skonen_blades: (hamused)
I’m a doctor cutting into leftover heart tissue that's been microwaved into jerky and then left to harden in the hot sun of heartbreak.

It’s open heart perjury. It’s a life-saving amputation. It’s a vet putting an animal to sleep.

Love can be a courtroom spelling contest sometimes. Spell definition. Spell loyalty. Spell pause. Spell break. Spell still not getting it. Spell being the last person to figure out that I’m single now. Spell drinking.

Love is blind because it’s locked in a chest but because love is blind, it can see in the dark. It does keep bumping into people, though. And falling down stairs. Love is blind but it has the most powerful eyes since justice.

Each surgery is just a doctor’s best guess with the best training we have to offer. Question: What do you call a doctor who nearly fails his final exam? Answer: Doctor.

If this love is a math problem, then let it be algebra. If you are my ex and I still can’t figure out why, then let x = y.

We are all doctors operating on each other without the benefit of schooling, only on-the-job training. Veterinarians know what the most merciful choice is sometimes. Anesthesiologists put each other to sleep on the last week of school so they can see how it feels and dentists numb each other’s mouths.

So doctor, reach into the hole here that doesn’t beat anymore. Dentist, reach into my chest cavity. Veterinarian, prick my non-existent phantom-limb heart with a needle and pet it like a pet until it goes to sleep. So that it’s numb. So that I can’t feel anything.

So I can learn, too.

skonen_blades: (dark)
He feels a deep transition churning in the belt of him. The anchored soul of him. His visor, helmet, fist and feet are ready for new sights, new sand, and new hair. It’s an unimagining. It’s a slate cleaning. When he is old and single, he will have pages and pages of ideas that he did not act upon. He will have acted on some of them but most of them will have been waiting for a time when he had the talent that never came. Like a crazy cat lady, he’ll be a crazy idea man. They will string-puppet him to the end of his days in an unavoidable, hazy way. They will be like sunglasses he can never take off.

What positive part of the human experience do you think you are permanently missing out on and will never experience?

He is wrapped in sailboats. The functional whetstone of him no longer has any knives to sharpen. He is walking through a silent canyon and has been for some time. He wouldn’t call this depression. He would call it a journey. He’s portaling through percentages. He is at a crossroads but he have been here for some time yet still, somehow, moving forward.

There is more grey in his beard but he can no longer see as far. The mousetrap is closing in slow motion. His jacket is made of thumbnails. His backpack is full of dead batteries. He is a bronze medal borrowed from a friend.

Like an old boxer with no one left to hit with his powerful, trained hands.

skonen_blades: (hamused)
April 30/30


The fortifications of everyone’s hearts
Are made up of different and specified parts
The blast doors are open but shut with a crash
When they’re required to stop something rash
The armour is old and it squeaks when it moves
The wax in its love-holes are covered in grooves
Its earmuffs and blindfolds and tied up all tight
(but oddly, hearts seems to see better at night
And hear what they want to no matter what’s said.)
It’s brimming with life but it’s camouflaged dead.
'Cause hearts that don’t “heart” are safer, you see.
You learn this quite quickly when in infancy
An up through to college and sometimes beyond
When someone or something of who’ve you’ve grown fond
Takes a big stab at your life-giving part
The oxygenating, mammalian heart
There is a reason in video games
Why lives look like hearts and they don’t look like brains
Because your heart holds what is precious to you
It holds all your love there and other’s love, too
Impossible though the heart may be to sway
And though no heart’s ever been made to obey
A heart can be muffled and helped to forget
And still kept around like an old, favourite pet
Because without hearts then we all drop down dead
But if we can ‘help’ our hearts out with our head
Give it some crutches, a tv, some wine
A bullet proof vest, and a big neon sign
That says nothing’s wrong but that none need apply
Just leave it alone in its safety to die.
That way the human that’s wrapped round that heart
Can stay unperturbed by that worrisome part
And still walk around with fresh blood in their veins
No aches or depressions or hearbreak or pains
Just super protected. A Frankenstein pump.
Useful but no longer tempted to jump
Off every high rooftop to soar with pink wings
Mine’s unconcerned with such frivolous things
A miracle heart is inside me and so
I’ll show it you. Oh shoot. Where’d it go?

skonen_blades: (dark)
April 30/30


She is a rich, deep, pile of emotion. Her inner world feels like a post-apocalyptic Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.

