skonen_blades: (Default)
The biological drive to serve dessert to tigers is unknowable and not evolutionarily beneficial to our race as matter of kites and slander.
In fact, each bandana that back-pockets its way to a lure for a solution becomes just another good-intention brick on that road.
Corrals for hope don’t exist on the minimal-gravity desert planet.
Brass discipline rolls the dice in a sunken ship.
No snakes, says the sign.
I can’t hear the trumpet when I try to be human.
My frontal lobes are soaking in a cave sweat.
Black plastic helps.
Juggle me this, juggle me that, who’s afraid of the atanarjuat.
Hard passes on hard lefts.
Grow more fingers if you need higher numbers.
Sleep in a bucket to get to heaven.

skonen_blades: (Default)
Remote Control caregiver.
The icing on top of the ocean.
A lion in spandex.
The humble Clown King
A Samurai Jester
A grown-up Cupid

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)
Consider it considerate, the aural and the oral.
The auricle’s an oracle and forest floors are floral
I’m odd and awed when tolled; I’m told a cost accosts my trust.
I’ve thrown the throne. My sword has soared. And we discussed disgust.
He’ll heal, you say, love mends the men’s withholding with its hold.
I just meant adjustment bowled a striking strike so bold
The principles of principals are powered by our power
The precedents of presidents can make a coward cower
It seems the seams of genes and jeans are just the size of sighs
And my nose knows that treaties tease the treats inside my eyes

skonen_blades: (hamused)
As long as I stay busy then I never have to think.
And if I ever have to think then I can always drink.
The common earthworm has five hearts that beat at different speeds.
I like to think that every one of them has different needs
I don’t believe that everything is valid and I’m wrong
The radar pings that I have sent have all come back as pong
I try to stay in tributaries ‘cause I hate main streams
It’s easier to row my boat so gently when I dream
If truth is stranger than the way I use a dictionary
Then I am not a writer, rather, I’m a fictionary.

skonen_blades: (hamused)
Love is like a tumour of health blooming inside you. A malignant growth of happiness and light and the way things are supposed to be. Of course it’s distressing. You didn’t ask for this. You didn’t see it coming. You’ve lived your life the way you were supposed to. You followed the rules. You were safe. But still, there it is. The doctor tells you that you only have another 70 years to live and it’s devastating which shouldn’t make sense but there it is.

And the tumour has a face. And you know exactly whose face it is. It smiles its way into your internal organs and it’s spreading like brandy, like a fireplace, like a forest fire of applause and easy pushups and summer ice cream and twisting sunlight scattering through crystal into rainbows and it makes you sick.

Or maybe you’ve lived your life recklessly, been flippant and cruel in the face of all the love, daring it to infect you, begging it to try its luck with you. You’ve been a gladiator battling through relationship after relationship, proving that love will not grow in you. You are no flowerbed, you tell yourself. You read about someone’s grandfather who survived to 114 and never got love and you think you’ll be that person.

But you’re not. And now you know it.

But not only is love common, it’s contagious. Not only is love contagious, it’s consumptive. And not only is it consumptive, it never leaves. And not only does it never leave, it confers no immunity.

Just like a virus, it always changes. It adapts and skips merrily past your defenses every time because it mutates.

And we make it easy. We are betrayed by our physicality. Our entire bodies are receptors to love. If we cover our mouths, it gets in through our nose. If we cover our nose, it gets in through our tear ducts. If we cover our eyes, it gets in through our ears. If we cover our ears, it gets in through our skin.

There should be degrees of love like there is of murder. There should be classifications of love like there is of cancer. There should be scales of love like there is for earthquakes. There should be stages of love like defcon 1 and defcon 2. There should be quarantine centers for the infected. There should be warnings on the morning radio and television shows about today’s love index. Love should be treated like something that should be treated. I want the national center for disease control to track it and have plans to contain it.

Love dying like the aftermath of a nuclear explosion inside of you, radioactive half life getting smaller and smaller but never leaving. It’d take thousands of years for it to whittle itself down to a size that you no longer notice but you’ve only got 70 years like the doctor said.

If a cure for love was available, would it be a big seller?

If a cure for love was available, I don’t know about you, but I’d chug it like a cold beer in August whenever I needed it.

skonen_blades: (hamused)
My doghouse future lives in updates and site corrections that will never be current. I’m a word salad giving birth to car tires, spinning old helmets into war stories that never happened. I’m a wind dodger, a slippery riot shield, a tensor bandage wrapped around a bunch of bananas. If it wasn’t for my thinning hair, I’d punch a hole in the sun.

I’m sprouting silicon. I’m the woof of a blowfish. I’m an unsent absentee vanguard. I want to inject the hourglass with molasses. I’m pouring sugar into the gas tank in the hope that it’ll bake a cakes. I am an enchanting shade of beige. In the morning, I am a giraffe trying to eat a grapefruit.

