I am a Province, a State, a Municipality, and a Region.
I am a Soldier, a Pilot, a Minister, and a Legion;
I am a black man, a white man, a brown man, a woman,
A French man, American, Canadian, and Roman.

I am a rap artist, a singer, a slam poet and guitarist;
I dabble in the dark arts accompanied by a Marxist.

I'm a barista, a gas man, a secretary, and Tsarina,
A King and a Queen and a janitorial cleaner.

I am a "lover," a "hater," a "here now" and "there later,"
I am Luke Skywalker, yet at the same time, Lord Vader.
I am a driver, a walker, a rider, a stalker,
A conservative liberal and a well-learned straight-talker.

I am a salesman and clerk,
A criminal and a serf,
The proud owner of a weapon that, while it kills, saves the Earth.

I am a drinker and smoker,
A consumer and broker,
A bomb-maker, con-artist, Priest, and interloper.

I am a Citizen.

Religious and secular,
Macrocosmic, molecular,
Suit wearing, uncaring, emphatic, irregular,
A "packie," a ****, a Scrabble fan playing Yahtzee;

A Jihadist, sadistic, addicted to Herodotus,
History is repeated by the philosopher that thought of us.
The eroticist literature towards which we've all lusted;
It looks like the bullets machine-gun is busted.

Indifferent, ecstatic, illicett, erratic,
An infant, a senior, a young man with bad-lip,
A black man, a white man, a brown man, a woman,
A Jew and a Christian, a Muslim musician,
A monarch, elitist, pro-abortion defeatist,
An anarchist, Black Panther, and a rich plutocratic;
I am a citizen,
And as one,

I'm elastic.

someplace else would
have brought the rose.

but not Caen.

Caen made every
guest bring a
bottle, the answer
to Caen's confusion.

blast off, years off.

tears off.

land.

It wasnt long before the baluster flapped somewhere in the distance and Icarus knew how old he had been on the day of his birth. For whatever reason, the snow capped cappuccinos he had willfully destroyed in a heated debate on fiscal policy had him beginning again. Why was there always a beginning where there was an end? Fur traders used to circumnavigate the Hudson's Bay of his humanity when he was young, sharing drinks and fire water whiskey like it was all an H2O ready for the soul search. Sadly, many ended up in Hitlers concentration camps weeks after the **** invasion of Poland, about a month or so before the fall of the Roman Empire. Beginning with a last breath, Icarus strode off the plank with a new-found confidence unnatural in his niceties of long past. It was as if 1 minute and 35 seconds was enough to dish a clamouring populace onto the dinner table before the fat step-father gleefully orders
everyone to 'dig in, everyone!'

Cancelling everyone's appointment with Dr. Pardon meant the gaining of a key participatory certificate in El Dorado, and the gold lingering in dusty sun-beams was sifted for the taking. Some got rich, the rest got miserable. The rest used to imagine the gold, staring at ivory towers and lottery tickets, apple cores lording over old public servant applications near the city hall drain pipes as the modern world collapsed into a flash-mob image of Ronald Reagan.

Icarus was a sliver of duskish light flittering a top distant windowsills, all cupped in an intentional light because happiness was as possible as sadness. Not that considering either would make you either.

Icarus slept as his wings incinerated at the first glimpse of the solar system. He now believed every single proverb the old ***** slumbers had whispered their children as they woke to find themselves adults.

In the beginning he found the beginning beginning again. It made him feel however you wish. Both were just as possible. Both were just as much a jazz configuration as a smooth and easy guitar rift.

Ahha!

I'd rather not admit it,
No, I'd rather not admit it.
I'd rather not admit it, that I have yet to quit it;
Or that you still seem to plague my mind with words and images,
And that when I sit in the same spot that, for the first time, we held hands,
I can feel liquid as it swells up in my uncontrollable tear glands.

I'd rather not admit it,
No, I'd rather not admit it.
I miss you and I think about you everyday since I was forced to quit it;
Yes, I'd rather not admit it,
No, I'd rather not admit it.