She knows that Dark Days are always ahead. And all she keeps thinking is die later. Die later. Die later.

Relax, he says. It’s only a finger of speech. Even a broken record is right twice a day.

If she is a product of her environment then call her the broken windows in a greenhouse. She stinks of fertility and she can’t run away from it.

She feels like a speed bump in everyone else’s life.

She is a Dragon with a girl tattoo.

Her mood isn’t grey. It’s light black. Which is an improvement.

skonen_blades: (hamused)
I’m wearing my good luck funeral. A fake pencil is nestled in the inside pocket. I taste licorice because it’s raining. The wildlife keeps a respectful distance. My shoulder skulls track the clouds for threats. Finding none, I kneel before the tombstone of my godson. If ink was blood, I could write you a story of my veins and how they came to be here.

I have no engines to transmit the sorry of newsprint. My mind is an octopus reaching forward with wet, strong tentacles of grief. I give off paper airplanes like gusts of pheromones scattering the deer. I am the opposite of a battery. The grass turns inward at my touch. My shield becomes a cracked reindeer and I’m left with the bigoted remnants of my best intentions.

Here, every day is a birthday and I’m tired of it. I want to pull the back off of the phone and let the rain in. I’m a snow boot in a summer gutter. The armour I wear is not meant for peacetime.

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)
It’s planned.

This entire town is like an octopus in a cookie jar. Out here the flies wear helmets and smash through the cellphone signals, handing out whiskey-soaked business cards before they dive too deep into trouble. Bearskin rugs wear crowns and dream of burning-castle screenplays and far-off forests. The ugliest angels you’ve ever seen plummet down to earth, making acne craters in the driveways. Each feather a razor, each halo a carcinogen.

The small white houses in this suburb are measured and pristine. They don’t betray the sharks that swim inside. Dragons with delusions of fireworks and connections to drug dealers stay up late trying to set milk on fire. All they find is that blood makes horrible shampoo. This is a suburb lost at sea but the oars are being ignored. Every bathroom cabinet here is stuffed with orange pill bottles the size of beer cans. The cupboards have enough canned food for the apocalypse but it’s barely touched. It's the liquor cabinets that need constant restocking. All the basements hide blind identical twins hugging each other and crying. “Hyde seeks Jekyll” personal ads are tattooed on the eyelids of every plastic-surgeon promise. The children are pretending to be children and the parents are pretending to be parents.

Snails can be just as awkward when they pose in front of a mirror. In these houses, even the televisions ignore each other. The downtown core is hours away, a series of sandwiches on the horizon. A moustache breeding skyscrapers far away, infested with commerce, excitement, and crosswalks.

Out here, in the manufactured desert carpeted with lawns, marriages become neon signs and the bored pray for any excitement at all. Hypocrites with zombie intentions hoard steering wheels, brake pads, and airbags. Their right arms are longer than their left arms so it’s easier to stab each other in the back.

Every stuffed animal has arteries. Every husband screws the babysitter. Every summer there are a few hunting accidents. And no one reads the paper.

skonen_blades: (Default)
Failure shapes you more than success.

I’ve heard it said that fortune doesn’t change people, it only unmasks them. I’m no longer certain that’s true. Or at least if fortune does unmask a person, it’s failure that shapes what’s beneath that mask.

Winning is a time for celebration. Success is a time for breathing deeply and smiling. A trophy is a reason to pat oneself on the back but you won’t have to because other people will already be doing that. A win is a confirmation from the universe that all is going to plan and that the world is a good place. A victory means justice exists. When things go your way, every Hollywood movie is redeemed and seems plausible. A triumph means that the world is a safe place.