Nosequills. Smelt wipers.

The ache of the Antarctic as we break it’s back. It’s just a conversation we’re having with the earth and it’s a real icebreaker. We’re really getting to know each other.

My shadow glitters in the dark but luckily I was born with a removable blade. I’m a newsstand in the basement of an apartment building. I have keys in my mouth and a tavern on my shoulders. I am an alias with no true identity anymore.

I’m caught in an upward spiral but I’m afraid of heights. The topology of my life is peeks and alleys. I’ve seen forty years go by between my fingers.

But snowflakes invented brandy. I’m a lifetime clutcher and a post-codeine baggage porter. If you’re a hotel, I want to be your bellboy.

Take me to the hell of you.

skonen_blades: (haBUUH)
A comic starring Captain Kirk that is required reading in Starfleet when talking about using the holodeck for pleasure. It opens with James T Kirk in ten forward trying to pick up various members of Starfleet and it's not going so well.

If you’re 7 of 9, I’d like to meet the other 8.

You’re got your phasers set to stunning, 7, and there’s no mistake

Not to be ten forward but you look like you could use some fun

Let me introduce myself to you, I’m one of one

Well actually I guess that you could say I’m one of two

But luckily at least for me I think we both like you

So finish up that synthohol and let’s go to your quarters

I share with two cardassians and one of them’s a hoarder

You know you want to, don’t resist, your people say that’s futile

Just lean back and *I’ll* assimilate *you* for a while

No big deal there’s lots of women left hey who’s that there?

Who’s that stunning dark-eyed woman with the raven hair?

Oh I remember now that vixen’s name’s Deanna troi

And I know just the type of captain’s charm I should employ

Hey there Troi? A psychic, eh? I’ll try to keep it clean.

I’m thinking of a number now that’s somewhere in between

Sixty-eight and seventy. You guessed it! Wow! That’s great!

Now let’s go back to your place and I’ll make you my first mate

Hey there Worf. Your wife, you say? Well, I was just, uh, leaving

I wish you both the best of lives and bid you both good evening

Hey who’s this? Jadzia Dax? My god that lady’s fine.

Third time’s the charm, they say, I think I’ll try to make her mine

Hey Jadzia what’s the deal? You looking for a thrill?

What’s that you say? A symbiant? You say that you’re a trill?

So there’s like two of you inside there? Sweet! A three way sounds delightful!

Say what? There’s dudes? There nine of you in there? How frightful.

Well that’s okay. That’s not too gay. You want to get it on?

You’d sooner bone the corpse of Bones McCoy and Riker’s mom.

Man it’s hard to get some sex on board this enterprise

I hear this Riker’s up for it but I’m not into guys

Have I tried the holodeck? Why no. Why, what it that?

Excuse me? WHAT? SAY WHAT? I’ll need a tour. Like effing stat.

And that is how the Captain Kirk met his untimely death.

He cut the safety protocols and with his dying breath

He humped his way through Romulans, Orions, Vulcans, Trills,

Bajorans, Vulcans, Betazoids, and more exotic thrills

Like tribbles, horta, binars, borg, andorians and Klingon

When they found his bloated corpse it didn’t have a thing on

Captain Kirk had met his match on board the that magic place

They say he screwed near halfway through the ship’s whole database

The holodeck’s a blessing but it can be deadly, too.

So think of Jim and those like him when using it for you.

skonen_blades: (hamused)
I’m so pale I get moonburn.
Tonight I’m a cobbler. Stitching soles to the bottom of my feet so I can walk up to heaven.
A raven’s stunt and a crow’s feat.
I don’t think I’m cut out for happiness.
Resign has two meanings and right now I am both of them. I have quit and I’m also just going with the flow of life’s river, jigsaw puzzling my way through the floor space of my mouth.
These are the storm windows to my soul.
The world drains through my eyes into the hole of my mind and parts of it get stuck in my memory.
Sometimes this haunted house gets so full that the ideas defenestrate right out onto the page.
Sometimes the ideas need a little help so I throw rocks in this glass house.
Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.
Well according to the big guy, it’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission
So I ask for guidance but when I pray, I feel like I’m talking to myself
When the windows break, I separate the glass from the plastic and the paper,
Thinking that the easiest way for me to recycle is to die in a forest.
With all the corporate waste around, I feel like it’s useless to use less.
When other people die, we say they pass. I guess that’s why living sometimes feels like failure.
These days, all my arrows have turned into boomerangs.
Sometimes you get happy and all it does is remind you of how long it’s been since you’ve been happy and it makes you sad. Sometimes you get happier that you’ve ever been and all it does is remind you of how you’ve never felt this way and it makes you REALLY sad.
But at the same time, I feel like I’ve had this astounding revelation that ‘slow and steady wins the race’ means that you’ll live longer.
There are lions in the reeds and I want to be the reed between the lions.
Because getting angry about being angry is like putting knives into a blender.
Because if you don’t eat for a while, your stomach gets smaller and you feel full after not eating very much. It’s the same with your heart. When you’re not used to it, a compliment can fill up your entire chest.
I feel like I’m a former Canadian child star, like there’s a connection between graveyards and schools, like a part of me has been on fire for my entire life and I never noticed.
I used to say, “Don’t take it personally, I’m just dead inside. There’s a skinless mattress where my heart used to be.”
Mirror, mirror in the well, tell me my story isn’t over yet
Tell me I’m more than just another old man boy band.
If you reject authority well enough and long enough, you will end up in charge of something. So be careful.
They say that computer monitors use up more power on standby than they do when they’re turned on.
I know exactly what that feels like.
I’m going to ride a bike because I have Taxicabin fever
I’m a puppy in wolf’s clothing. I’m a sheep that only counts on himself to fall asleep.
I’m here to kick bubble gums and chew asses and I’m all out of asses
I’m up here standing on my own six and a half feet.

