her primrose paisley printed pea coat  
cannot hide the battle scars
her tattered scarf blows in the wind
indicative of the never ending war she endures

she half smiles as her wild red locks become entangled
letting me know that she is okay
she at least wants me to believe she is
we both know it is just make believe though

how sad it must be
to pretend to be happy
how much self-control must be maintained
as to not erupt into a combination of rage and tears at any given point

a better question though
is how long can she carry on this way?

the stains of a woman's carpet
speak so much to the nature of our gender
careless and wreckless
clumsy and unkempt
wait wait wait
is that our gender or our generation?

stroll the room of anyone born in the eighties
or later, i guess
and im sure the evidence there
must suggest something similar

our fast paced lifestyles
leave no room to tidy
no time to sanitize the stains of our daily adventures
we must keep moving
we must never stop
because the moment we do
our life passes us up
missed opportunities
left out of events
new people to meet
new conversations to be had
we are all entitled to such things, are we not?

let us not forget
each of us special
each of us unique
we all deserve more
than this meager life has to give

and because we all maintain this egotistical view
our ***** houses shall stay the same
our carpet stains we shall keep

sometimes i feel like a citrus
lemon, orange, lime, or grapefruit
fragrant and flavorful
my insides bitter or sweet
and my outsides the exact opposite
high quantities of acid regardless
eat me raw
press my juice, i make a great 'ade
you may also preserve me in a marmalade

sometimes i feel like an apple
do not call me a crab tho
a globose pome
my outside has smooth shiny skin
my inside is sweet or **** yet soft
my centre contains seeds arranged in a star-like manner
i make great pies
but i also pair great with cheese
my versatility allows me to please

sometimes i feel like grape
growing from the woody vines
my flexibility is far and wide
raisins, vinegar, oil, and wines
i prefer to remain in a cluster of friends
im afraid to venture out
because i need them to sustain

sometimes i feel like anything other than me
i am tired of looking in the mirror
i have grown weary of what i see
so i pick flora and fauna
inanimate objects
weather and time
space and place
to rectify my existence
in some way that i can relate

at least when i list fruit
my belly aches with delight

Service station blues:
another meal beside the news
station stand, and as Tuesday
clicks into Wednesday
I wait in no queue to be served
by no one.

From behind the
confectionery battlement,
decorated with the money-off-percent
products below,
a professional service station stalker
walked closer,
(hopefully to queue in the no one
queue beside, behind, next to and near
me).

We waited together for some
service in the service station queue,
as midnight became morning,
black sky to blue.

There he was
"He"
But him
Peeking around corners
That house
The one on Balcom Lane?
Not quite.
The mammoth wooden doors and startling interiors
A mesh of the Waco mansion
and the Motyckas', God knows why.
Fancy houses are vessels for empty thoughts.
Oh, but there he was,
God of my past
I can't deny it.
He searched for me. He
seduced me.
But I knew.
I knew.
He wasn't unbetrothed.
No, she was there, somewhere.
Ah, yes, she interrogated me.
And I...
Was I honest?
My body ached for him.
Just like the night before.
How did he find her so fast?
Why was there dead air on the phone that night?
I think I just felt the wind shake my house.
God is blowing it all away.
My memory too, it drops away in pieces.
So I grabbed that pen.
I mean this one.
I hold it; it's "this."
I see it; it's "that."
But neither exist, neither are, right?
Thank you, Timaeus.
You showed me how the world once was,
how men once saw it to be.
But now, the "gruesome houses."

He's still there.
His face.
Just barely though.
Oh, life, how I love your perpetual motion, replacing each moment with the next, before I even know the first is gone!
sometimes.
But then there are the ones when I wish it would all slow down.
Or worse, turn back.
The will moves only forward.
Always ahead & never behind.
That's what I control.
Not 2007.

Heh, he didn't need me.
It ripped my heart out & rended it apart.
I do love brown ales though.

I keep writing these things.
They seem to want out.
Out! Out!
There they go.
But once out, do they live on?
The screen makes it seem so.
But this is a notebook.
Unlined, she gave it to me long ago.
And here I am using it.

The day beckons.
That kindred spirit of mine.
You know, my guardian angel.
Nietzsche.
Yes, that's right!
How's that for pompous?
Well, I'm carving out the time.
I hope you do too.
Life can seem futile without it.

Oh, amateur poetry!
How I wish I could stop thinking of you that way!
I mean you, you words on the page.
I mean those aqua blue markings.
They look so different close-up!
I mean, under the microscope.
They became splotches.
My eyes widened,
let in more light.
And it was all a game.
Was I really learning?
In that school, in those classrooms?
Yes, at times.
But thoughts of boys and giggles and colour palettes
for the eyes, lids, brushes, canvases
The clear-lip-glossed/brown-lined lips
I saw them in the other mirror.
And the water.
They put it on their hair to make it look greasier.
What a novel thought!
But I, with my white girl looks and taste,
used different shades
and followed other styles
And, what was my question?
Did I learn there?

Deepest impressions flow from smelly girls' bathrooms.
Not the desks, labs, white boards.
Huh.
Maybe I'll feel differently tomorrow.

ride into the floorboards
on the backs of people
you once trusted

        even fooling for a second
        the cleverly disguised devout

        why cleverly hide yr God?

he hangs beneath me
from the cages of
shopping carts

        he who would give up his eyes
        until they turn to milky white
        crescent moons that leak thick

******* on anything
that ever disturbed
yr morning walk

        the devout,
        who would give up their eyes
        for a *******

Michael Sinclaire/Mary Fahey. March 2013.