Angie-
       ​fickle, effervescent, esoteric, impatient.

Relative of writers and hedonists.

Lover of spoken word poetry, packing peanuts, and emergency exit row seats.

Who feels that words mean so little yet so much,
       ​you will almost always **** at something the first time around (it's okay),
       ​the 10,000 murderous butterflies attacking her stomach when she sees him.

Who needs the TV on, no matter what,
​       to hear that she is not crazy, everyone else is,
       ​the time to just sit and read for a change.

Who fears that she really does fail at life,
       ​the huge spider she's sure lives in her closet,
       ​the actual use of physics and calculus in real life situations.

Who gives away advice like guidance counselors are supposed to,
​       away hair ties like pencils,
       ​love like its cheap.

Who would like to see an actual shooting star,
​       Sarah and Phil Kay(e) confess their undying love to each other,
​       the Doctor be happy.

Resident of Underland.

Acuña

Narcoleptic storyteller living the dream; it's a ******* nightmare.
Dark eclectic gory hell or giving up steam; watered luck is right there.
Appear today; drawn tomorrow
I could tell which words you borrow
Inconvenienced shades of gray
Eighty shades of sorrow weigh
today, which way to say,
I will stay here when you stray hear
they may play fear, bray they pay dear
Ever listen on to bold tomorrows.

Name in capital letters:  Unnamed
Nationality: world-wide
Status: single
Religion: God's own religion
***:  Nil
Age: 01
Date of birth:01/01/0001
Basic Qualification: Master Mind PhD (Doctor)
Experience: Life
*
BY
WILLIAMSJI MAVELI

It takes a sinner to make a saint, that’s how it started for me. I laid low the first few hours of the night, breathing in ether and manifestations of every child, adult and kid willing to speak while on the spot. The tall lanky kid on the fence sitting just over the ocean as if he were as mighty as the sea spoke diligently of revolution and “the new scene”. I couldn’t take much more of that and gleefully folded myself into bed. My bed consisted of a backpack for pillow and gas station bathroom walls for shelter. The new ideas and dreams of my surroundings were great, really great; it was saddening to see them die so fast and knowing before even while they burned and screamed “HEAR ME OUT” they were destined to death. Like any person who walks the earth or was convinced being born was a good idea, we are all destined for madness. The idea of dying seems like a made up story when you are nine years old sitting next to your father in the car and listening to him explain that someday he will die, because everyone does. It seems made up when you are woken up by a call “He’s alive but barely, cars wrecked, better get here quick”. Then the celebration of life they have after the life has long left the body. We should really celebrate our lives while we are alive! No ones here to dream or brag of death, the only reason one would **** themselves is to escape the pain of situation they decide they can no longer handle. Handle it, escape it, there is escape in many things. I chain smoke like a chainsaw, always one cigarette after another as the blade continuously revolves one after another to cut through its purpose. I dream long dreams of trains, girls, the south which I no longer dislike and my place here as a son, a brother, a friend and lover. The music I hear is marvelous and alluring. The love I’ve loved is divine and sweet. The ideas I’ve had are irrational and witless. The fires I’ve started are abiding and ageless. The nights I’ve cried are brief and temporary, while all the beauty I’ve seen is constant and everlasting.

She's different, that's why she's rare.
She's different, that's why she's mis-
understood. Seeing through a unique lens
inspires scrutiny, slander, blurs.
But forgive her for having passion,
passion that so many others lack;
they simply fall in line, want to fall
in line. She never cared for lines much.

Her standards and her head are held high,
she brought this upon herself;
a long way to fall,
an even longer climb back up.
But sometimes you gotta fall before you fly.
She is her disease, these aimless words
are her therapy. On top of them she sores,
and together they find direction.

~Bio-recycling biography
about nothing, really*

Green Bin outside
the front door
yawning occasionally,
patiently waiting
for Friday;

big
Bio-recycling day.
City
of
Toronto,
metropolitan bio-by-law.

Green Boxes
of the neighbourhood
standing
like soldiers
on the sidewalks
of the metropolis
expecting professionals
to empty their insides.

Bones
cooked for hours
to make the best
chicken noodle soup,
the remedy for every ill.

Rotting remnants
of family banquettes,
over the whole week,
potato peels for the best
potato salad,
secret grandmother's recipe.

Egg-shell colour
colours the interior decorator;
last tomato of the season.

Pity,
spaghettini,
spaghetti
sauce
dreams.

Coffee grinds.
Stainless steel
espresso machine
sighs
******* fireworks
remembering
the coffee grinder.

Tangerine, orange peel
freshly peeled
still pines for Florida.

Stop yawning, Green Bin,
tomorrow
is Friday.