I am having writer's block
and experiencing all this anger
and hunger and love and regret,
I feel like I just don't have a bowl
for all these incredible feelings.
I just don't have enough respect for words anymore.
I want to make a cake out of this psychedelia
and I don't even have a sweet tooth.
Where do I put all of it?
Not how.... where?
I feel like drinking water without pills is vain.
Air left in my stomach
makes my mind a ****** stalker
who'll chase you down the road
suddenly have concussions and die in front of you
and make you call the police for a whole new different reason.
Writer's block is ghost town
and I am still human without a soul.
How to die beautifully?
Perhaps when the sun shines the brightest in the dusk
burning everyone more than ever.

Dedicated to the Steelers who do their hard work so well.

The Pier five superstructure
Looms above the turgid waves,
Gothic cranes do hover close
To service needs of orange knaves
Who swarm to manufacture,
Who work to make complete
This massive bridging edifice,
This mighty engineering feat.

Cathedral like in grey austerity
Freezing zephyrs howl and blow,
Through the maintenance shaft tunnels,
Through the bridge's bowels go.
The catacombs are echoing,
Stark light's reflection deep
In corridors of baleful concrete
Through which angled cause ways sweep.

A forest of reinforcing rods
Stand starkly high and straight,
Atop adjacent pylons
Which arise from deep mud's gate.
Hazard lights are flashing
Amber, green and blue
As north east gales bring pelting rain
To obliterate the view

The tattooed hands of black skinned steeler
Twitch the wire to make the loom,
Lattice works of reinforcing
Blackened mesh of iron entombed.
Hard to fathom steeler's chatter
Bending low to twitch by feel,
Working fast in noisy unison
Twitching reinforcing steel.
Pliers flash in rapid movement
Wrist's convulse in rapid slap
Unintelligible chatter flows
But the job is finished, just like that.

Skill saw screams in echoed silence
Booming blows of hammers pound,
Pipe work's resonance percussion
Tempered by a sad song's sound.
Great concussions pound the air
As towering cranes do drive,
Enormous pylons into mud
And bedrock's solid hide

The mighty form travellers moving
High above cold estuary waves,
Reaching forth for unbuilt mana
It's red extension arm enclaves
Providing for the next poured section,
Providing for the next steel work,
Reaching out for firm embrace
Where Pier four's form travellers lurk.

The pungency of solvents spread
Across the steel plate, made to last;
Barrier to adherence of
The sticky concrete's surface cast.
The form work archway's wooden shell
Adopts a high cathedral stance,
This bride in waiting nervous for
The concrete pumps lithe serpent dance.

An unyielding environment
A hard surfaced place to be
Where materials of venom
Are handled casually.
Where massive superstructures
Unforgiving in their stance
Lead the busy, ant like steelers
In their lofty, hard days prance.

To look across Pier Five's expanse
And view the surface cant,
And visualize the future motorway
With it's headlong traffic rant;
And look again at what is spread
Across it's surface now,
At the jumbled reinforcing steel,
The cables, tools and how,
Organizationally chaotic
The whole affair appears ???
Whilst in actuality, my friends,
This clockwork sequence has no peers.

With the roar of passing traffic
As the headlights flash on by,
And the Pier's massive cantilever
Looms impossibly to sky.
One must praise the skilled designers
And those engineers of skill
Who summount vast odds of nature
To scale this monumental hill.
As this mostrous concrete edifice
Claws inexorably from tide,
To loom in towering sillouhette
Where estuary mists abide.

Marshalg
onsite@Pier5
Manukau Harbour Crossing
29 June 2009

She may be our metronome mother
But when was rhythm first discovered?
Did ancient nomads hear it in the sounds of walking?
Did they like how it sounded over them talking?
Did they view the melody
As a felony?
And start to sway their hips
To the crack of whips?
Maybe that wasn't good enough
Maybe we needed more stuff
So we started crossing swords
To create more violent chords
That interested us more

Violence has a catchy hook
That can't be found in a book
But started with a ***** look
Until our brain begins to cook
And we learn to love the beat
As the harmony depletes
We take concert seats
At a darkness feast

There's an iambic pentameter
In the middle eastern theater
That sounds all too familiar
The troubling treble
Of mothers screaming
While superpowers meddle
And innocence is leaving
The reaper is reaping
To a situation heating
Empathy fleeting
Fascist seating
Rhythm beating

Our soundproof homes
Create acoustic cones
That our cries can't escape
Taking the container's shape
Filling our mind
Until we're blind
And only see political teams
Instead of childhood dreams

We fall into a rhythm
Based on deadly decisions
With lethal precision
Like surgical incisions
That don't make us healthy
But support the wealthy
Who whistle a different tune
That will **** us all soon
And as the world crumbles
Their bellies still rumble
Creating a disruptive bass
Their music we must face
With an impossible grace
Or else we'll be replaced

I hear instruments of percussion
Causing concussions
Deflecting discussions
Making us harmfully dance
So we'll have a fair chance
Which seems wrong at first glance
But it's actually a pragmatic trance
Provided by Mister Rhythm
Who carries misery with him

cackle sublime savagery
in domineering supremacy
a knee repletes successive concussions
and by viscous absurd petulance
crack this gourd, thought bearing toothed
                                                   i
                                evol
                    ot
  hurt
               uoY,,,;

