Serendipity had be trickling
Down to the bottom of the well.

Rise and fall and rise and fall
Inseparable like Heaven and Hell.

The peaks and valleys,
Miscounted tallies,
And words that seem to spell
"L O V E S disguise"
My lack of words is the loudest I yell.

Speak to trees that see through me
With eyes so blank, yet full;
I run my fingers through my hair,
The wind pushes and pulls.

A rainy day down at Block Bay
Feels nice, despite the cold.
I am one with the lake and mountains;
I am infinitely old.

The industrial wharf is bobbing
Up and down again;
Rise and fall and rise and fall,
The All and Every in it's zen.


The peaks and valleys,
Miscounted tallies,
And words that seem to spell
"L O V E S disguise"
Everywhere is where I dwell.

and feel
the pain
in my

chest.

it spoke to me in
medieval Dutch,
like an obese King
of Belgium who
hands out free ale.

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

Half asleep on my walk to the bus stop,
The Texada clear-cut smiles like the gap-tooth of the Georgia Strait
and the 3 pops of melatonin ingested 11 hours ago still have me waning on the down-low like a somewhat solid ghost in a Labrador windstorm.

I send you paragraphs
And all of my heartbreaks make me worried I've finally scared you off
But logic trusts itself to you and says, 'Cabo San Lucas, tantrastic,'
I'm no stoic. Otherwise this poem would still be sleeping in alphabet.

It's only the middle of the week but it feels like it's been a month,
At least
At little
The weather is Hyde again,
But as of right now I don't really mind
I just wish you had sunk into my chest last night as we slept together,
Finding our mind within its memory foam,
I dreamed of you and wondered
If Mexico really existed.

tetris patterned-shirt
weird, life-is-a-creamy-dream feeling every ever
I spend here
in
Downtown Vancouver.

is it the thought of the chilli-pepper eyed parrot
grazing on the street soul from the corner of Davie
and Granville?

is it a birth trauma coma slam
considering the fact that my
passport
says I awoke here
for the very first time?

is it the caffeine pulsing through my sweat like blood
the triple-sweater sandwich I call my chest
the passing of my dear old Auntie Debbie
the alien faces of a city-gone city goer
the warm freeze of 15 dollars in my pocket
wallet
crunch

perhaps it's the red pants
the folded skinny's
the overalls
the great validation of Shakespeare's scream:
"All the worlds a stage/ and all the men and women merely players."

Did he mean John Players?

Each and every all of us to be smoked
in the soaking rain
pretending that we
each
have brains?

- - -

I know
I'm not as intriguing
as most of these Greek-God's and Goddesses

But I still wonder
if man and women gaze to me
like I'm bless-ed.

- - -

could that explain the dream feel?
the creamy steamy dream feel?

my lack of validation
in this crowd-work calling card?

- - -

it's just about time
that I mention the women
whom gazed
from the train
that traverses the
clouds.

East Indian I assume
I the troubadour
I gazed right back into her eyes.

We played this game
until 'screech' went the train

and I moved on in space and in time.

She exited there
at the same place I glared
to the tiling below my unfit and soaked
sigh's.

As to why that I raced
so that she couldn't chase
and speak words that would open the
light

I'm unsure

but I wanted to
even as I
slipped from sight
into Vancouver's day bright of a night.

I slept with the thought I would never quite sleep
When my mind works the night-shift, and my thoughts flit and creep
From the back of a wavelength, to the edge of the steep
Steep
Steep drop at the edge of my cup of steeped tea.

Sleepytime camomile
My whole life I've been wide-eyed
Asleep.

like the gold at the bottom of a Yukon stream
I need to stop underestimating myself.

English countryside rolls
by like butter on banana
pancakes. The heat of
history keeps me cringing
with a full stomach. Aches
softly convalesce veins
from head to toe,
concentrated in the solar
plexus as I become the weary, dreamy traveller with little left
to seek, hoping that every closed door will lead to you wrapped in a duvet taco shell. Every bed is half-empty, so I fill your gap with a warm pillow and whisper, "I love you, Amanda. It's a softer heart at the end of every highway."

to describe you
would be like
trying to make
the tail wag the
dog.

futile, but ah, why
the hell not.

It means…
Make the most of this moment; don’t concern yourself with the future, or the past, or the outcome, or even the consequences because once that future comes to fruition… it becomes your present, and you must make the most of that present. Embrace it. Take every single strand of it and thread together the ‘now.’ Not the then, not the before, and not the after… the ‘now.’

Shatter the latter to the before and after, then take what’s left and sow it all together to create a perfected present that’s pleasant even to the likes of a peasant.

Just make doubly sure you’re presence is felt in this pretentious present,

Because you’re wanted and welcome, in this hypnotic heroic that is everything to you as well as a collective too.

