss.
This flight’s a roulette wheel and I bet on blue.
The rain soaks my mind into being half sponge and I awaken.
I eat grilled cheese by osmosis.
I’ve imprinted on society.
My privilege allows me the luxury of the slow lane.
If I’m a kite then no one’s holding me.

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: (hamused)
The universe is full of life but we’re the aberration
Because we are insane I MEAN we have imagination
Evolutionarily our instincts have propelled us
But soon I fear what made us strong will be the thing that felled us
You see the me in me I think of when I think of me
Is my own brain attempting to achieve duality
When I’m thinking to myself, who am I talking to?
WHO is talking when I DO that? What does my brain do?
People talk about a soul that lives inside our cells
All I know’s that inside me more than one person dwells
The inner fight that haunts our haunted bodies is our fate
Because from birth to death I think it is our constant state
For even though we think a peaceful tribe is our ambition
We cannot help but TO alWAYS succumb to some division
Religions start to have their sects and tribes that form cohesion
Base it on a hatred of the other for some reason
I look down on people who look down on people so
I must look down on me as well but then where do I go?
Each one of us wants fun, belonging, power, freedom, too.
We need to feel included but don’t tell us what to do
We need laws and rules so that we know that we can break them
We give all our emotions names so we know when we fake them
In nature nothing dies of natural causes, it’s ironic.
The old and weak are eaten and to us it seems demonic
But that’s a system working. A systemic ecosystem.
That’s a system that we are destroying with our ‘wisdom’.
Economics don’t exist in forests or the seas
But economics are what’s causing these catastrophes
We have one mouth, eight billion strong, and all it does is feed
It’s bottomless because we’re built with hunger and a need
To live and if I said I didn’t want to I’d be lying
But here’s the truth; that not enough of us on earth are dying
I think the truth is out there and that there is life in space
I think there are planets filled with life that fill this place
Our WAVES and messaGES we spew out to the galaxy
Are noises that will not be understood by any ‘me’
Just card tricks for a dog or television for a cat.
Sure, they’ll stare but they won’t know what they are staring at.
WE might BE uNIQUE beCAUSE we HAVE duality.
A freakish sense of self we call the personality
We put the self in selfie. We just want someone to see us.
But the universe is filled with things that just can’t be us
“To be or not to be” there’s that duality right there
“I think therefore I am” might be a lonely cross to bear.
The truth that I think stands out stark is we were built to spread
Because of our unending need to need our daily bread
We need to go to other planets and to eat them, too
We need to spread like mold spreads spores because it’s what we do
Or else we’ll end up suffocating here on our own gasses
The co2 emissions and the methane from cow’s asses
We’re great at spreading, great at eating, great at rationalizing
We’re great at thinking that we’re great and I’m just realizing
That if the world is a stage and we’re all playing roles
The capability for greatness LIES within our souls
For our duality is what is causing us to die
Because we cannot become one, we always have to lie
There’s one way that we can help the Earth that I believe
1: We have to change and cause we can’t we have to leave.

skonen_blades: (hamused)
My storm is blind. It has no eye. No calmness at its center lies.

Your language has a laughing root. A bird in the hand is worth a three-way in Vegas and what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas so nobody really comes back from Vietnam. This is a message in a battle. A Shakespeare play typed throughout eternity by recess monkeys. This is the magic-trick fairy dust for when all your rom-coms become non-coms.

I’ll be Octoberon. You be Titanuary. Together, let’s develop a crush on crutches. Let’s star as twins that look nothing alike in our own doublemint western. When you say love I’ll say “how high?” We’ll be well-wishing wishing wells collecting wishes and change.

I’ve seen the devil comb his hair. We were supposed to live off the fat of the land, not the muscle. Not the bone. Take me away from the ad campaign. Take me away from the trailer. I drink so much that I have a chugular now. But you can’t put fires out with whiskey. Sometimes I feel like a ghost haunting my own life. I make people puke the future. I am a prophetic emetic.

Art is an upside-down moustache. Call me the fragrant vagrant. The beanbag priest. King Joffrey Dahlmer. The telescope. Look down the wrong end of me to make me look further away. From my end, you look closer than you are. The actor that does the voice of Eeyore also does the voice of Optimus Prime. Heroics can mask a deep depression.