I'm a fan of Vontaze Burfict
Though he may not be perfect
For he gives players concussions
To continue the daily discussions
Of the power of his percussion
To receive a hall of fame induction
That is where his value is derived
So what do these penalties imply?
That the referees have a preconceived notion of him
And are preemptively looking to treat him grim
Which gives his team a lesser chance to win
Which makes the biased referees grin

We are a country that idolizes quarterbacks
Every other position we're quick to attack
We only care about who has the ball
And laughing at others when they fall
We worship that which is shiny
And view everything else as grimy
Quarterbacks become celebrities incredulously
While everyone else is treated impetuously

The NFL is like America
Politics makes it harder to watch
The Patriots are boring and plain
They win constantly
The Bengals are entertaining and rough around the edges
They show promise and potential that is never realized
In a nation
Of provocation
I'd rather proudly call myself a bengal
I know that seems an idealistic angle
But Cincinnati provides no coziness or protection
You must always avoid discriminate detection
Of those that call themselves patriots
That drive blue and white chariots
And penalize players unnecessarily
For African Americanning

We really fumbled the ball
Because of the ref's call
That treats us unequally
How they have fun evilly
They can arbitrarily treat whoever however
But a concussion will make them less clever

London fashion designer ­Carmina De Young is bringing her first ready-to-wear collection to market with the support of two local fashion mavens, wardrobe and image consultant Susan Jacobs, and business mentor Gloria Dona.

De Young’s Spring/Summer 2016 collection is now available by appointment at the Pop with Purpose studio,

The studio recently held an informal fashion show featuring De Young’s collection.

De Young was born and raised in Puebla, Mexico and discovered her passion as a young child, taking inspiration from her mother’s creative flair for fashion and design.

A graduate of Fanshawe College’s Fashion Design program, De Young’s clothing has been showcased locally and on national platforms, including at Vancouver Fashion Week and at the Caisa Fashion Show at Western University.

De Young started her own label in 2012 and now has a 25-piece ready-to-wear collection ranging from office to casual activities to a night on the town.

Each piece is available in size XS to XL with prices ranging from $79 to $259.

Instead of trying to break into the notoriously-difficult retail market, Dona and Jacobs offered to bring the De Young collection directly to London women through the Pop with Purpose studio.

“We love that we can offer women locally designed and manufactured clothing where they know the designer and know that they are helping make dreams come true,” says Jacobs. “There’s power in that. It’s incredible.”

Topspin scoops award

London-based Topspin Technologies Ltd., has been awarded the Synapse Life Sciences award for innovation in health. Their product, the Topspin360, beat out more than 60 invited applicants for products that demonstrate an innovation in health in Ontario.

This award follows the London-based Techalliance “Techcellence” award the company won earlier this year.

The Topspin360 is the first patented training device that helps improve neck muscles to reduce concussion risk.

Theo Versteegh, who earned his PhD in physiotherapy from Western University in 2016, developed the device after watching the Sidney Crosby hit in 2011 that caused his concussion.

Versteegh found that many sports concussions are the result of the whiplash effect.

The Topspin can be used in all sports, especially those at high risk for concussion, and also in military applications.

Northerner joins Fortune

David Ramsay, a former cabinet minister in the government of the Northwest Territories, has joined the board of directors of London-based Fortune Minerals .

Ramsay has more than 20 years of elected public office experience in the Northwest Territories. His cabinet portfolios included industry, justice, transportation and public utilities.

Fortune is working with three levels of government on infrastructure projects important to the success of the company’s NICO gold-cobalt-bismuth-copper project in the Northwest Territories.

One project is a 94-kilometre all-season highway to the community of Whati, northwest of Yellowknife.

The road is supported by the Tlicho Government, a Dene First nation and would reduce the cost of living and improve the quality of life in the outlying Tlicho communities and promote economic activity. Fortune has already received environmental assessment approval to build a spur road from Whati to the NICO mine.

Delta hosts bridal show

The London Wedding Professionals will hold their second Bridal Showcase at the Delta London Armouries on April 30.

The event offers a smaller, more intimate experience for brides to meet local wedding industry experts, ask questions, and get inspired for their wedding day.

The show features products and services from professionals including gowns, photography, florists, venues, DJs, hair and makeup and wedding planners.

The showcase also puts a focus on inspiring brides with Vignettes throughout the space showcasing different themes or colour palettes.

The show runs from 11 a.m-3 p.m. and admission is free.

Student makes his pitch

Sean Cornelius from St. André Bessette Catholic secondary school in London is one of 20 teenage entrepreneurs heading to Toronto May 8–10 to compete in this year’s edition of the Young Entrepreneurs, Make Your Pitch competition

Selected from the 204 two-minute video pitches entered, Cornelius earned the right to participate in a Dragon’s Den-style pitch contest at Discovery, Ontario Centres of Excellence’s annual innovation-to-commercialization conference, to be held on May 9 at Metro Toronto Convention Centre.