But a loss. A loss, dear. Now that’s important. When you are fired. When the marriage falls apart. When your child hates you. All after having tried your hardest.

Or even the small losses. The everyday losses. You trip on your way to work. A stranger is rude to you. You get an F on a test you studied hard for. That person you like doesn’t like you back. Things that cause you pain.

There is no reason to grown or change in the face of bounty. However, the face of adversity forces you to become someone new. It forces you to adapt.

It can adapt you into drinking every night. It can adapt you into being stony and cold. It can adapt you into dishing out abuse into the world the way you think it’s abused you.

Or it can adapt you into clarity. It can adapt you into brutal self-appraisal. It can adapt you into having an addiction to reality. It can adapt you into something stronger because if a similar situation happens again, it won’t be new. You’ll have some sort of familiarity with it.

They say whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger and I think is what they mean by that. I don’t think the saying is always true. Sometimes whatever doesn’t kill you turns you into a mouse that hides for the rest of your life. Sometimes it destroys a part of your soul you never, ever recover.

I think a truer statement is that failure shapes us.

skonen_blades: (dark)
Write through the owls of your mind that make the black curtains of nocturnal living seem attractive. Crochet paper airplane lace-doily lightness from your craning-neck tension trying to see shuttle launches from 1985 Cape Canaverals. When all your heart knows is that there have been no moon walks recently and that the backstage passes are dated 1972 and gathering dust.

Stereophonic beach condos, rectangular in their architectural beauty, relax in the fog. Cookouts and a sense of being behind-the-scenes of something are helping beach-party men who retired early relax. It’s the dream, kid. It’s the dream seen through the wrong end of binoculars. Keep rowing.

When does a freight train become a falling elevator? Ask women with husbands at war smoking a pack a day manufacturing AK47s for the war effort. Ask deep sea divers who have been down too long falling in love with mermaid sirens. Ask getting to the sunset in your boat only to find it’s a Wile E Coyote painting and you’re in a giant room.

When everything thrilling is peeled away and your life becomes as exciting as an iPhone searching for wireless connections in a basement, it’s time to hit the eraser hard and dial up some lost weekends into being. Bring some forgotten walks back from the dead. Gateway your sadness into dimensions that don’t matter. Enjoy the pleasure of simply not being until the deadness becomes alive without the aid of witchdoctors, frankensteins, or potions.

When you are ready, you’ll be able to sip volcanos and ride polar bears. Until then, grease yourself. Don’t make it easy for the bullets.

skonen_blades: (jabbadoubt)
The matrix isn’t science fiction. It’s real. And today has been one of those days that made me wonder if escape is ever really possible.

I don’t mean that we are asleep at the mercy of machines that are using us for power although when I say it like that, that has a ringtone to it. I mean that we are the mercy of the notion of safety. We are in society’s cage. We are victimized by our parent’s expectations, the fear of being destitute, the addiction to the illusion of security, and the total denial of the obvious worst that stares us in the face every waking hour.

Try to escape it you’ll find the walls. Money will be poured on you. Advice will be given to you. Responsibility will be given to you. It’s more weight that helps keep the matrix in place. Free spirits are the enemy of society.

In movies where dimensions of evil are unlocked, they’re often described as dimensions of pure chaos. As if order is the natural enemy of evil. As if order is all that is good. It’s been hammered into us the way that metal is hammered into the shape of swords.

And I believe it’s always been this way. I believe it was this way in Hawaii in 300 BC. I believe it was this way in New York in 1955. I believe it will be this way centuries from now.

There is no escape. All you can do is follow your heart and more importantly, listen to your to heart. Whether or not there’s an afterlife, reincarnation, or nothing at all, I’m relatively sure that this life is a singular experience. The stakes are much higher than anyone will ever be comfortable with.