Indie films are getting indier and blockbusters are getting blockbustier. So let's mess things up. Let's give the cleaners something to do in the morning. Let’s paint the shark jaws camouflage. Let’s put the gin in ginger, enjoy some tepid living, and have some close calls at low speeds. Turn our ankles into anchors and smile more.

I’m a pessimist having a mid-life crisis and the hour glass is half empty. All I know is that some people watch Titanic and sympathize with the fucking boat. I am embarrassed at how angry I get and then I get angry and how embarrassed I am. When everyone’s a zombie, it’s like no one’s a zombie.

The three M’s of life are mothers, medicine and messin’ around. When it comes to censorship, the penny is mightier than the s-word. All I’m saying is that in this life, you have to know the difference between rowboats and robots and that if you’re a trucker, you’re never homeless.

We’re all looking at history through the very specific forced perspective of a Jack O Lantern’s face holes. Imagination can take us further than what we can merely comprehend. So do yourself a favour and picture something.

skonen_blades: (hamused)
It’s you. A star down in the darkness of me.

Half of the dna that created you seems to have left a hole in me that is letting light in.

The underground warps. I mean the cave where all our souls dwell. Mine changes. It’s like the shift of a glacier, a radiating and deep crack that finds its way all the way up to the light and down to the ocean floor of me. It’s not lightning. It’s love. A strange presence down there. Flashes of it were glimpsed up until now, like the fleeting dart of a deep sea angler’s antenna, or a shooting star dying across a smear of atmosphere.

But now it appears to have taken up residence. To say that, give or take, the last two years of my life have been the happiest, is a strange thing to roll around in the mind and on the tongue. To see it spread across the page like paint dropped in water is alienating. Worthy of further inspection. Like a hardy lichen that doesn’t need much to live has started a permanent station down there and it glows. I watch it like I'm in a airplane flying over a small town.

My heart is the bottom of a skateboard park. There is vibrant graffiti there now that the skaters are not erasing. It is your smile, your tiny ears, and our hands. It is your complete, almost zen commitment to your hugs. You don’t just hug me. You become a hug.

You are my daughter. You are capricious and unknowable, caught between a mastery of living in the now and a recklessness I admire. You exist in moods that pass like the changing of numbers on a clock. You force me to play at least once a day. To communicate with you, I need to come up to your level and I love visiting.

But it’s like I’ve taken a small chunk of your sun back to dimly candle my insides. Time away from you is time made dull. If I was a knife, I feel as if I have been sharpened to a thinness that is almost done. I am ready for the rest of my life.

I’ll be the anchor. You be the kite. I will always love you.

skonen_blades: (Default)
Why we fall in love:
Cupid doesn't shoot arrows.
Cupid pulls carpets.

Brendan and Alison, think that I shall never see a poem as lovely as the two of you. You’ve waterski-crashed into a different life that you weren’t expecting and I hope you’re infinitely grateful.

This might sound crazy but I believe that if the two of you were born a thousand years ago in what is now modern Uganda, to different parents than you have now, with different skin than you currently possess and were raised to speak a language other than English, that you would still fall in love.

The first time you met, your seventy-five year old selves recognized each other and all that was left was the talking and the stumbling as your younger selves, these bodies here, were coaxed towards that older couple.

My advice is to be each other’s hiding places and play hide and seek with the planet and with the expectations of society. Hide in each other and tell the entire world that it is ‘it’ and to go count to 8 billion. Then turn your faces inward and look at each other through that reflecting prism of your hearts, a light-bridge connecting you wherever you go, no matter the distance.

You’ll still be able to see the buildings and the faces outside. You’ll still be able to hear the traffic and the conversations, but a part of you should face forever inwards, a sun beaming down on the new piece of each other hiding in your chests.

Add today to the collection of good days in your hearts. These memories will be proof that life was good. They will be insurance against the onslaught of age. These memories right here.

Brendan, a crinkling at the side of Alison’s eye and you’re hers. Regrets should go unregarded, unimportant, fleeting and useless as a weather report for next year. When you’re not touching each other, it feels like the circuit is broken. Be it hips, lips or fingertips, that touch makes the reasons plain.

The times you’re around each other are already so valuable. You both know the face of loss, false hope and boredom. You both know the bad decisions, the dreary sentences of days without end, the impending aimlessness of just another week on the fire.

Your relationship is a unicorn on the bridge of the starship enterprise.