Hamilton Road looks ahead

Business people in the Hamilton Road will hold an information meeting Wednesday about the creation of the Community Improvement Plan that could lead to the creation of the Hamilton Road Business Improvement Area. The meeting will be held at 7 p.m. at the BMO Sports Centre on Rectory St. and guest speakers include Mayor Matt Brown and MPP Teresa Armstrong.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/****-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/vintage-formal-dresses

The loudest sounds most kids hear on a school day
are lockers slamming, or maybe the late bell tone
I hear all of those, but the loudest sounds by far
are those created by the lacrosse team
when they beat the **** out of me
every day,
after 8th hour, at the intersection of nerd street and **** avenue

The attacks were formulaic, more complex than Pythagoras
but simpler than Newton’s Binomial Theorem;
Two would tackle me, one would pin me down,
and the rest would kick me around as if it were soccer tryouts
and I was nothing more than a ball
and regardless of whether you derived or integrated this equation
you always got the same solution
me ******, and them ****** happy

I would go home bawling; so would they
but instead of tears they dropped floaters
And I had a rep as the kid with a concussion before the season even began

I was born five pounds tops, with no biceps whatsoever
and as I grew my arms didn’t follow
making me as clear a target as a corpsman in World War 2
To my doc’s urging I drank milk religiously
but that didn’t do **** when I tangled with Darren Shields and his Air Jordans on 4th and eternity
Instead of my ankles however, he broke my ribs; 6 of em’
Told me he’d **** me if I ratted
So I told the mother I fell off my skateboard
Because I didn’t want a rematch with Muhammad Ollie

I considered hitting the off switch on my life
at least three times a week
but I didn’t know how to tie a noose,
didn’t know where my dad’s shotgun was
and I wasn’t ballsy enough to try a steak knife
Which is ironic because if I was brave enough for that
none of this may have happened
I’ll even admit I liked to daydream about building
and bringing a bomb to school by backpack
getting revenge by leaving a crater
where my class was at

And though the bible said suicide was cowardly
I was too cowardly for suicide
So I reasoned that if I got into college out of state
it would be worth a couple more years
of broken bones, ***** dousings, and concussions
So I did nothing


Fast forward eight years
I gained two feet in height
Armanis replace my Reeboks
a multinational corporation, my 4.0’s
I’ve made the covers of Fortune and GQ,
my speed-dial list comprises of more celebrities than actual friends
my annual salary consists of two significant numbers
followed by double-digit zeroes

When I’m not working overtime I spend my days
pulling beautiful women and enjoying the pleasures
that God gave us
Every time I yank my shirt off, each girl gives me the
same wide-eyed expression and unspoken question
regarding the cruel scars all over my body,
to the point where I resort to answering every time with,
“I played lacrosse in high school.”

And I have never forgotten about high school
But Darren Shields has, and fate has him working several floors down
He HAS forgotten
He has forgotten me, my face, my voice when I pleaded for mercy
But I have not forgotten him
Nor have I forgotten my hatred
Nor my fear

I could hurt him
I could fire him with contempt
or disgrace him publicly
or to the very least, remind him of the good old days
and make him feel like the **** he was
But I don’t; I won’t

He must wonder why I struggle
to look him in the eye
or shudder when he cheerfully claps me
on the shoulder every morning  
As I am still haunted by them old days

And despite how I now spend my life in a huge office
surrounded by wealth, women,
and mostly absolute silence
I can still hear the sounds of lockers slamming,
of late bell tones
But loudest of all, I hear the sound of my body breaking
Thanks to Darren Shields on 4th and eternity

I

I am Ann, Anna, Annastasia
confined, confounded in her own fantasia

roll over doggie under my car
oh i'm sorry, i meant it
she told me, when she told me
i had to obey
a rubber stamp and electric nodes
shock, convulse and make me sway
oh make the voices go away!

II

Smashy smashy Annie
throw mummy's good flower pots
over the wall into the yard
weee it'll be so much fun
come out and play Annie!

III

You naughty girl, stand in the corner and
think about what you've done
what did I tell you about listening to your mother?
bad girl, strike yourself
iron out the creases in your fingers

but mummy, they told me , I had no choice

IV

Tut-tut Anastasia
what did i tell you about listening to your father?
trickle tears down your face
remind yourself you are a disgrace
with little grasp of good taste

You sickening little troglodite,
shower yourself cold in the dark

V

One would be so wisest of oneself, Anastasia
thereby present yourself as loyalty
pray hildegarde you navigate yourself correctly
i suspect your remuneration would be pitiful
exentuate those dentalized Ts and Ds
and for Julius' sake
mind your Ps and Qs

VI

Cease, desist, Anna
Regard yourself from your heart's eye,
be nice, be humble
lest you want to cry, *****!


VII

I can't I can't
someone help me
she's pulling my hair, ouch!

'Stop squealling for attention!'
her friends sneer,
'Better off talking to yourself Ann!'

VIII

I can't help my impulses, they meticulously
humiliate my ego and my sanity
with crude, latent vulgarity
thrown off course with profanity


'oh clumsy me,' pipped Ann,
I'm a clumsy, heavy strumpet,
I'm a couplet short of a sonnet!'

IX

hush hush hush
the booming voice chides,
'Still, Anastasia, soothe your spirit.
be calm, and play some poker
by your uncle's fireplace
you'll be a good girl,
if you hit your brother.'

X

oh cry cry all for Ann
lost for words at her chamber pan
licking the bowl clean
as her mummy told her
sweet, if not
then she would scold her.

XI

'Annie Annie, long of face
won the Ascot horses race.'

'Heaven forefend Anastasia, straighten up and shoulders back!
you'll get rickets so far gone, you please no man but the crickets!'

'****** off those others Anna and listen to me,
forget about you mummy, daddy and any, all authority.'

'Stupid Ann, drown yourself in turpentine
and stub your nose like the common swine.'

'Now remember Anna dear, no cherry trifle
until you've  boxed your sister's shins.'

'Leave me, please, I'm begging, bereave me!
leave me, please, I'm praying, release me!'