So good luck, fellow traveler.

skonen_blades: (thatsmell)
The shadow of what I’m perceived to be is growing longer than the part of me that casts the shadow. People want who I was, not who I am. Used to be thin, used to be a dancer, used to look forward to the future, used to chase.
The talent I have pools in my extremities. Regular exercise just makes me tired. I see the whippet thin replacements walking around like they’ve got forever and it makes me happy. The future is slowly being poured into new heads while we of the last generation pass on our outdated knowledge to deaf ears. Just like our parents.
My life is measured in different chapters. It’s a ghost-written autobiography. Each chapter plays out like a DVD biopic that gets most of it wrong. A life can’t be summed up. But everyone wants the short version. An amusing anecdote with no black ice. No sneak attacks. Palatable and fit for public viewing. Not unlike a tidy corpse.
I’ve truly forgotten heights that a lot of people will never reach. Truly. The mind is a rebellious bastard. Memories fade, leaving me wondering why I did anything in the first place. I’ve striven. Sure. I’ve competed. Yeah. I’ve struck while the iron was hot. Did me a great deal of good, too.
But so what?
My face adorns bookstores now. My words drip from the lips of pundits and scholars. My smile still charms from the cover of bus-shelter advertisement posters. The picture’s ten years old, though. Even I look at pictures of myself back in the day and marvel. I was really something.
Fame presents you with an immortal version of yourself you can’t compete with. A mirror universe doppleganger that has trainers and makeup personnel. An always-fresh idealistic avatar created by public perception. It makes balancing on a pedestal look easy.
It’s a suit you used to put on but not so recently, it ceased to be comfortable. It’s too tight, for one thing, and that makes it hard to breathe. Sometimes the eye-holes slip and your vision is impaired. I let the backup dancers do the high kicks these days. Every time I’m onstage, every time I’m talking to an audience, every time I’m signing a book or listening patiently to someone telling me that I’ve changed their life, I feel like it’s Halloween.
My past self, prettier and better at everything, is tying me a noose and winking at me. It was adept at battle. I am fat and ready for the fire now.
But I have not stopped being profitable. I’m one of those whores that you see on the way down to the bottom of the stairs. There are bucks left in this old horse. There are dollars to be wrung out of my dirty laundry. There are cents in the couch cushions for the cops to go through.
It’s the agony of being loved. And I did it all voluntarily. My fans are cupids shooting arrows and I am my former self’s meat shield. For someone who doesn’t exist, he sure does rule my life.
I suppose in that way, it’s like a religion. The cult of personality made flesh. In my nightmares, he stares at me with pity.
Our younger self, who art in hyperbole, hollow be thy name.
Crowds that love you are vampires and you come to miss them. When the roaring of your fans dies down, you can really hear what little goes through your skull. It’s a sobering experience. It’s why substance abuse is so rampant in celebrities.
We can’t live up to your expectations. You are the farmers milking our souls dry. We are embarrassed every time the light hits us. And it only gets worse.
I am an animated corpse. You, my fans, are necrophiliacs.
Buy my books. They are my flesh. Buy my music. It is my soul.
And maybe, just maybe, with the blood smearing your wolf-in-sheep’s clothing mouths, I’ll escape you while you’re newly fed.
And sneak into new headlines to sell a final thousand newspapers, a new box set of my work, and some posthumous lifetime achievement awards.
And I’m still grateful. I am so insecure that I’m still grateful.
Look at me. Look at me. Look at me.

skonen_blades: (notdrunk)
I have a collection of scissors on the inside of my jacket but I am not a poet.

If anything, I’m a zebra unable to see anything except black and white. A pair of sunglasses with fake teeth all hiding under a hat. I’m a lazy cat’s shadow. If I was a person, I’d be a fake backstage pass sold to a naïve teenager on craigslist, revealed only at the end of the concert for the worthless piece of paper I am when that teenager was turned back by bouncers.

I get lap dances from indifferent alligators in sewer-pipe bars while domesticated llamas spit in my drink. I am tractor-tire indifference dressed in sheep’s clothing. If I was an evening gown, I’d be on a hanger in the dark while the body I was bought for watched the Oscars in pajamas.