Give your good judgment a head start. Make your bodies into flint and spark fires to give love a chance to see in the dark. Make prank calls to your past. Get the future good and drunk and cheat at cards until you’re all naked in a dirty motel room laughing. Spend the rest of your lives colouring inside each other’s lines. Burn your flight plan with your left hand and reach for each other with your right.

Your days have become dreams in between the dreams you have at night that are made more vibrant by the fact that you are sleeping beside each other. You have taken each other’s present, both sleeping and awake, and made it better. Not to overshare the obvious but I bet that there are times when you are lost in this unexpected goodness, this lack of drama, this windfall oasis of peace.

When we are at our loneliest, we are at our most common. That’s why this love, this altered state, feels so special. I hope you feel parts of you that you didn’t even realize were tense start to uncurl, daring the sun. Today is springtime finally catching you in a pillow fight.

You’re turning the strings of each other’s hearts into an orchestra. I hope you swim forever in the high-tide line of each other’s eyes and keep reminding each other that there is such a thing as a safe place. Be thrilled you make each other happy.

I hope you go forward, hand in hand like kids at a playground.

I hope you skip until you break a record.

skonen_blades: (borg)
We passed silence around like we were passing a joint in a circle at a party, taking long hits off it when it came our way.

A herd united in denial.
A community doing its best to maintain stability by standing still.
A willful ignorance for the sake of the status quo.
Blind eyes turning, shouts heard as echoes, two sides to every sorry.
Our hindsight was 50/50.

I was thinking of getting a tattoo of the logo I designed for us.
Now I’m thinking a branding would be more appropriate.
Because I feel like cattle. A sheep dressed up as a shepherd.
I was supposed to be a leader.

How effortlessly I lied to myself.
I think that’s the part that scares me the most.
How calming it is to look for the best in people.
How comforting. How easy.

skonen_blades: (dark)
You are no longer a werewolf because we know exactly where you are.

You have become a whenwolf
Because we don’t know when you’ll attack us.
Your outbursts are not dependent on the full moon.
We don’t know when you’ll become a herewolf.
A now-wolf.

We are a family made of commercials.
Much like some of the stars in the night sky are already dead but the news hasn’t reached Earth yet, that is the family that people see when they see us.
They see a nice twinkling group of people getting along.
They don’t know we died a while ago and it will be months or years before they see the explosion.
We live in fear but we smile.
We have a public to fool.

Hours after daddy hits mommy at the dinner table, we laugh with our friends.

skonen_blades: (Default)
This is my penis. There are many like it but this one is mine.
It is the creator of missiles, abandoned children, conquested countries, needless wars, rape culture, ravaged women, economic crises, and savage beatings.
If women ran the world, it would be peaceful. But they don’t. So it’s not.
That is what I was raised to believe.
I still believe it to be true.

skonen_blades: (didyoujust)
And the shadows come downstairs.

I’m wary of the air of celebration
I dislike the atmosphere of elation that retroactively might look like grave-dancing.
I’m off in a quiet corner of the party hoping that the cops don’t come.
Even though this no longer feels like my house.
I feel like getting everyone’s attention and giving them a nice, big, condescending
“Easy. Easy. Let’s all take a step back here.”
But the train has left the station and momentum will do what it does.

And anyway, that is not my call.
And anyway, to express nervousness over the proceedings is to expose my own swallowing of the rape culture pill.
And anyway, to fear the repercussions of our actions is to disrespect the victims.
And anyway, to be a man in this situation makes me feels as helpless as I’ve felt in the years leading up to this.
And anyway, I’m angry.
And anyway, I’m afraid of being outed as the sexist, demeaning pig that I am.
And anyway, I keep the potential rapist inside of me hidden from the world as all men do and that rapist is scared and since he is a part of me, I am scared as well.

I know the truth is out. Or to be clearer, I know that’s what is out is the truth. I know the central basis of what’s happening is supposed to be healing and is supposed to have a goal of welcoming back. I’m not sure that’s realistic or possible.

All I know is that I’m searching for balance and as a result, a devil’s advocate is stuck in my Adam’s apple as I look at what used to be the Garden of Eden.

skonen_blades: (thatsmell)
You see me as a fellow victor but I don’t see myself that way.
I am an insecure person.
The parts of you that you are proud of
are the parts of me that I’m ashamed of.

