'Look- I'm the
boy who carries
Ativan in his pocket,
just in case. Pretty
sure that means
my potential is
going down the
drain.'

I love you. I will always love you. What we had was so incredible, and so beautiful. Sadly, everything in this world is transient, and so here we are, coming to an end as well. Perhaps there's a chance it isn't the end.. perhaps one day I'll run into you years from now in Powell River, and something may spark again.

Perhaps a few months down the road we'll meet again in Victoria and who knows? You need your freedom right now, though. You aren't ready for a relationship. As much as you love me (and I can tell you love me), you're fidgeting uncomfortably because you don't want to watch life trail on by and see all the could-still-be's turn into the could-have-been's. We're young. We loved each other enough to stick it out for life, but sadly youth is something that still keeps the boat rocking with uncertainty in all regards. I'm afraid to be single again.. I'm afraid of the moments when I sleep with another woman, and I hear your voice in the back of my head. Or when I kiss another woman and forget it isn't you.

I'm going to wake up crying at 3 in the morning remembering some adorable little quirk of yours, and cry and cry and cry until I can hardly breath and come close to choking on air.

There's the saying that I told you the other day.. about how sometimes, 2 people are meant to fall in love with one another, but not be with one another. Perhaps that's us, but it could also be that we just met at 2 different points in life, so I was on a different track than you, and you're still in the mode of a younger mind, unready for any substantial commitment. Which is totally okay! None of this is my trying to insult you.

I hope neither of us get too sick to the stomach seeing one another throughout the city, perhaps holding hands with other people.
We can't be friends for now. Perhaps in a few months we can, but at this point, any attempt at friendship would either still be a relationship.. or it would be a friendship with resentment, where we went to a party together and potentially had to spectate a kiss with someone else and feel like killing ourselves on the spot. So no. Maybe in a few months.. maybe in a few years.. we can be friends.

Maybe we can even be competent lovers once again someday with a little more of the world under our belts and that aching insecurity of 'I didn't have a chance to try this because I was committed' eating away at us from inside. But seriously.. who knows. We'll have to see what happens. Like in the Murakami story, 'The 100% Perfect Girl for Me,' we can trust our future re-encounter to fate. If it's meant to be, we'll meet and love again. If it's not.. well then, it's over. And that's okay. We'll find happiness elsewhere.

Goodbye, Amanda. I love you. Just in case fate doesn't bring us back around anytime in the near or distant future.. I wish you a fantastic and beautiful life full of love and excitement and joy and really great friends, and hopefully, someday, a guy who can treat you like you deserve to be treated.

Have a great life, kittycat.

goodbye
for
now.

Up and down; a trend in life that continues to death and potentially thereafter.

My life has been a mesh of many strange moments, days, minutes, and hours... I have yet to completely shake the solipsist angst I coyly developed following the summer after my graduation from high school. Sometimes, I really do half-expect the world to cave into some psychedelic stop-motion I can't escape from, capable of only gazing in fear and realizing that I'm trapped inside the matrix.

Love, too, has assisted in bringing me a sense of release.. but it has also conversely caused lows to become lower as I now have more to lose (in a romantic context). My head buzzes with strange information and gazes at others content with a twinge of jealousy at times. There is a way out of this; I've seen it done before.  But what alchemical combination can save a battered soul who can't be sure what the ultimate cause of the suffering is? It feels like a great part of it is my fault.. but the problem is how does one go about ceasing a toxic cycle in its tracks? Someone declaring, 'simply do this!' has only ever made it worse. But could that be a form of resistance on my part? Some lack of faith in myself or in the universe? How does one go about simply 'doing this'?

Sleep finds me half-awake, gazing at the luminary puddle of blue light dripping from my girlfriends face-down digital alarm clock.

I can never tell if she's really sleeping or not anymore. It seems to me like she's throned in a fantasy dream work I can no longer fathom due to omnipotent restlessness-- but she often complains the next day of having slept unwell.

Sometimes I like to imagine that she dreams of waking up in the middle of the night.

I'm walking through a grey zone
everything a dull ache
everything a dull ache

you haven't texted me back yet
you're probably driving
everything a dull ache
everything a dull ache

searching Bukowski quotes for ways to cope
sent you a Bukowski quote that reminds me of us
everything a dull ache
everything a dull ache

she's off to the other side of sanity
to decide whether or not
the candle burns louder
in stereo or
mono.

and my gain is nothing
but a leaf-blower
gracefully roaring
in the late-morning
wind...

we waited like dogs
at a human feast
for nothing but
illicit scraps; and
it hit us.

was it ever too late
to gather things?

I li(o)ve in the city now

"you don speek my languish"

"I'm learning. Learning takes time so leave it to me."

"I'll wait anoth ur 150 yeers, if you are not fluid it is good see yeah."

"'Goodbye.' You don't speak my language either."

"you don speek my languish."

waiting politely, Tinkerbell glow fading curiously into the overheat overwhelm of city neon and street lights, Soul's glazed eyes of hypnotic intuition begin to close.

"150 yeers. meet me everywhere."

Fading into a geometrically dark centre (dark as in far too bright, similar to when one stares incessantly at anything at all and the peripheral begins to fade into whatever greater colour scheme the senses have meshed into a Rorschach blot you've been asked to interpret), Soul fleets a smile (you feel Soul's smile, as Soul has no real face- Soul has all faces and hence none).

"Goodbye. You will find me when you find yourself."

"You do speak my language."

"I do." Soul whispered back, adding--

"It is you who doesn't."

I'm usually waiting. work-wait,
wallet-wait, wait for the waiter
(waitress), all wretch, no *****,
waiting. waiting for the moment
I can finally look around and say--

'ah, there it is.

always in my back pocket

jabbing my ****.'

kiss-hug the red-line intention
to a snapper fish lipstick, you
sick thankless. thankless to the
fact that thankful is relative--

CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW, CAN YOU HEAR ME PICK UP PICKUP PICKUUUUP

trucks continue to glide down the
Trans-Canada highway as I wonder
if I've been getting high the right way.
I'm a snitch and I found me. Tell me
where I'm hiding.

flip me over and
find my serial
number.

redeem the
warranty
and believe
me, please.

txt it: *pls

credit card
hung on the
walls of the
Louvre

to make
some ******
point.

'it's beautiful,
isn't it?'

the oldest picture
I've ever seen is
of a velociraptor
dying on the cross
for mankind.

the same cross
that the Beatles
snapped their
famous picture.

the crosswalk
at Abbey Road.

little bits of cheese stain couch-top

                        as if that kind of thing


                    ever mattered.

neckity neck you
are hurting my back
I am tired already as
sleep kept me racked
with exhaustion last
night, at night it's alright;
I remembered caffeine
and now my brains alight.
I will sleep on the bus as
it paddles to cracktown;
I will sleep on the bus as
it waddles to where
I'm soon to call home,
first I will throw the bone,
so I have something to
chew on

arrival.

chapter comes to close---                          Kazzah!

                        you're nowhere near the end.




                                                                                            *this is still the prologue.

light the loony

                up and smoke the copper


it's a 11 years until the window             shatters like the ice




                                      and all the photos sheer
                            
                                              every shepard with a hand-me-down robe marching through a mall



                       in the left of center demograph making millions crawl




through a stop light.