skonen_blades: (dark)

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.

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: (bounder)
Check this out. After such an incredible week of poetry, I have been inspired to write the best poem I've ever written.

Pants on fire.
Pants in the dryer.
Your mom.
Your mom on fire.
I put her out with lots of water.
Your mom in the dryer.
I have seen The Wire
But only season one.

Thank you.

skonen_blades: (whysure)
Dang my poet mind.

I saw a bus with a malfunctioning sign once that said it was the “Sorry. Not in service. Express.” And I was like , “I know exactly what that means.”

I read somewhere that computer monitors use more power on standby than they do when they’re being used and I was like “I completely understand.”

I saw a sign once that said “Prepare to stop” and I’ve been doing that ever since.

skonen_blades: (dark)
The taste of the future is a lot like a bathtub full of lemon juice. A punch that you can sit in. A swerve ball of solar plexus centrifuge that calls you home like targets call the answering machines of arrows on rainy nights just to hear their voices. If calculators had souls, they’d be rectangular. Parallelograms of solace and want, needing fingers to help themselves to answers, to help them figure out the world. I’m glad calculators don’t have souls. If headphones were able to talk, they’d beg speakers to shut up and listen for a second. Backspace keys would scream not to be used. Erasers would run away from hands.

Here on the chart of wrongdoing is a line, a circle, and six dots on a graph describing the arc of your covenant life. Your geometry. Your parabola of existence is a plotted average among spikes. You memory sands off the corners. You remember skating on ice-garden professionals with regretful eyes tracking you every step of the way.

All you remember thinking, all you remember knowing, is “after this there is no back to normal. After this there is no back to normal. After this there is no back to normal.” It wasn’t just a line that was crossed, it was an entire border into a new country you were extradited, no, expunged into where you didn’t speak the language but with no embassy of your home town to run to. Any passport in a storm, you said, and you slipped on other people like suits at a sale until one of them fit.

Anyone who tells you smiles are free has never had a problem with depression. Smiles cost a lot to some people.

If you are what you eat then I am my feelings. If you are what you eat then I am my own sense of ambition. If you are what you eat then I am my ability to deal. If you are what you eat then I am my own imagination. If you are what you eat then I am my faith in my own self worth. If you are what you eat then I am the tiger I was supposed to be.

I keep expecting a bike messenger from a better future to come at me with answers. I stare for hours at the doorbell but nothing happens. I wait for either missiles or messages but all that happens is that time goes by.

I feel a darkness coming that will eclipse the others with its magnitude but I’m not sure about that. I sense the edge of it and fight it off.

I guess you could say I’m open to suggestion.

skonen_blades: (Default)
What a night. I got to Lydia's pub from the airport and I was super nervous. Charles picked me up and gave me a ride. I saw a few familiar faces from CFSW at Lydia's when I got there. They were having a CFSW organization meeting and it looks like they have everything well in hand. I brought a lot of merch as per other poets' recommendations. My new chapbook and some Van Slam shirts. I sold 22 chapbooks. Fucking ridiculous.

I was worried going up. During the open mic, someone innocently told me that I better be off book. Since I am not off book on any of my poems, I was suddenly terrified. I didn't know what to expect. There was a five-person open mic, a break, then me. The crowd was pretty sparse but it filled up quick. It was a beautiful day here so I'm not surprised. Summer slams are slow everywhere I imagine.

I started with my star trek rap, went into my first breakup poem, did Next Jen, and then segued into stuff my new book with a dirty haiku in between each poem. When it was over, they demanded an encore so I gave them one. First time that's happened I think.

