you check on me many times a day
with my antique ears
I hear your squeaking shoes
on these vinyl floors
someone laid for those who came before
like passengers on a stalled bus
with windows that allowed only one view

I know you and I wait for the same thing
for you to check on the passenger who replaces me
he will be no different
a few more hairs, perhaps a few less stares
you will gently place your hand on his wrist
write in his chart, and maybe
glance at the date of birth,
do the mindless math
and wonder without wonder
if my replacement will have a bigger number than I

but I am still here
gazing at your angled eyes
while you count the beats
which slow a little each day
waiting for you to say
how long will this one last?

don’t worry, squeaking vinyl floor walker
when my drum stops pounding
I will try to make sure it happens
while I am asleep

My back is laced with scars
Given to me as a parting gift,
As a symbol of the love-that-never-was
Some have already been fully absorbed
Just their tips sticking out,
Forming a grotesque picture
Others, still fresh, still being taken in
Just their tips are slightly embedded

Another one would hardly make a difference
Might wring a cry of pain but nothing much afterwards
-
The glint of the tear as it slides down,
silently,
heedlessly,
into the black abyss,
threatening, wanting,
desperation lacing it's movements,

-

There's a silent 'plop!' sound as it touches
The floor so far below.
So far, so far that no one can see it.
So deep, so deep that no one can hear it

She hardly notices the spare, the extra
There have been too many for her to care
For one more.

A dozen more land in her back,
Angered by her impassiveness

She swivels around because she's still savouring
The ones that are there

For a minute, time stops, the blades stop
The girl's heart, or where it should've been...
That empty little space, occupied by three long
Swords stuck in it's place
They pierce right through her body,
So different from those knives that decorate her back.

Their tips face your eyes
The sword entered her through her back

It would've been a tragedy if only her eyes...
Oh, if only her eyes were something more
Than just endless holes
( - deeper, darker, blacker
more despairing than
the black abyss under her

very feet

-    )

Sorting boxes, packing clothes
Assaulted by the past
When you stood and said forever
You both thought it would last
A jewellery box, a trinket here
A gift they never used
A present from five years ago
You smile, a bit bemused
The boxes fill, the tears arrive
You know it must be done
It's the one part of a person's life
That surely isn't fun
Textures and scents surround you
They take you back in time
To a place before computers
When a phone call cost a dime
You fill one box, put it aside
"Donations" on the side
You can picture every item
That you piled up inside
You put them in there lovingly
You didn't want to let them go
By releasing them into the box
It forced you to....you know
Accept that you're alone now
That your partner is not here
That the life you built together
Is now remembered by a tear
You gave things out to family
Though you do not know just why
They will stick them in a drop box
And that just makes you cry
You picture them inside the clothes
And you hear their laugh as you
Put magazines and tolietries
Inside Box number two
You put aside some things you like
To remember better days
Though you know that in the future
You'll remember through a haze
Time will mar your memories
Keep the good times, wipe the bad
You'll forget about the smile
And this really is quite sad
It takes days to sort the boxes
Fill the others, pack them all
By the time that you are finished
They will almost fill the hall
When complete you think on
What is in the totes
There's clothing, jewellery, memories
And magazines and notes
You don't know where to take them
You balance on a knife
The question here before you
How do you give away a life?

Time is teasing along with lush earth so pleasing,
The minutes of our youth are spent in toiled days
And sands are blowing the weld of our sold means,
Foundations of dust, the cries unheard, of the aged.

And then, as dream, you came from the starry skies
Blue and small as the ocean dot, forever fixed—
Reigning over the frozen, revolving moon that lies,
Dimly wakes in your fabled orbit, my fated ellipse.

Now, time tables and splits, renders me to eaves
Undone, my squandered youth was but a sad play
And I am clocked with wind, the geld of my dreams,
Had shiftless hands been more solid than my days.

You know, there's always a song that takes me back
To a year, so long before
It's not always a top ten song
That hits my very core
It just grabs me and transports me
Back in time while standing still
It might take me to a good place
Release a memory I should ****

But, my soundtrack is different
It's not just music in my mind
There's sounds that make my playlist up
Sounds of a different kind
A baseball smacking leather
God, that sets me free
Some good, some bad, some coaching
Some involve my ******* up knee
The click on every eight track
When it switches channels to play on
Brings back those early mornings
when the house cleaning was done

But, music, yes the music
makes a large part of my list
Some take me back to dances
And the girls I never kissed
The good songs stretch my senses
Make me smell things from the past
The memories still linger
While the music didn't last

Sirens, car wrecks, yelling
Have their place on my list too
It's not music to most people
It made my list though, who knew?
A sound as small as raindrops
Take me back to a morning when
I stood on line with a hundred others
Brave women and brave men

Cornwallis, Nova Scotia
rain and U2 take me on a track
To basic training on the east coast
Wow, that's 25 years back
A car crash and a siren
Takes me to when I met my wife
This was on the television
when Princess Di, she lost her life

So, my soundtrack is eclectic
It's not just music fuels my trips
It might be a golf ball bouncing
That takes me through a time warp slip
A song, that's just too easy
Everyone has one of those
But, can you travel back, oh, 30 years
When someone blows their nose?

There's more sounds that effect me
But, those I think I'll hide
I will write about them later
And I will take you on that ride
In 50 years of living
Lots of sounds have hit my ears
We'll  sit and chat about them
One day over a few beers....

