skonen_blades

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

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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The gorillas we’re using to power ships to the moon are on strike.

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

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

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

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

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

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Hammer and tackle, sickle and tongs, national anthem genocide songs.
Find a mate who’s healthy and symmetrical. Find pheromones that seem to complement your own. I’m lost in the recesses of primary school. My addiction is diction. I’ve thrown my jackets down over so many puddles that I don’t even wear them anymore. This is a sunset jungle walk through a Viagra commercial.

Poverty is one letter away from poetry, they say. V for peace and victory or, if in Britain, V for fuck off. I think that works perfectly. I am a ravenclaw writing desk writing pithy editorial commentary on a quidditch match that no one will read. I am a blue lantern offering hope to green lanterns to steer the path to victory. I am a non-ciliated tegument as old as the horseshoe crab drinking La Fin Du Monde, watching District 8 ½ dreaming of Ladyhawkes playing ladyhockey.

You don’t become who you are until who you think you are is worn away by time. Here I stand in a train station bathroom, waiting for applause and hearing only sirens. I get an image of God holding both of my arms saying “Quit hitting yourself. Quit hitting yourself.” and laughing.

Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray Picard my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake, then raise the Shields, for goodness sake.

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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.

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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.

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Dead man’s thunder is as loud as it needs to be. They always say “as the crow flies” but crows don’t fly in straight lines. Here lies a man who didn’t know his aglet from his merkin but he knew that alphabetically, hell comes before holy. So go ahead. Have a big drink of house fire. Telling you your shortcomings is like complaining at a McDonalds.

We all take turns winning and losing. As far as I see, I got out when the getting was good. It’s hard to throw playing cards into a hat from far away but with repetition, it’s possible to get good at it. It’s even harder to throw postcards down to Earth from Heaven.

This is the prayer book of my chest falling open. These are the drooping flowers of your time-killing words. You have the lazy grace of a tall woman not yet yearning to be young. Let me shiver the rain out of where your trees touch. Let me seizure against your missing tooth. Cover me in blankets and bring winter into my heart again. You are all the reasons I’ll ever need to keep warm.

I am a treehouse tenant. A swimming pool tour guide. A garment worker pretending to be a helicopter.

You are the folded census form with matching last names. You are a tax return made of bridges to the future. You’re a natural disaster with the best consequences.

If math counts, then the square root of us will be greater than the sum of her parts.

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I’m going to the bathroom through this shithole in my mouth.
It’s an itchy, itchy asshole there just like the dirty south.
I’m talking shit most all the time through a shit-eating grin
What I want to say leaks out like fecal gelatin

It comes out in a rush, it’s just like verbal diarrhea
If you stand in front of me, I wouldn’t want to be ya
This mic is a suppository, or it’s a sewer pipe
Or maybe it’s a toilet brush, or it’s a baby wipe

All’s I know’s the shit that flows that should be for my ass
Is searching for expression through percussive gusts of gas
The chunks and spurts of stinky darkness find my twitching lips
And from them poetry that’s made of Mr. Hanky drips

Its movements are from bowels made and when they come to light
It’s like I flicked a paintbrush dipped in shit at you tonight
A brand new batch of freckles on your cheeks from what I say
I can’t hold it in for long or else I start to spray

Invective cursing dialogue at strangers on the bus
If I try to hold it in I’ll get oral colitis
So I’m glad I’ve got this mic to shit into your ears
To grunt and strain and pinch off loaves each Monday here for years

Opinions, assholes, everyone that’s in this room has got ‘em.
When I speak it’s like my mouth becomes a dirty bottom
Whether brown or bloody black or with a clay-like grayness
I hope that you the audience can forgive my profane-ness

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We are caught under the weight of an atmosphere and anchored to a planet surface that has no up or down in the grand scheme of things. We hang in complete ignorance of the will of the universe. Falling eternally or staying in place, no one is sure. It’s all relative. We float like hope through an x-ray of a lung. We live in memories and twist in the wind. There are times of great, horrible freedom that scare us back into the rules.

Anything is possible. I truly believe that there is no one alive who doesn’t know this. Anything is possible. But it’s terrifying and crushing to live with that knowledge. It makes failures out of all of us.

The success must lie in the attempt. The result can be the icing but without the attempt there is nothing. The utter pointlessness of this life must be fought and the only way to fight it is to do something, regardless of the Dadaist inanity of it. That feeling of uselessness will fly away for seconds at a time while action is taking place.

Or become one with the river. Many advocate that course of action. I find that it’s inevitable.

The splashing around is what matters, though. Not drowning; learning. Not playing; living.

As an animator I can say that without motion, there is death.

So move. Even though you may feel like laughing while you do it because of how stupid it feels in face of all the moral-free empty light-years surrounding us. Go ahead and laugh while you do it. Be your own inside joker.

But move.