Afterwards, a lot of people came to get their books signed. One woman had just broken up with a tall man so both my tall poem AND my breakup poems resonated with her. Another woman usually can't make it out so tonight was her first poetry night in years and she said she was super happy to have seen me. Another younger woman at the bar told me she loves video games and star trek and she was serious. She lost it when I told her I'd worked on Red Dead Redemption. Although at the end, she did tell me to "live long and prosperous". LOL.

I had great talks with everyone afterwards, especially Ryan Bradshaw and Dorion Brady from the burlesque scene up here.

I'm leaving with a fair amount of cash and a much lighter heart. I'm sure for most traveling poets, this is just a normal night of performing but for a nervous person who hasn't done too many away-from-home features, it's been magical.

Home again tomorrow. Looking forward to being back and seeing Audrey and Sonja and the Van Slam again but this has been a fantastic experience.

skonen_blades: (gasface)
Hey there test pattern.

Why don’t you go join the cardboard boxes and beige nail polish over there by the copier. Why don’t you wrap yourself up in an accessible package with easy-to-follow instructions? Your brother the knowing-smile-of-confidence mask has got seven unread texts for you to semi-colon-closed-parentheses wink at. Find out if both of you can see through the conversations on repeat that cloud the air like L.A. actor’s post-mortem audition chats. See if swimming through that predictable, monotonous, mediocre, comfortable, safe algorithm keeps you from dying. I’ll willing to bet that it won’t.

Speaking of dying, write me a eulogy that I can proofread before I go and please, make it all up. Mention that I was a king once. That I saved some lives, that I spared no one love, and that I took those sharp turns quickly and in control. Say that I handed out decisions like winning cards in Vegas and brooked the consequences on my chin like a diamond hero. Imply that my conquests numbered many and that we all stayed pleasantly, flirtatiously in touch. Friend of couches, never shy around cars, doting parent, and expert at folding lasers into the shapes of neon birds.

Say that I taught cats how to read. Say that if every television station died and our world collapsed to ivy and caves again, that my smile would still warm more than any fire during winter. I want a woolly mammoth of a tribute. Give me a neck an executioner would be afraid to damage.

In return, I promise you that starting now, I’ll live up to it.

But give me the eulogy first.

skonen_blades: (Default)
These days I like to wear adult clothes and pretend to be a library, looking laser-thin down the bridge of my nose to belittled people scraping through the uneducated book lust wilderness. I scrabble their hearts into my lengthening middle names.

I used to split my mind into different tented versions of myself so that I could hunt in packs. I unwrapped Christmas for young girls and sprinkled the glowing owl dust on their tiny moth-wing mouths. My conscience was all elbow back then and I was looking for a candle lens to see myself through. To see myself up. To see myself out.

You speakered me. You made anvil with my river. You made craters of silence in my speeches. Over time, you left graffiti on my driveway prison of a face. Every corner I take too quick, every losing bet I make with glee, every avalanche I start by laughing too loud, it's all dedicated to the way you forgot things in memory of yourself. I can still describe the arc of you, the parabola of your life. I see now that you were a runaway response to jail cell tangents. The further away you get, the more of my mercy you are blind to.

So now I sweep up disco balls and add crossbones to skulls on the black flag of my high seas. I have the intuition of a tame zebra. You left me with scars all over my cloak of invisibility. I let my backstage pass lapse and now it's as useless as old milk. I can only throw curve balls to music teachers these days and my boomerangs don't return. I have the simple anatomy of a pencil. I am almost completely business card.

So thanks for the high kicks and the plectrum embedded in my liver. I am a different person now. Tree frog bright and jaunty. I am bright paint on an old house. I am cobweb free and solid in my stare. Sure, I might be half nametag these days but it's from beautiful failure and not from a lack of trying.

See you soon, supernova. Return to me in your own time. I'll be on vacation until then. There is no smile in the world that can get away from me now.

skonen_blades: (Default)
When you look at me, it’s a swooping dare of instinct that communicates deadly intent along the wire from predator to prey. The quivering acquiescence of a humble foodstuff in the face of pure physical superiority. I would feel the same if I looked into the jaws of a Tyrannosaurus Rex. I would not run. I would merely be food. There would be no other option. It would be my place in the universe, the food chain, and our relationship.

For every shopping list that becomes a hit man, there are too many that go the other direction, that wane to safety in the shadows and are content to be part of the river of history, not the crags that tear it open. If one builds towers to heaven, one must be prepared to meet God.

Peel the smiles off our knowing corpses because we’ll be keeping those secrets. All the grease in Tanzania won’t make these wheels squeak. If you want a sharp-angled rescue then simply come home. My scissored arms await your pliant body. We can take turns when it comes to the killing.



skonen_blades: (Default)

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