The room was dank and dreary
The past hung in the air
There was a scent of mildew
A smell of history was there
The paint was old and faded
With stains all dark and brown
The wallpaper too was dated
And it needed to come down
It was a home for 50 years
That stood so strong and proud
It comforted all of our fears
Far from the madding crowd
We stripped away the paper first
Each layer a strip in time
It showed the old room at her worst
It really seemed a crime
To tear it down, and think of when
Each layer was first  applied
The walls that seemed so tall again
I just stood there and cried
I thought about the birthdays
Celebrated in this room
Of getting covered all in glaze
That we cleaned  off with a broom
The roses were much redder
Than I remembered them to be
In fact it now looked better
Than it did when I was three
I remembered Mother loved this
And of how it made her smile
And she gave Father a light kiss
After toiling all the while
The next layer though was not as nice
"Twas beige and a sort of lime
It made the room feel cold like ice
It spoke of another, somber time
I looked at the wall and I noticed the lines
Marking our heights as we grew
This was on a paper all covered in vines
Mom loved this one, we knew
It seemed  surreal that Mom was not here
To see these passages pass
But we knew in our hearts that she was stil near
As we looked at paper covered with Bass
That was from when Unlcle Jim came to stay
And our folks gave up their room
To help out a brother who I still love to this day
One who can always help  brighten my gloom
They changed the wall just for him
To make it seem more like it was his
They put their life on hold for Jim
And the wallpaper choice was his
The years pass by more quickly now
The paper doesn't change too much
Jim moved out and that is how
The paper changed just a touch
Mom got sick and Dad quit work
He did the room in flowers for our mom
It was at this time we noticed the rooms quirk
One of those things that made you go hmmm
Far up in one corner behind a section of curtain
Dad had left a small square showing the years
worth of papers we were certain
It was to help mom with her tears
Now as we finished we looked to the man
Sitting alone in the old corner chair
He smiled at us as best as he can
But I don't think he knew we were there
I handed him some paper and I looked in his eyes
He stared clear on through me
And then he started to cry
This was the last of this paper he'd see
Dad and the house now have gone into dust
The years get short and  have tapered
But to go back in time I know all I must
Do, is look at my small square of paper.

I survived high school by a small crack of glass.
I caught myself  by the pad of my finger tips, on the splintered pane,
after falling off the edge of a world of depression, anger, and pain,
and it was from there I pulled myself up, feeling more alive than I had in my entire life.
Because it was through hell that I walked, feet burning, for the diploma I earned on stage.
It was through spider webs I passed, scratching invisible clinging memories off,
to march tall and strong, toward the future I thought was nonexistent a month before.  
I survived high school by the non-working baby hairs on the back of my neck.
The ones that are supposed to stand up like frightened Halloween cats whenever dangers approaches,
and yet when my danger came calling, laid calm like the summer sun on your concrete drive way
and it's because of this I stand here today, looking into the eyes of your fresh faces, fearing that you too may be walking on coals.
It's because of this I want to pour the knowledge of my journeys into the openings of your skin,
let you soak up my mistakes so that maybe, just maybe, you won't have to make as many of your own.
For there are some mistakes that will never heal.
So when you reach for that bottle, hands hungrily searching for something impossible to find in Absolute *****,
remember that the only thing at the bottom of that bottle is blurred memories.
When your skin gets the itch only a blade can scratch,
stop, drop the blade, and coming running as fast as you can back into my words.
Hear me when I tell you that beneath your skin lies not an escape from this life, but only more of your alive, beating, self.
And as much as your eyes might need proof that you're alive, your chest is always right there below your head,
ready to let you feel the heart inside that makes you such a precious addition to this world.
Feel  it.
Let it's pounding remind you that dropping calories and skipping meals won't solve your problems.
That being skinny, as much of a temptation as it can be, isn't a goal worth losing the breath from your lungs.
Trust me, I know. And I know that heartbreak and loss and hurt are more than enough to make you want to tear apart the fabric of your life and create something new from the threads.
But please know that in end you'll only wind up tangled in the mess,
calling out for people that you've pushed so far away they can no longer hear you.
So instead of ripping through the darkness, know that you don't have to start from scratch,
but merely dye yourself, your life, a different color.
Know that everything you've been through and everything you've seen is building who you are, who you will be, and that slowly but surely you are becoming a work of art so unspeakably beautiful that nothing like you has ever been made or seen before and hold on to that.
Hold on to the idea that this world, and these people, they need you.  
They want nothing more than to see what you turn out to be. I know that's how I feel.
I look at every single one of you and choke up at the thought of how you will stand out as the purist work of art ever imaginable one day.
The kind of art that comes only from a lifetime of living and moving on and starting over.  Hold on to that.
When the world comes to your window with wind and rain, when it tries to drown you in your own tears, and break your spirit with your own emotions, know that you aren't facing the hurricane alone.
I am here, and I know.
I know that no matter what happens, there is enough fire left in you to keep going.
You just have to dig deep enough to smell the smoke.

It is over now.
I bow my head as you leave,
Rain fills your footprints.

My girl don’t like
To read these line,
You see, she like me
To talk straight,
She like to see rain
Not jus’ cloud dance,
Me – am not
Impractical,
Though, cloud, are
Beautiful:
Rain, no rain;
But I need to write,
‘Coz I mus’
Anguish soothe
Love stir and heart
Overflow,
Emotion: I pour
My heart out
In these line –
Nobody read’em
But:
Beauty in echo –
You gotta see,
Yea, silence smile.

Bonkers? BONKERS?! Bonkers you say?!
I'll be completely wonkers for it is written upon my grave.
Until the moon turns to sun and the bearded woman shaves
Bonkers and wonkers until my final day.

Loud? LOUD?! Loud you say?!
I'll be forever loud for being quiet is a shame.
To whisper is to keep secrets and secrets shouldn't be said!
If not loud, then silence! Silent like the dead. 

Stay loud, and bonkers, and wonkers, and silent
Be afraid to be public and amusingly private
Stay creepy, and hushed, and awkward, and such
I promise you'll like it.
Very, very much.