Each eraser I eat does nothing. All the paint thinner I drink only makes graffiti appear in my throat. My words splash out of mouth and stain brand new clothes. My embarrassing mouth is a mating call for amnesiac windmills and homeless office supplies. I have a dream catcher in the shape of a shame spiral. My business card says Kindergarten Boogeyman Dentist.

I want your wrists to teach me about baptism. Give me your thumbtack promise. Throw a waterfall into me and freeze this heart into beating. Show a villain the value of a day job and be a season with warm clouds and no deadlines. Let my lawnmower rust a while as this half-life becomes small enough to manage. My aim isn’t very good anymore but I’m still throwing lit matches at empty gasoline cans because a bunch of them used to be full.

I shot for the moon and landed on Mars. And lucky me.

skonen_blades: (Default)
The pain in me is like a light, a light that leads the way
A way that weighs so heavily, from day to heavy day
A way whose path that darkly winds through decades getting longer
And I’m afraid of darkness so the light is getting stronger
By pain I mean the ennui and loneliness I feel
With all the friends I have I feel the feeling isn’t real
And yet I use it like a light to show me where it goes
Even though it’s turned a lot of yesses into noes
I feel it is my lighthouse and it also is my anchor
So gravity’s my enemy and I’m an oil tanker
I am the waves, the shore, the ship, the lighthouse and the light
My inner cowardice decides what I will do tonight
I feel safety here for sure. Security in fear.
I squeak by while dreaming big. There goes another year.
When I look empirically, I know I’m doing well
And even though it’s dark I know it’s not a living hell
I do fine. I make it through. It’s not a cry for aid.
I’ve turned a lot of lemon orchards into lemonade
But the question making me so fearful of release
Is I don’t know what I would do if I could be at peace.

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: (thatsmell)
Fat, old animals don’t exist in the wild. They only exist in zoos.

At some point, you realize that you’re not who you were.

With the clarity of hindsight, you wouldn’t have wished your younger self on any partner but now, here, looking in the full length mirror, you can’t picture yourself in a carnal embrace with anyone without a sigh of disgust.

There are people that wonder if you can ever truly know another person and there are people that think yes, you can. The people that think you can are young. You used to think you could know a person.

Now you don’t even know yourself.

There comes a time when you’re so sick of being wrong that you just pretend not to notice anymore. You become a shaded half-measure, attracted to yet unworthy of unicorns. Hopping and failing, hopping and failing, like a wounded rabbit.

Sometimes it rains for so long you think you’ll never be dry again.

All you see in the mirror is an elitist douchebag too easily clouded by compliments and living in denial of faults you no longer feel you have the strength to change.

It’s a moment when you realize that better late than never is bullshit and that Prince Charming is only a mask hiding the crucible of old age.

All you can see are the paths not taken and the dangers lurking in the possible paths left. And it doesn’t even make you feel trapped. It’s the resignation you feel that would be the most alarming thing about your surrender if you were still capable of feeling alarm.

It’s the morning that’s left you like this. The first of many mornings to come. Too many to even consider with a sober mind. Even the rest of this day is a weight.

You’d never kill yourself but you start to think if you were caught in a bank robbery, that maybe it’d be okay to be just insolent enough to goad the criminal into shooting you.

You start to understand prisoners who refuse to bathe as a form of protest. It’s the only form of control they have left.

Your debts, obligations, and commitments stretch into an unending future that your younger self would have seen as a challenge. You just see it as an anchor you’re attached to sinking deeper, a life getting harder and faster while your ability to deal with it physically and mentally is whittled away.

It is then that you see the bars on your cage.

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: (Default)
It feels to me quite reckless not to worry all the time.