Stage your very own private and personal coup;

*** you’re due.

I saw 3 stars floating
in the window over Greenland.
The clouds below in the night
sky represented the snow blind
vision of this half-country,
half-forgotten-continent.
My stomach ached, felt like gas.
I wondered if the flight attendants
were robbing a nap
in the foreground of
our lives.

you are an

artful

      equation.

   equatorial
                        warmth.

     breadth

                 of  

                      theres-nowhere-else-I'd-rather-be.

     ( I
         Love
                 You )

you go one place, you don't another.
you get one thing, you miss another.
you do one thing, you don't another.

you're either eternally happy, or eternally sad.

or sometimes you're one or the other.

Instability.

Keyword: instability.

Mid-May and the room has a blue cold, runny nose, condensation clasping the window like a quiet leech. Through the narrow chinks of my cavern, I can glimpse a computer surrounded by world in peripheral; fish eye vision like religious fervor, I realize life has made a lasting impression on whatever I am.

whatever I am.

Dream fades to life, life fades to dream, some alien language crash landed on Earth and now we all speak English (except, you know, the ten thousand other dialects all branched from the Indo-European earth worm). People like to say that everything changes. Nothing stays the same. Does the fact of change never change? Does that not make constants a possibility, even if only within the Many World Interpretation of Quantum Physics (capitalized! it's a name and 'Quantum Physics' likes playing the smiling subtitle ( :) ) ) now I wasn't in Copenhagen the day a jury of physicists decided on Reality; but I was in Reality (capital R) so I'm sure that counts for something.

They say they don't know who 'they' are; as if a brief allusion to a greater network somehow invalidates the point (but 'they' is the 'you' you decide to ignore; the 'you' composite of influences 'you' simply grew around; 'they' is the part of yourself 'you' keep tucked away comfortably like a newborn child that doesn't know any better).

in love with you, in love with you,
I really am in love with you. you've
been gone for a day and a half and
already it's
everything
about
you

that I miss.
you are a soul made from stars
and water
and trees
and people.

I have all of these things
but not the combination of
their atoms at present that

form

your

presence.

this is a love-struck poem.
in love with you, in love with you,

I really am in love with you.

Speak of the arrows which collapse unfaded through the gates of gated gratuities
Expansive perpetuity
Leading to the loose leaf paper falling from empty trees in the dead of an autumnal night
Moonlight,
Clouded contact lenses

Mills billowing, malls bellowing
"Open for busy-ness! Open for busy-ness!"

Unzipping jackets with a smile that says
"From the ends of endings, I have always begun with an eternal grin while you slept on my knees and I dreamed of things smaller than the precipice of the period at the end of this sentence."

This never loved that
And that never loved this
Because they soon discovered 'This' was not this, and 'That' was not that
They were all There together, and discovered an 8 kicked sideways was an honesty beyond promises
And angrily, I remember wondering what had ever come over the all of us that wanted nothing more to do with anger

Had we stormed off in all directions, reading to seek in veins for a blood that was unfounded in the deadly hallows of happy mathematics?
Or were we simply throwing words together in the hopes of sounding surreal?

Sometimes I feel psuedo when I write, when I know I'm quite as real as anyone else.
I just need to struggle with the words more honestly, I suppose.

Perhaps I need to struggle more honestly with myself.
As Kerouac said,
“My whole wretched life swam before my weary eyes, and I realized no matter what you do it's bound to be a waste of time in the end so you might as well go mad.”

I need to go mad.

I need to quit my job and be here and all over here without a worry for the ideas
Yesterday, tomorrow
It is only ever today.

It doesn't need to make sense. It doesn't need to oblige my mother and father with a proper philosophical argument as to why I want to be here, because all they've ever been is 'there,' with the best intentions at heart I know, but without ever coming back down to Earth and letting their worries waft away like the smell of fresh, metallic rain during the Ides of March.

They failed the exam of the lilies which did not accept the parental "this is the way it is."
It is only the way it is because we are too cowardly to endorse our wildest dreams.

We do not wish upon stars, and if we do, it is because we wish upon those stars to help us get out of there, when all we have to do to escape there is to be here like a sudden clash of thunder upon a bobby-pin that has been pricked into the arm out of an innocent curiosity which all the There-Afters would call strange, while the Here-Nows would smile and nod at such beautiful sincerity.

At such pristine reality.

All the logical arguments my father confers upon me during our Grand Cosmic Debates always feel gently serious. He does not wish to convert me, nor to convince me.

He simply tries to pull me gently back into his reality, which sits reinforced by the rest of the global nay-sayers and There-Afters.

Why is it that my parents never had the courage to go mad?

Why was it nothing but a literary curiosity to them?

Why do they still continue to believe that one cannot simply run off into the sunset with a cosmic sense of reckless abandon?