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In times of great changes, there are stories of people catching large fishes, riding meteorites and swallowing entire cities to keep them safe. They are the heros of myth that populate our legends long after the time of trouble has passed. They were regular folk at one point, puffed up into giants needing conflict by the ton just to stay alive, so tall they’re blinded by clouds.

Let’s pull a math blanket out and wrap ourselves in it. We understand the difference between a headstone and a trophy. The most we hope for is that by the time we die, we’ve carpe’d a few diems. We don’t want to join the fishbowl coffin full of name tags that dot the majority of graveyards. We just want to have been here.

I don’t do walks of shame. I do victory laps. I don’t eat my words. I smear them on the walls of my cell. I don’t eat humble pie. I let my throat turn into blackbirds and see how far I can see.

We are vacuum cleaners in mine fields. We lose friends every year. Let’s hug each other before we fall off the edge.

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When we kill god, we find ourselves.

No one seeks each other out. We stumble into each other. Maybe things were different once.

Ringmasters need circuses.

If a flying, channel-changing, hip-hop carrot thief turned my shadow into dogtags, I’d take a violent four-point list to the church and beg for a great deal on a car. If I was a 1970’s airplane seat complete with ashtray, you’d be Leslie Nielsen in a strip club having a staring contest with a pushup bra and prescription medication. Only skeletons can play electric guitar. I’m coming at you under the hot lights of the stage, wearing giant stereo earphones and praying for nudity. Let’s get t-shirts that spell out our names and edit our own language down to a polite morse code of positivity.

Locks on doors didn’t do Patrick Swayze any good. There are plenty of kitchen tables that would rather not have the memories they have. If you’re that red dress in a 1980s porn film with aspirations of serious art, then I’m the way-too-complex drum set in a big-hair metal band. Let’s take a closer look at the ménage-a-six billion.

Too much makeup, short jean cutoffs, a firepole in the whitehouse, the bad guys bursting into flame, and endless shots of dudes getting kicked in the balls. If the mouse makes it through the maze, cops will keep on laughing at Charlie Sheen in between kissing each other.

At some point, great asses turned into test patterns. A wig can’t replace comedy anymore than precision can replace a heart. If synchronized boy-band dancing has taught me one thing, it’s that we should be grateful for the Alice Coopers. Scars on puppets and tongues on feet. The ministry of education has front row tickets to Miss Nude USA.

13 ghosts are trapped in the gravel spanking that every stunt mad dreads. Thick lips hover inches away from the microphone telling the warriors where to go.

The car spun seven times in mid air before bursting into flame.

We’ve all become commercials for ourselves.

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

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

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

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

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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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At first there was darkness. Then there was light.

At first there was zero. Then there was one.

The great divide that created language. Light and dark, the binary language of life. The computer we’re in is a morse-code program of dots and dashes. Ellipses and connectors. Mid-syllable returns. From far enough away, newspaper photographs are shades of grey even through they’re made of black dots in white space. We are made of dots. We are made of shades of grey at a distance but points of dark and light up close. The dust of stars and the points of energy that dance to make us solid.

A grand illusion of morality told in code that makes machines move and puppets us from one relationship, situation and choice to another. We write the program by existing and it’s not finished. Functional and elegant in places, in need of great reform in others. How many opinions make a dancer? How many muscles make a thought?

We have discovered to language of machines only to realize that it was our language all along.

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Hers was the devil’s mouth. Full of kinetic energy wrapped around a lightning-rod silver tongue with the full knowledge that tears conduct electricity. Pushing electrons out of speakers to make entire rooms question love and the validity of locks. A bear trap that doesn’t work anymore is just an art installation, a harsh carpet. Trigger me this, batman. If I poured your parent’s blood through a harmonica, would you hear their voices?

Some laughs just cut across the throat of crowded bars. Her laugh destroyed bridges. In no time at all, her love notes became half notes and she sang the song of storks. Crush hard on whatever slice of Europe is available to you, said the song. Love the feel of the word ‘escape’ clogging your elegant throat and making it hard to speak. Build a house out of lottery tickets and dog tags.

From far away, I beheld her in my arms. Dot dot dot. I sent her e-lips.

Men only proposed to her when they were on their backs. She always said no. She kept dragon wings in her hope chest. She drank panda tears. Sure, she got addicted to heroin but she got addicted in Italy. Sure, she fell down some stairs but it happened in Paris.

Sure, she died.

But she died in Prague.

Her failure was like fireworks to the rest of us.

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skonen_blades

June 2023

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Entries tagged with poem

29/365 - Poem for the Rio

25/365 - The Calmest Place on Earth (reworked love poem)

22/365 - Life Teaser Emotion Dock

10/365 - The Hunt for Backbone

Beach

Twisted Reach

Rescue

Heatmail

Hammer and Tackle

Two Wrongs Don't Make a Right

New

Dead Man's Thunder

Talking Shit

2/30 - Move

1/30 - Myths

When We Kill God

Half Umbrella

Plane Ticket Day Job

24/365 - Binary

23/365 - Tongue