XII

Poor Ann whose been afflicted
by personality, conflicted
of her own thoughts, convicted
a most grievous war of minds
betray her deepest common senses
violate her fidelity by bathing in slop and pig feed
degenerate her innocence through foul revolt and tantrums
lest she cannot restore herself from her inner sanctum

XIII

Setting hard concussions, Anna threw a hammer at her temple,
in all hopes to knock it down.
Running low on cortisol
she burst her fleshy, brunette crown
letting all the fluid spew upon her
agonisingly, she writhed in settling timely
for a brutal death is less sinister
than eternity in sanity

Do you remember begging our parents to let us be adults?
When our favorite thing to do was dress up and play make believe.
Drinking meant chocolate milk and artificial fruity drinks.
Getting wasted meant falling off your bike.
When the only pain we knew was stubbing a toe…
Or scraping our knees from the fall.
Getting high wasn’t a term where we blew smoke out of our mouths,
it was seeing who could jump or swing the highest.
When “taking one for the team” meant helping your teammates,
not making a girls night a little bit better.
When kissing was just kissing and you got cooties,
Not STDs and aids from going too far.
And the protection we wore,
was helmets on our heads to prevent concussions…
not a newborn.
When wearing makeup was fun,
and a way to express yourself…
Or wearing your favorite skirt made you feel cute,
not like a ****.
When we didn’t know what drugs were,
just knew that the creamy pink liquid made us feel better.
When boyfriends and girlfriends were described as,
“My friend thats a boy….”
“Or my girl……….. Friend.”
When sleepovers were strictly sleepovers,
not an excuse to get in bed with your best friend…
Who you recently discovered feelings for.
The only wars we knew were card games
And our worst enemies were our siblings.
Dad’s shoulders were our thrones and mum was our hero.
How about that time when we all wanted so badly to grow up?

Mos Def addict practicing my mathematics
multiplying gross deaths stacking high in my attic
banishing, your batting eyelashes in my hatchet
brandishing a reflection of death nothing can match it,
a packet of matches, three cans of gas am I mad *****?
I’m a man mastering cracks of dark arts from a sad witch,
tears of evil, blasting apart marked hearts, sew they can’t stitch,
so I can cross your eyes and harvest every last inch
of your body I’ve got hauled high with my crass winch.
Dangling like abattoirs meat hanging upside down by your feet,
never is the time that I will retreat,
secreting discreetly in your petite physique,
desecrated secretly I never cease with the heat.
I’m a clever beast with the sweet smile of a pre-school teacher
I’m a leach, I’m an evil preacher,
I’m worse than a priest with someone not quite senior in reach.
I beseech you to keep my smile in mind when I breach
the regular limits of sin, an when the victim begins
spinning within the rhythm of my limb precision
positions a physician would think weren't natural
constructions. Causing concussions with my bone crack percussion
discussing the disgusting repercussions of being obstructive
with a kind as destructive as mine its reductive to imply
that I’m stuck with a mind superior to thine, let the subtleties shine,
you’re an inferior design, obsolete, so the premise is supremacist
there’s no preventing this, the evidence is left in every crevice of the premises.

Tired
Brain spits words in fits and starts
The internal running commentary misfiring badly
Ideas stuck in bottlenecks
Traffic backed up and down the on-ramps
Leading off the congested thoughtways
Tired
Stormwater overflow pours out of blocked drains
Sidling up the gutters of fallen leaves
And other assorted detritus of modern existence
Spewing out over footpaths and under cars
And over the tops of the boots of downtrodden dawn treaders
Tired
Mountain pass impassable under it’s mercurial precipitate mask
Features only glimpsed in snatches
Like looking through a white picket fence while running
Thought trees bunching up around the middle
Warping under the sun and the scrutiny of others
Tired
Collapsing under the weight of the wave function
Subatomic particles currently in a state of nonexistence
Abandoned altogether by the Higgs, thoughts vibrate and dissipate
In extraordinary frequency and noise
Drowned out by the audible hum of the big bang
Tired
As if running a marathon in treacle
Start with a whimper then dribble to a halt
Running barefoot on salt flats
Or over pillows in stilettos
More time spent on face than feet
Tired
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more
The court jester prances for the Big Queen *****
And her merry King of Fools with his band of merry drunkards
Quickly losing the point of it all
As words start tumbling down in random order
Staccato signal messages like binary or Morse code
Information overload threatens to upend the boatload
Like the military dumping refugees into the harbour
Buckle up armour and wait for the onslaught
Of somnatic visions, twisted psychedelic impressions
Land mine concussions in the fevered dreams of veterans
Who witnessed limb torn from limb
In the name of something nobody remembers
Lose their tempers and start a war on home turf
Jungles petrified into concrete monstrosities that blot out the sun
From the flowers that feed in the cracks of the pavement
Everywhere bereavement and none shall take leave
From the cold, impassive logic of Death
Who comes knocking as you read this
Wired
No chance of sleep now
This is why one shouldn’t write poetry late at night

On some mental shish,
Some hyper bolictime chamber shish,
Working out, unpreferred peripherals.
How quaint thinking hyperbolic thoughts,
Translation, non-medicinal words got me hollering...