The way I like power, for instance.
My self-assuredness. I feel like I make my worst decisions when I fully trust it.
The belief that what little talent or intelligence I have makes me better than other people. I hate that feeling floating around in me.

But those same feelings give you a feeling of superiority.
And, as they’re saying these days, a sense of entitlement.

You sense a fellow being in me but you are wrong.
You talk to me with a sense of collusion and it makes me uneasy.
But I am silent.

I am a diplomatic person.
You see that veneer and assume it hides something similar to what’s hiding in you.
You may be right (in the grand sense that all people hide a monster).
The difference is that you are proud of yours.
And I hate mine.

I believe that we are equals (in the grand sense that all people are equals) but I don’t believe we’re similar.

When you talk to me like we have a deep bond, I feel like I’m committing a small social crime by playing along. When you say you trust me, I feel bad about keeping you at a distance that might not be apparent to you.

I’m scared of you so I recognize the advantage of being your friend.
It’s easy to be a compassionate person because you are so broken that it is easy to feel compassion for you.

But this is what gives you the keys to so many houses.
Houses you’ve left burgled in the night.
And that is a metaphor for sexual assault.

I’m starting to think that my relationship with you is the relationship you have with most of the people you know.

And it’s then I realize that I have conspired with you.
By pretending to play along, I have actually played along.
By seeming to give you license, I have actually given you license.

And now all my meals taste like sand.

skonen_blades: (Default)
Brains carrying clubs in their squishy fists patrol the cartoon world. Bugs disguise themselves as cars while long-legged valentines run down Chinese-restaurant hallways. Kings clumsily stab bear corpses with swords and hold the pose so that photographers can make royalty look ferocious.

She is tiny but she is hard. She bounces up over the hood of the car and through the windshield, right into the driver’s snarling teeth. An entire wedding runs away from the oncoming destruction. It was the type of the day that let you walk on walls. Long, dangling ghosts refereed drag races while goats did their best to sell lava lamps to sheep. Wrestlers had off-duty eating contests while all the stuffed animals did their best to have a party in darkness of the dungeon.

The photocopiers turned wild and roamed the countryside, cutting down trees and trying to make children’s books. Apples became infested with butterflies and condoms were rolled down over the number one. Princesses texted each other while android babies screamed like they were programmed to. Satellite dishes soaked up the excess while fat geishas relaxed.

Boulders dream of being drummers. Flying cars have rose-coloured headlights. A deer made of matches taunts alcoholics in the liquor store. And over here, near the bus stop, is one elephant that can walk on its hind legs to fool humans.

skonen_blades: (Default)
Rough draft of what I might be saying on Friday night at the Rio fundraiser.

Me and Sonja Karlson
Were both here for a flick
Blade Runner at midnight. Yes.
Such an awesome pic

I saw Sonja near the aisle
Sitting with a girl
I said hi and sat right down
And history unfurled

She exclaimed that Blade Runner
Was her most favourite feature
Mine as well, I answered back
To this fine music teacher

Two years later we’re engaged
We have a little daughter
That all started right down there
I’m lucky that I got her

I’ve come here for many shows
Concerts, films, and laughter
If the Rio closes down
Then tell me what comes after?

Silence in the neighborhood
Culture’s candle snuffed
The big bad wolf the liquor board
Has huffed and fucking puffed

But it won’t blow the rio down
It’s just another battle
A battle that Corinne will win
Because YOU all aren’t cattle

To be told by ancient laws
That liquor in BC
Can’t be sold in venues where
A movie wants to be

Even if you don’t serve booze
On nights that movies play
The liquor board is saying that
The films must go away

A hybrid venue can’t exist
Is what the law is saying
All I hear when they say this
Is ancient donkeys braying

They don’t get what happens here
But all of you sure do
The management is working hard
The rest is up to you

You’ll give cash and if you can’t
You sign every petition
And you won’t quit your rabble-rousing
Til the province listens

Don’t they know the east-end folk
Have nowhere left to gather?
Don’t they see that tragedy?
Don’t they think it matters?

Music venues, cinemas
All of them shut down
Where are we supposed to GO now?
Granville street downtown?

Every single neighborhood
In every single city
Needs an entertainment hub
And isn’t it a pity

They want to shut the Rio down
The message is quite clear
They don’t get just how important
The Rio IS to here

More than first-run movie shows
More than midnight screenings
More than indie film premieres
Culture here has meaning.