Calmness coming from me sounds the way English sounds in a mouth not raised to speak it. I make the butterflies in my stomach turn back into caterpillars. I beat my issues to death with the corpse of my inner child and then hid the whole mess in my inner basement and put a few locks on the door. Ta-da. No more issues. I’m fine. My smile jumps for my eyes but never quite makes it there, like a small child reaching for candy held in the dangling fist of a cruel uncle. I look at the world the same way Vancouver cops and paramedics look at the world when the Canucks are on a winning streak. When I help people and give them solace, it’s as ironic as a homeless person sleeping underneath newspapers containing articles about the homeless problem. When I speak my truth, it creates the kind of silence that descends at a crowded dinner table when a friend’s mother asks what MILF means. I am a broken stoplight.

But you. If you were a fruit, you’d be a fineapple. You make me realize what lightning rods are for. You wink at the jester. When we both look at the night sky, your eyes are so big that I feel like you’re hogging all the stars. It’s ridiculous. You were born to live. If this is a show of hands, then you are a palm-palm cheerleader saying yes to everything, leaving tire tracks on the moon.

You make me realize that this is our hour. You take every second second and I’ll take every other minUTE minute. I have found safety in holding patterns and you have found solace in adventure. Two wrongs don’t make a right but four rights just make a circle. You can’t go forward without making mistakes.



6 June 2011 09:55
skonen_blades: (didyoujust)
Tiny hummingbirds with the mouths of vacuum cleaners sip the fruity shampoo from my head in the shower and I’m afraid to step out into the cold bathroom of the rest of my life regardless of the fact that it’s a sunny day.

I find I have no more sadness to hold onto. I have no failures to define me. I’m all out of bookmarks and the weathervane’s barely moving. I fold the pages of my life that I want to come back to, to mark my place but I have no idea how to mark the future. I can’t look forward to anchors when there is nowhere to put them.

I am barely here. I feel alien happiness, alien contentment, alien success. For the moment I am not neck-deep in fray. I have upkeep to worry about and small problems to take care of but those are like crumbs to the monster of a large, dark section of my soul. I am a warrior in armour at a picnic. I am a prisoner long since paroled. I’d be jumping at shadows if there were any but it’s a beautiful day.

Hope’s in my heart and it’s an intruder. I’m looking at it and I have no idea how to make it feel welcome. I am an observer of my own happiness. I do not feel sad. I am not depressed. I am not angry, confused, panicked, scared or rushing. If this is contentment, I am not used to it. If I am at peace, it’s new.

skonen_blades: (Default)
She’s a plane ticket day-job earthquake wearing a fire engine and calling herself a beer bottle. I’m no judge of paper mache but as the future goes, she etches smoke onto mirrors with her brilliance. She’s the severed arm of justice hanging lopsided in the senate’s butchered house. Every upside-down umbrella knows just how she feels. A satellite dish for candy from German parades. She’s the new hopeful contestant wrapped in electric baby blankets, guessing the prices of future paths for prizes and punishments. Rip through the electrician’s tape that guards the soul of your guardian angel and make a pudding out of our plans.

Go ahead. Bake me in an oven. I won’t tell. I’ll tell your mother you stayed over at a friend’s house. Tonight, I’ll be gardener and you be the hedge that needs taming. Lick the bars on my zoo. Be my too-tight scarf. Test out the brakes that I cut the lines to in the bath fifteen years ago. I’ll show you how to handle broken glass without cutting yourself. You’ll find out that scar tissue is more tender than the skin you were born with.

My head’s like a camera. Every memory’s a negative. I have to become it’s opposite to see it as a happy day. I’m happy when things are bad because I know that means that good things are on the way. I’m happy when things are good because I know bad things are on the way and I like the feelings that they bring. I’m an exhibit with no more feeling that evidence used in a courtroom. The ice-blown eyes of a dead girl found during the March thaw. The least-used strings in a piano. My nose bleeds into your morning cereal. I am the news.

This smile is a skeleton key that’s unlocked too many hotel rooms. The tennis-player logo scoffing at my hopes manages to keep the success stories down in the basement. I laugh at my confidence whenever it surfaces. I’ll tell you the story of inner world wars conducted over summer vacations.

Come close. I’ll whisper so you can hear me this time. I’ll pour whatever truth I have left into your seashell ears.



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September 2017

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