"Cacophony cosmic cluster concussions"

Thinking sarcastically recklessly on a regular,
Causing mental anguish when thought of.

i tried forgetting you so hard
my liver's collapsing
& i've got these bruises & cuts -
contusions & concussions -
from my aggravation, concentrated
on the wrong people in crowded places
but we all need ventilation.
so i spilled out abuse
on whoever was willing to take it,
combining fists with faces -
call it distraction or entertainment,
whichever way you phrase it,
i won't remember...i was wasted -
i was swimming in liquid sentiments
the backstroke of the blind
as i'm blacking out my mind,
turning off the lights
on the portion of my life
you partially defined.

sentences go off like gunshots.
the smallest of sounds have the loudest of consequences.
whispers make waves.
the quietest of confessions carry the most catastrophic concussions.
words are weapons and our mouths are at war.

Everyman had many friends,
and the Sheilas loved his looks.
He spent his days at football,
with not much time for books.

Everyman in the prime of life
was a wonder to behold.
Was any man more full of life?
Could any be so bold?

Everyman came to the day
where he lost a step in speed.
His mates had settled, mostly down,
or sold their souls to greed.

The game moved on to younger lads,
left everyman behind
He, of course, remained a fan
consigned to the sideline.

Everyman began to fail,
old concussions took their toll.
He'd enter a room full of friends
and couldn't name a soul

Everyman, now in a "home",
awaits his morning tea.
Sometimes a stranger visits-
a member of his family.

Everyman sits in shadows now.
The world goes on without.
His strength and wits deserted him
and he never was devout.

Everyman begins to die
with a murmur, not a shout
Nurse Deeds stays to hold his hand
till the light of life goes out.

I don't write poems, I write
concussions. Dangerously close
to blood coming out of your ears, straddling
life, don't fall asleep because
you may never
wake up.

I don't write haikus, I write
famous last words. The final exhale,
the precious breathe before
the light at the end of the
tunnel, a tongue deep kiss
with death.

I don't write stories, I write
tragedies like Romeo and Juliet
except a dozen more people are killed
in the cross-fire of
my affection.

I don't write, I ****
the English language.
I beat it into submission with
sweat and strife.
I destroy life.

Barreling through town
in the depth of night,
earth’s colossal magnets
hurled jagged fire spears -
flashing and ripping the midnight sky.

Whirling torrents whistled
and lashed against the glass.
A blinding fire bolt
Shattered an old rock maple -
quaking our shelter to its footings.

Cosmic strobe-lit concussions
stuttered and roared across the nightscape
like a feral timpanist gone mad.

The frenzied cacophony
subsided at last -
rumbled off  in the distance
as the storm lumbered on
like a barbarian horde
off to sack another village.

*July, 2007

preface: this isn't cohesive, and it's mostly a side effect of having too much free time while stuck in traffic - lots of thoughts can pop into your half-awake head when you choose to start your 1 hour, 45 minute commute at 5:30 every morning and 6:30 every night.

these are some of those thoughts:

how many car accidents and concussions will it take for me to just move closer to where i work? apparently, more than five.

driving on a california freeway, especially in the rain, is like getting a free ride on the world's most dangerous slip n slide. or like playing roulette and praying you and your precious car you have had since high school don't fall victim to the misfortune of a collision or sink hole or only clear radio station being the one that won't stop playing adele songs that compel you to hit up your ex boyfriend again.

but you're a smart driver who doesn't text on the road or date men from new jersey anymore.

i like to map out new ways to tell my family that i'm actually kind of really gay because they've been having a really hard time accepting that, despite the fact that i've tried to make it as blatantly obvious as i could by dressing like chandler bing from friends, dying my hair rainbow, and listening to more fleetwood mac than any straight girl should.

i have even walked up to my mother and outright asked her, "hey, what's it like having a gay daughter?" (not that it should be any different than having any other kind of daughter), and she said, "i don't have a gay daughter", and i'm like, "oh my god, mom. yes, you do. she's 5'8", looks just like me, and is constantly talking about how gay she is."

a lot of people have given me unwarranted "advice" on how to make myself more appealing for jobs or romance, and i'll mull it over in the car, but not for too long because women aren't empty suggestion boxes just waiting for your input.

if anything, i'm more like the receptionist at the DMV. i'm only listening to you a third of the time, and the other 2/3, i wish you weren't there to bore me with your problems because it's not my fault that you need to pay off a ticket you got for texting your ex boyfriend from jersey.

people in college frequently asked me "what are you?" and i never really knew how to respond because i wasn't clear or pleased about the question's context or purpose. i would half-seriously respond with "i'm a sophomore" or "i'm a capricorn" or "i'm a sociology major who just realized gender isn't binary and taco tuesdays are a real and exciting thing".

i knew that being ethnically ambiguous meant i would be subjected to guessing games, but i thought if people didn't know what you were, you could dodge judgment and racism. but no, i actually just found myself treated like an ice cream flavour people had never heard of or tried before and weren't sure how they felt about it.

and i, myself, had been in this phase of dating exclusively white men for years, and it only recently occurred to me that that was probably because subconsciously i knew: "this is the closest i'll ever be to having white privilege".

then, i started working in schools where almost all the students were black and brown, and for the first time in my life, i saw myself in people around me.

small people, people in progress, with big brown eyes and clenched fists that i would spend months prying open

with love.

enough love to raise a hand,
hold a pencil,
braid my hair on days when it was so frizzy
- "oh my god, miss sangha, let me do it"

up until then, i had never chosen to be brown or queer or a woman. not until my students demanded i learn spanish because i already got the skin tone, now i just need to learn the language. not until my students asked me why the school made them line up boy girl, and one of them started the third line with pride that took me nearly a decade to find myself. not until i stopped letting people label me an angry ***** just because they lacked the vocabulary to say "wow, jaswin, you have really assertive leadership skills and i'm going to respect you and the space you take up and not at all be threatened or bothered by the fact that you have two X chromosomes to the point of harassing you to make my insecure self feel better."

i became someone who got "do it for the kids" tattooed on the left side vein that leads to her heart, someone who chooses her students every day to the extent of being terrified of having her own kid one day because if she can love someone else's child that much, her heart might just burst from locking eyes with someone whose existence she is actually directly responsible for.

clearly, i'm not going to let a little traffic slow down that kind of radical love.