Movies are the half of what
Will keep this place afloat
To take it one step further on,
The rio is a boat

A sea of booze will let it sail
And keep it from the dark
In fact I’d say that culturally
The rio is our ark

A place where friends can meet
And laugh and watch a rockin’ band
Or like tonight just come and help
So give yourselves a hand

And afterwards put pressure on
The province of BC
Let’s not let the Rio down
Let’s help Corinne Lea

Movies booze and live events.
That’s an awesome trio.
Let’s not let LCLB
Take away The Rio

skonen_blades: (Default)
The calmest place on Earth is on top of an icy plateau in Antarctica known as Ridge A, several hundred miles from the South Pole. It is so still that stars do not twinkle in the sky because there is no turbulence in the atmosphere to distort the light.

That is what my heart becomes when I look at you.
The swooning truth of dying soldiers is in my mouth. The accordion of your ribcage bellows closed in this embrace. You blood fissures through you like a photograph of a lightning strike and I feel the automatic response of genes to the grey sky of your eyes. You’re the softest bridge I know.

The yaw and pitch of you. The reel to reel of you. The lonely heart of you.

This clutch becomes a fraction and the future becomes a whole as every portal whirlpools me into the future beneath the smell of your hair and the feel of long musician’s fingers tracing love notes on my back in scarlet letters.

The alphabet of stairs lies crooked on your smirk. The alien glancing blow of your laugh swirls my affection back to times before language. The bashful bricks of your foundation attract the wheeling crows of my scattered thoughts to roost, to stop circling. You are the elephant’s memory of a swan’s neck. The dial tone of an abandoned photographer’s studio. I am a discarded uniform that has decided to stay where it's landed for as long as it can. Let’s stitch our treasure maps together, put them in the glove compartment of a used car, and drive south.

Moments of courage are the paddle-strokes that make a life. A future beckons and our time machines are deep inside our chests, back and to the left.

skonen_blades: (angryyes)
And it’s the teeth that fold back into a karate punch of hot asses in black jeans making their way to war. Falling stars in silk dresses and broken fingers wear khaki post-apocalyptic riding pants to finish lines made of unforgiving fire.

Each satellite that cracks the earth open thinks it’s a dancer improvising a future like an oracle predicting circuitboard murder diagrams through the clenched chest of the world. Waking child eyes inside the navigation computer pull arrows back and let them go while glowing tattoos on Asian ghosts stare down from long-dead airplane crashes.

The zombies and the greek gods are taking it all back. They come up from under the snow and dive in front of subway trains only to get their blood on the cameras. This is Tron in a cornfield playing demolition abortion math near red-haired spring break chainsaw children, one sword swing away from knowing if fairies bruise.

Unseen dream hands and white-eyed possessed girls stand under skies with too many moons, too many suns. Huge creatures from massive, fragile buildings unravel helixes of DNA in an effort to understand armies and the concept of victory. Flaming chunks of rock pirate their way through a cloned army of Dark Knight Jokers wielding JK-47s. It’s all about the martial arts and force of will. Just ask Neo.

Cities bend, curling up and dying like robot stunt doubles punching comic futures through flimsy walls and candy glass. Little-kid dimension beasts snarl and leap when cornered but after that they’re gymnasts sliding under birdcages, making bullets bend trajectories past assassins dressed like medusa-prostitute-guitar-god forest witches.

The big finale drips off of the brim of a Kruger hat as the hot women drive shotgun heels and katanas through drooling Nazi faces. Splashing water up onto the computers, making lust and moisture and synchronized dancing destroy clocks, bunkers, and then it’s all x-ray broken bones and gyrating hips in red leather.

Your robot double can’t break out of the train. Your body will not be saved from the aliens. But your 18th century self will be just fine. Rely on that.

skonen_blades: (incredulous)
Hunting the elusive backbone is thirsty work for an aging matador turning tricks to get by.

Jedi knights do puzzles in the dark when they are banished to desert planets. Young men eat raw peacock in between bouts of depression so deep and wide that they become used to the pressure. Thousand-dollar suits drape the CEO flab of Karl Rove lookalikes while the illusion of power sparkles cocaine-bright in their cave-dwelling piggy eyes. They are reflected in the sunglasses of the prostitutes who are not prostitutes.