The human race is nothing but a grand conviction.
The words themselves look to say, "Now, here here young one! You are a part of our great label. You owe us. We have been measuring since the day of your birth."
It's like we are born, and hopped through hoops until satisfaction meets the empty stomach to tell it that it must be full. So we struggle to fill, but it always becomes empty again. We seek to devour and consume and listen to the creased minds of our parents as they confer to us their common notion of sense which truly senses nothing beyond nonsense.

All of this makes me feel like I'm jogging on a sidewalk of soap.

And I'm sleepy.

We all work too hard, even when we're not at work.

We feel the affluenzic pull of occupation.

Not because we occupy our occupations,
but because our occupations occupy us.

I am a Cosmic Hobbyist

For the infinite round of nowever and always again.

the whole uni-world-verse is a work of art
painted, sculpted, written, strummed, yelled, whispered, spoken, hummed,
watched, read, walked, met, clutched, felt, thought, fraught, shot, healed,
sealed, revealed, eaten, clapped, drummed, hugged, kissed, loved, hated, caressed,
sexed, hit, held, slit, melded, tripped, tasted, clothed, wasted, hurt, emaciated,
bounded, re-created, infinite, hallucinated, framed, contained, insane, profane,
profound, no-sound, throned, starved, crowned,

and could the hues and colors of experience be expressed
I would have worked this art to show and speak to no one
but as the same, no none
and yes some
to a sandwich multitude and the star-gaze vigil
from the back, to the front, in the middle.

all big, all mid, all little
and silent as a God watching young girls play fiddle.

cough

cough

     ahem

  she's we, you see

        creep. liquor. creep. sack of ****, that's what that is. creep.

                    liquor.

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.

Panic attacks are like deathless suicides
****.

You're deader than a dead man because unnatural fasts
unnatural- fasts
solipsist dizz-
solipsist sip, mizz?
burn the boardwalk and walk the beach *** all of a sudden
life is too short to fuckit, later.

everything has to slither out like Satanic snakes offering the half-bitten apple
to Adam *** he got the other bit stuck in his Adams Apple and suddenly lost his voice,
** **, take that, prophecies of God!

Too tired to be the  metaphysical rebel licking the slug slime off your toes as if you deserve the luxury,
smile again and I'll call you the prettiest pervert to ever strip down to your socks.

this is what a broad mind is,
I write this assuming weirder thoughts have flickered in your ******* lightbulb.

pass

goodbye
for
now.

we're all made out of

would.

pants sit half-way down the waste
because pulling myself out of bed is against the laws of gravity
what was it you wanted again?
if anyone could hear over the sound of an exhausted train exhausting clouds with exhaust
they would understand exhaustion, because Gaia speaks in sign-language

and the second you told me to wait a moment
I spent forever waiting
until you were ready yet

ready, set, sundown..
sleep talks to? only if I talk to sleep, conversation over.
dissonance, cognizance, congruence, ****

thank you 5th grade teacher
for teaching me how to never shut up
thank you verbs
for teaching me how to never shut up
thank you
really
thank you
no sarcasm
thank you

it is holy
holy
holy
wow.

tears come like canons lobbing failed
shots through the psychic space
between me and your

photograph- - -    

                  they miss

                                                      they miss

                     they miss

  and roll across the fields of my cheek-bones - - -

they miss

     because they
  
                       miss

                                  you

silence

                'Admiral, order the retreat.

      We're going

home.'

so exercise is the logical conclusion.
illogically, my matted lack-of-a-
shower and my swollen lymph
node to the point of painful
swallows speak nothing in
the way of 'yes' or 'no.'
At this point,
I'm just lonely and jealous of the worlds
'okay,' and can't be bothered with little
touchies like- oh, perhaps she meant it?
we meant it, by any measure. concussive
doubts rain on my soul like laughter,
intention; lymph node aches as I chew.
time to call a doctor. time to call a dr.

Sometimes the Earth above us,
Shakes like the quake of the pillars.
Sometimes the Earth below us,
Burns like the molten core of human passion.
Sometimes the Earth around us,
Dissipates like a fog in the bright of noon.
Sometimes the Earth within us,
Yearns to love in more ways then one.
Sometimes the Earth beside us,

Doesn’t share the same Earth.

Your forward notion;
It's a living emotion;
And the winds will guide you,
As the forward,
It finds you.

'*** the world will stand blind,
As an idle young mind,
It will think of your kind,
And trust you to find,

The planet we've lost,
To the greedy and shallow.
Bring them their justice,
From the knot of the gallows.

All my dreams have
kicked me in the face
lately. in the best of ways,
but I still lie on the ground
awhile, shocked to be growing.
Like a flower in spring grasping
grass;

'wait a minute!'