I have to don the face of madness when I encounter your shadow. Held back only when that shadow pulls a 180. And though I cannot hold the hand of this shadow and spin madly on with it. I grasp unwillingly to the hand that catches my grip. Catches my palm, catches my five reasons for holding on. Because your shadow is the only shade of you I can seem to handle. The one I wait on to signal the coming of a new day. The only one I hold my breath for because it holds no breath at all. But rather the idea of catching up to someone whom I wish to see vanish. No, I hold no distain towards you and no pleasure in seeing the shadowy curves of you saunter off into the sun. No I do not hold regret in the distance found between your shadow and I, because that distance cant seem to multiply fast enough for my liking. And though the closer and closer you get to that sun represents sunshine entering my life again, it will never be enough. Because even when you walk head first into that sun I know your every molecule is still floating in this endless universe of ours. I will never be without your presence, I will never be without your shadow, I will never be without you haunting my every thought. For no matter the alcohol consumed, cannabis smoked, and concussions sustained I will never be able to put a scratch on the lyrical nightmare that was our song. That was our time together, and though I try and play DJ and put a positive spin on our song…Im reminded that it once was played. So I look for your shadow every night and every day. Not for torment sake but for the little sanity that remains to show me that the monster that was once my love can be slain again, and again, and again. And though it keeps returning I remind myself the difference between your darkness and my light is exactly 180 degrees.

When hell freezes over

And i can’t feel the cracks in the walls
I’m not sure anymore
“These times are the worst times”
And what comes after

What if i don’t want to know
Why do babies die
When they’ve never done anything
The most innocent
This earth will ever feel
Is when it’s reclaiming
The porcelain faces
With eyes closed

Maybe it’s because
The longer we spend waiting
Like opening windows
When it’s supposed to rain
“It gets worse before it gets better”

But there is no contest
It’s just comparison
Plath wrote a novel
About how hard it is to die
Your body doesn’t want to

But your soul can’t sleep anymore
You are tired
From bouncing off the padded walls
Inside your skull
So much it feels like
Your own thoughts have bruises
Concussions within concussions
It hurts to think
The engine doesn’t start

And every day i try to sleep
Except
I’m still awake
Because it doesn’t matter anymore

We spend our time
Waiting out the storm
(Even when it’s in the windows)
Waiting for the sunshine
But all it means is
The storm will ruin everything

And no amount of sunlight
No kisses
No daisies
Will ever make the floorboards dry up
Will fix the ruined wallpaper
No open windows
Will air out this house

Everything settles
Like dust on the mantel
The floorboards pop
Like the elbows of tree branches
Bucking together,
Shivering in winter
The house is restless
But too old to move
Too tired
Too heavy

And so am i.
There’s still something in it
Us
We
And still so empty at the same time.

If the room is vacant
Is it still a room
Or is it a tomb
That’s been desecrated
Put it back the way it was meant to be,
Full inhabitants
The dead haunting both places.

Because i am fearless
To be honest
When you don’t feel
I am plastic and
Tattered rugs in the hallway
I am
Cigarette smoke stains
Nicotine yellow and
Placid green
rotting from the inside out
Like a cavity
You’ve always been too poor to fix
Yet... not an ache like that
Too easy to ignore
And when it’s past the point
It falls out, and life goes on

No

I am a wildfire
Burning everything alive
And too big to put out
Everyone can see it
Everyone’s afraid
The very smoke from my own destruction
Is killing the skies
Suffocating on top of the heat
Like a hurricane, hotter
A god of fifty thousand degrees

And yet... they see it coming
All they can do is
Hope i burn myself out
And don’t take their lives too

And there’s nothing
No open windows
No kisses
No daisies

Can do about it

you came out rosie
and turned to blue

shots to immunize...
shocked the health out of you..

sharp corner called
your toddlers tender lip

invincible, you flew  
shoulder met earth
half way round  
hard into the cold ground

meningitis settled in
lymes not far behind
both with fevers and
lots of tears...thought we
might lose you at 9

3 concussions within 2 years
being pulled off the hill
snow packed up to your ears
                      
daddy went to prison
anguish and pain
forced your decision
To become so thin

running through corn fields
dazed and confused..
up for 3 days, don't 'member
what'd been done to you

boyfriend deals..big guy in town
love him so much
you go down..
2 federal offenses..is he still around?

attempted ****** and ****
left you damaged beyond
all so overwhelming
you look for ways to drown
anything to block the pain
you twirl round and round and round

got pulled back from
the edge last night.
a needle in your arm
announced dead till
policeman felt you warm...

Oh My Darlin
Oh My Sweet
Such a Beautiful Soul trying to
Fly Free
I Call to Your Perfect Self..
Come Back
Please Come Back
Please Come Back to Me**


Copyright © 2014 Christi Michaels
All Rights Reserved.