Model slash actresses make eye contact, pinning butterflies to cardboard cutouts at parties far from downtown cores in houses with great views. Amazing abdominal muscles pull young people from power point presentation to car crash in the hopes of being discovered. Even gods drift through these beaded curtains to take leave of their senses in fountains stinking of cash. It’s all water in apologetic toilets. It’s all bears with cancer at the circus. It’s all dream-logic slavery.

The pole that lets a person stand is not the same as strings that keep a person from falling. Your puppetry has become an echo of a reminder of a lost photograph of a dead friend you can barely remember. This purpose-driven economy that’s replaced your soul is a Christmas light in the mouth of a shark. I need you to eat the dog tags. I want you to dip your hands into printer ink and starting punching the walls. Leave evidence of your passage, they say. Do not try to sneak through this life.

I’ve won lotteries ten years in the making. Entire ear-wax sculptures of soldier-salute deafness have rolled around in you to get dirty. Strength has come to both of us in drum solo fits and crocodile-roll grinding like cars taking a long time to start on Alberta winter mornings. We are kite-string forever trying.

Whether you’re flying or crawling, the hunt will continue. And you will never be alone in that.

skonen_blades: (gasface)
The pain in me is a boulder. Waves turns rocks into beaches over millennia but I only have fourty years at the outside. So don’t be a wave. Be a jackhammer. Be an earthquake. Be a pickaxe. Grind me down to sand so I can flow through your hourglass figure. Let me be something other than an unmoving blank face. Let me be the passage of time going through you.

Let me die while being buried alive in your shallow grave.

I believe all hearts are dogcatchers. I believe that if there were such a thing as feral trains that lived in the wild, then that’s what puberty is. I believe that somewhere someone is asleep and I am their nightmare.

My face is a sail. It’s obvious when it has the power to go somewhere. And it’s obvious when it’s dead in the water.

I love you. So I should come up with some superlatives.

If I ever lost you, I’d put up so many missing person posters, people would think it was a presidential campaign.

skonen_blades: (heymac)
The twisted reach of a bent pier bringing Rio closer to your heart. Each branch of your basketball-sneaker heart creaking in the cold night outside a bedroom window. Black wood perfect for magician’s wands making fingers for haunted treehouse hair. The clown of your expectation will fornicate with the wind and nothing will come of it. Each shot and save, each drop and catch, each risk and triumph. They all add the same years as failures. Time excuses clocks and sailors only. This paper conclusion wrapping wet newspaper around your boxer fists is only fit for taking cover.

If there were memories in the fishbowl that broke last night, they were gone by morning, dry and dead on the living room carpet. I’ve seen locked doors turn into parachutes with the wink of a cream shoulder. Mice gain priest collars and Hollywood sunglasses haunt glint-eyed starlets. Bus tickets covered with fairy dust, small-town escape hatches drenched in the naïve optimism that starts the best and worst stories the world has to offer. For every moment above the clouds, there are shallow graves aplenty. Basic computing makes mercy into business, ruining the profession of saints. Even dogs will know the ending before it limps into view, reaching out with long, dry fingers the texture of cork.

It’s a ballad, these points that glimmer for eighty years on average here. Small, lonely fireworks making a mockery of kindness and celebrating greed while looking to the future with popcorn eyes. Souls become bathtubs where people get clean and leave behind dirty water in someone else, causing thrown-out babies. These rags belonged to a jester’s sideshow daughter. This stone was pried from a contortionist’s ring. And you are a focal point to an oil spill.

skonen_blades: (didyoujust)
If things are saddening or maddening then everything that makes you happy must be happening. The best thing that’s ever happened to me is still happening to me. I died when my father died and I’ll be born again when my daughter is born.

We have such a short window to be happy, for real sex with real love between real people. Fuck life for being temporary but thank god that life is temporary. Without the spur of death, no change would take place. There’d be no journey without that destination.

Don’t let your life be a series of unwritten passages about unridden horses. Don’t crouch like a sniper in the arches of a church. Don’t let it become a series of summery summaries of what you didn’t do on your summer vacations.

Have you ever driven quickly down a Spanish road? Have you ever smelled a summer orchard near Paris? Come to your own rescue. Make it happen.



skonen_blades: (Default)

September 2017

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