downtown cold &
consuming
a man told me he used to drink

Listerine & shoot up heroine
(but now it's just alcohol & ***)

& I felt such a contrast while sitting there
    in the Rideau Centre (buyers never weary)
    the season is spitting &
    we're all supposed to think that
                                                    it's good times for all

except that's not true & you can be
           positive all you want but there's still
                                   going to be someone out there w/

a disregard for the season because
I'm sure they have their reasons
for doing what they do..

this night has
      melted into too many
      casualties trying to reach the
edge of dawn
        where beaten voices
                  still believe in summer
                  dreaming about ages in the sun

w/ loaded gunning thoughts
tomorrow will never fade
                painted hands broke the ground
                stones reflecting off sapphire
                bombs always explode
at the most random times like
         when memory is sleeping..
           (my memory is wide awake)
& sometimes it screams so loud that I
can remember everything

what would it be like?
just a second of silence?
maybe it's like being thrown in that bomb of
gemstone safety..

smiles for yesterday,

          the future is running toward
          its own shadow:

a new song in this vein..

riding w/ conversations, she delighted
              starlit riots w/ stories of drifting canopies
              & sleeping on midnight summer beaches

she said that their shores were
      so close to your soul that energy
      can't help but pour out of your veins because
                     it wants to see if sunshine
really does have freewill

& if it does, then there really
isn't anything to be afraid of..

Blair Station & its "middle of nowhere, yet
                             middle of everything.." feel
        Sunday night groceries & the shelves
        would always scream of emptiness
                                         because it was Sunday night
                                                                        after all

concrete madness & bored
                               teenage tags & teenage riots

a thousand times (it feels like..) walking
                                                                toward nowhere..
                                                                toward somewhere..
                                                                toward nothing..
                                                                toward everything..

there's something to be said
           about Sundays
           & slow days
           & highways divided by minutes
                              35 or 45 (depending on the year..)
& the fields
& that green bridge
& the shared rooms w/ all-night
                                    conversations finding names
                                    on ceilings a thousand times over

there will always be something to be said
          about Sundays
          about after dinner 6 p.m. goodbyes
          about closing the car door

& waiting in the many entrances
& a fading black speck on #11..

the mind
my mind
is a desert

or so it seems
a hurricane of thought
where thunder dreams
up ways to
keep me awake

never sleep
never sleep
ALWAYS THINK
never sleep

flooded w/ photographs, memories & moments..
seasons in mind, in my head
months define/demand attention

"..& I feel safer in the eye of the storm.."

home
is
where
the
heart
is
there
anybody
home?