Though dulled and faded with age
Memories of violent encounters demand service of a scribe
The enemy ambushed the amicable, interrupting instruction
Plans were made and location changed to find a fitting field for fight
The mob moved through streets dusted with white
Settled prematurely in a small public clearing
The challenger caught my friend off guard, his temple struck
A sickening thud rang out over the posse screaming madness
My confidence waned in shock but before my thought completed
A mighty counter rocked aggressor’s jaw, knocked unconscious
Dumbfounded he slumped to his knees and made grapple for support
Thrown to a defenseless dorsal pose awaiting beating
Each strike from my friend’s boxing fists landed with force
Dynamic demolition; I could hear the snap of bone
Again and again the primal chanting of the mob
Was overpowered by noise from blunt trauma to a damaged brain
Authorities arriving cleared the crowd with their sirens
I dashed to wooded cover carrying the victor’s possessions
To my astonishment, joined by the badly bruised
The flesh of his ebony face stained sanguine with defeat
He felt his tissue for lumps as his pain set in at last
Adrenaline disappearing, ears bleeding from concussions
An infamous day to me as brutality yet unmatched
Performed for barbarous and sadistic spectators, I among them

Flashback...




We'd spent all day
In "the fields"
Not twenty yards from the whitewashed cemetery fence posts
Floating and then burning
Paper boats on a muddy puddle in a depression in the dirt

Phillip and Chris scored some Skoal From Danny or Billy, I forget which...
It was "long-cut"

We try a bit...putting it in our cheek
Like the big kids did
The Skoal making a strange and potent tea from our spit

The smallest amount of this tingly elixer is swallowed- and it's over.

I lose my lunch.
I am yawning in technicolor.

Chris and Phillip laugh and laugh.  
Then Phillip follows suit barfing on his shoes
Chris gives him an arm punch, with a smile.
I think Phil and I were both done with chew.

There was never a shortage of things to do here

Under an old barnwood board, was a magazine with glorious pictures that made us feel strangely isolated
From one another

We would memorize each line, each curve
For later when each would be alone
With the Sears catalog and some tracing paper.

We made single line trails for our bikes
With banks and jumps
Chris was the daredevil of the bunch
He would take a new ramp at top speed

His little brother would too
Sometimes with drastic results
Concussions and broken bones.

There's a chain store now
in the spot we called  "the fields". 

It used to seem vast.  
And now it looks small.
But that is the past.
Memories. That's all.

Sliding a can of spray paint out of his mischeif backpack
finger tips began to sense things without touching
they knew they were about to vandalize
and the thought of beautiful work to be created made the nerves fly into a frenzy.
Rattling of  bearing, combining of paint and propellant
pink sneezes out of the nozzle in a wonderful mist smelling of dizzying chemicals
he waves his arm in an arc,
an ark to save a generation from corporate *******,
to eliminate the fraud of the men in suits who shave daily and drink coffee
this kid
wanted to revolt, not knowing repurcussions
or fearing concussions
only the humiliation of being held by the book of laws and treaties,
treating each night of debauchery as a dawn of ingenuity and won victories,
perplexion of the too-calm anarchy of day-to-day America
why wasn't everyone outraged?
Why weren't they naked and screaming and looting?
His thoughts were misconstrued by **** residue
cheap alcohol poisoning
he may as well have huffed the paint
then the cops came
"It's in my rights, I want my rights! I need my rights to write!"
Delirious, disgruntled
he'll tweet about this later,
his first run-in with The Fuzz
while defacing a preschool.

You said you'd call today, you promised
I sit and wait, I've checked all day
my phone seems to surround me like a kind of cloak
or maybe a straight jacket, that I can't get out of
This morning, hope was in my heart like a rosy fog
surrounding me, now the fog stinks like the kind right before the Bay Bridge
I remember from childhood, holding a city hostage in stench
My breath seems connected to your call, that isn't there
I know better, I swore off you like a bad habit, like you are a bottle of ***** and I drank
the whole thing, day after day, so I rejected you but then,
I falter, maybe I was wrong. And by then I was hooked, the needle hanging from my arm.
The remains of your drug dripping from the wound
My only hope: not to know your number, to delete it, and delete it,
but I've called so many times now, I can't forget it
This week, I dialed the wrong number twice, such hope was in me
that finally my poison was out of reach but memory shoved you back in my face
The phone, my own phone, mocks me in it's silence
Such a pretty picture on the front, such a smart, intelligent phone
So silent and above me...taunting me, refusing to give me what I want:
your voice, your faux concern, no need for anger because I knew better
You, who I wait for as if my next heart beat depends on it, are no good for me
One thing I've noticed, can't say learned, because here I am again
if things are bad once, they don't get better
a crazy man gave me that advice about another like you
a man with too many concussions who couldn't paint a bathroom stall in a movie theater
without getting fired
and why did I ignore his advice again?
And why can't you give me such a simple thing?  
I know the answer.

A gashed and gaping pumpkin burns
emits a rancid rotting odor
greeting pre-diabetic heathens

Black cats and screeching bats
startle the littlest of the munchers
in a city decayed by blood and rust

A bridge tilted by a millimeter
lords over rushing river and splinters
struts in metal fashion before the storm

Gladiators hallucinate between concussions
Lions and christians and furry huns
leap from alleys and dumpsters and gutters

Bands play and march and dazzle
rippling brass and silver on a field
before brazen cheering plebians

Hear the song of a thousand dreams
a thousand shouts singing out of key
uncertainty brings the cacophony down an octave

Presidential box matches the drapes
Imagination finishes the vision of a short
master stroke invoking the myth of the tyrant

Setting sun on an amateur showdown  
in the shadow of an errant arc
choking the last gasps from a senile warrior

Passing boredom in a controlled climate
Cringes in a backseat with no batteries
dying echoes of "are we there yet...."

Babies and mental patients despair
over loss of closeness and peace
disappeared into dystopic hysteria

Hobbits and goblins and Big Bird frolics
in a sanitized concept of Hell
among treats and smiles and winks

I was broke as usual it's okay I understood that far easier than I ever did being well off.

Long as there was a bottle and a room I could crash in I was good.
I never cared to gamble.
I lived my life that was a gamble enough

My money i preferred to be wasted upon myself not given to a fixed game played by overpaid children.

The only sport I ever loved was fighting.
I understood you against another.
In life its always you against the world.

I loved to fight even when you lose you know you've lived
I had stepped between those ropes often.

Paid the the price for a simple mistake and been knocked flat on my *** for it.
Boxing is a human chess match very few men have what it takes to go toe to toe with another.

Anyone can fall down it takes a man or mental patient to keep getting back up.
I had paid my dues broken bones multiple concussions between that and all the ***** poured into my skull you think I would be braindead by now.

Some would tell you I already was.
And those people would be like most full of **** speaking on things they know nothing about.

Critics come in all forms.
Don't worry over there opinions nobody ever worth a **** sat on the sidelines.

I had nothing to show for my years.
I could barely get moving some days.
But when the drinks hit me right and some young **** called me out i still had that spark that fueled the fire.

Never take **** from.anyone no matter how tuff they seem.
Anyone can get caught anyone can bleed.

Remember kids its not what you can dish out.
Its how much you can take and keep going that makes you tuff.

I wore my scars like tattoo's.
Everyone of them had a story.
I never believed in luck.

I just kept going no matter what stood before me.

If I depended on luck in my life.
I would be up **** creek for the rest of my existence.

Never stay down no matter how easy it seems.

I can never think

beyond recognition

social acceptance

even my denials

these outbursts

are subjected to

barriers and prejudices

assigned by them

I am dependent

on them for

my drives

my concussions

on their blows

my poetry

on their hush.

in the steady stream
          the felled leaves
resting        away

~~~~~

noticing the cold
                       dead fire

~~~~~

opening a shut room
shadows jump!
     candle shivers

~~~~~

firework concussions
sound overhead

~~~~~

the edge of the ocean
looking out at the fog

~~~~~

thru the beer glass
hand gestures   magnified

~~~~~

Grandfather
patting the baby's back
                                   burps

~~~~

singing saw cuts the silence

~~~~~

white Lion's Mane mushroom
tendrils on the knife

~~~~~

flowers in a vase;
reconcile death

I remember, when we use to play tackle football as a child.
No shoulders pads.
No knee pads.
And no helmets.

When concussions wasn't even thought of back then.
After all, we was kids.

So it's funny to see the professionals cry foul.
And they get paid.
Oh, how sports has changed?

Some know they had concussion in college.
And kept it quiet to make the pros.

Oh, I remember when we played injured too.
Didn't know about ACLS or anything like this?
We just was young out seeking fun.

Professionals sue for the slightest things.
Blame others for their injuries and pain.
I guess they forgotten about their universities pain.
When they didn't tell the doctors anything.

I remember when.

coffee wouldn't soothe his pain
blood wouldn't flow right in his vein
books are his love, his companion
the pages were the reflection to his dominion
*********
His body took a long walk of despair
his thoughts so paralyzed, no spiritual repair
melancholy triggered his burning bridges
no recall or a sight of purity
life and death was lying next to him
heart so cheap, so unfortunate
but his soul reached out
and whispered, "clarity is a state of mind"
Deception broke his happiness to bare
a goth's retreat would never compare
the darkness inferiorated his peace
kindness was so rare - death called his name
heart so desparate, so lost
but his soul reached out
and whispered, "clarity is a state of mind"
Ear occlusion and concussions were his gravitation
reluctant sadness killed his meditation
no recognition or understanding from his peers
body kindled its way to the hearts of people
he know not his worth, his birth
heart so fragile, so irregular
but his soul reached out
and whispered, "clarity is a state of mind."

The unfortold concussions.
The blindsiding explosions.
I'm broken, yes.
But I'm getting worse.
This is emotional shock.

I'm done bleeding blood, I'm way past that now
I'm bleeding concussions, hostile glares, and snarling defiance
I'm bleeding provocation
Radical softness has never been for me, no matter how hard I tried
I have too many rough edges to smile at you and pretend I'm not backed into all your corners
I've had too many guns to my head, next time I see one
It'll be me that pulls the trigger
I've heard the words "wrong number" too many times while listening to a familiar voice
You know I'm all for making mistakes out of old friends and finding mistakes to blame for my recklessness so it's no surprise I don't feel guilty
It's everyone's fault but my own and I'm not agreeing with you, I'm defining myself
By myself
Like Lisa when she said "I'm playing the villain, baby, just like you want"
I'm not crazy, I'm not insane I swear
I'm just interrupted
I'm bleeding growth, strength, in nothing less than what comes natural
An instinctive evil
And if the wound is the portal, I'm glad you aimed for my head and not my heart this time