I remember all the moments,
And all our beautiful components,
Which we used to patch together,
Perfect love within bad weather;
It felt perfect for awhile,
And then you put our love on trial,
And it ended in a second,
Yet you came back on that same weekend,
Saying things were now to change,
And we were to rearrange,
What it meant to be in love;
But you left me with the glove,
And decided to tear off the one you had.

It ended once again,
And 2 days later you did bring,
Your heart right back to me,
And believed that I could see,
You'd done no wrong.

You promised you had changed,
And that you would rearrange,
All your action in our love,
Yet once again you tossed that glove,
And left it all alone, to myself.

I sacrificed and compromised,
Believing you were doing right,
Yet you sat there in stagnant indifference;
I knew, inside, what that did reference.

Hurting, deeply insecure,
I broke it off, as you had lured,
Our love away from being repaired;
Retreated back to your single lair.

Sick and tired, upset and lost,
I knew my ending it would cost,
The girl I love with all my heart;
The one who'd loved me at the start,
And still did in the same way,
Yet she wished to get away.

My heart was broken,
And every time I breathed,
I felt my chest expand in pain,
My solar plexus bounced away,
In memory, and thought fighting tears;
You switched me out of silent gears.

I'd rather not admit it,
No, I'd rather not admit it.
I'd rather not admit it, that I have yet to quit it;
Or that you still seem to plague my mind with words and images,
And that when I sit in the same spot that, for the first time, we held hands,
I can feel liquid as it swells up in my uncontrollable tear glands.

Because, I'd rather not admit it,
No.
I'd rather not admit it.

Leaving my phone on the
morning strewn bed, the
bus courses by and drags
me along for the ride. Old
high school friends pulse
through my head and I
contemplate their distance.
Every unrecognized human
who seeps into view or
distance causes me to bury
into my phone and feign
distraction. Feign importance,
like someone is paying attention
to me. Until I realize my phone
is my hand and my real phone
is still fast asleep in Asia.

I feel like a ghost today.

Not one word shared between
others as real as me, I figure
I'd feel as lonely at the bottom
of the ocean as I would on
-stage in Madison Square
Garden. 4 hours of work
slithers by like an injured
snake. After exactly an
hour and 17 minutes on a
bus home, addiction knits
the phone into the palm of
my hand like resentful lovers
wishing they didn't need each
other. Only 1 text message
and it's my significant other
slipping me recognition. Old
high school friends pulse through
my head and I contemplate their
distance. I return recognition
to my lover and hear nothing
from her for hours to come.
None of these old high school
friends seem to acknowledge
what I thought was love between
us. I pretend not to care as the
world ignores me and fall back
into the confused trance of
'keeping busy.'

I feel like a ghost today.

What happened to the school
-yard friends? The late nights
spent with nowhere to be?
The happy conundrum of life
as a game? What happened
to freedom? What happened
to freedom? What happened
to freedom?

I hold a sliver of hope that one
day life will electroshock my
existence back into existence.
It's been a beautiful fight, but
lets hope the war is over by Christmas

*** momma, I'm coming home.

I’m living alive, so a lie is in order.

I’m tossing your worth in the form of a quarter.

My future will lie in the hands of reporters.

Altered quite favorably by the thoughts of supporters.

I’m living a lot, so much less is a blessing.

Perhaps I’m alive for these thoughts I’m assessing.

In the words of my poetry, for all I’m expressing.

Why is it the internet can be so depressing?

I’m living for love, so it’s life that I fall for.

I had no idea life could be such a tough chore.

And I had no clue that in searching for much more,

I would discover myself all alone and so dirt poor.

But it’s silly to see what is when it isn’t.

From within my mind brand new thoughts have arisen.

All these labels have taken my mind to a prison.

But what seems to rule this world is just fiction.

Or unjust is probably a better description;

As I look to escape old depictions restrictions.

This isn't another stupid rhyme,
Far from me,
I know it's time,
The dizzy spins,
I cannot cease,
I did much wrong,
Piece by piece,
I took you down,
The world,
Your frown,
It led me on,
To thoughts unknown,
Things unsaid,
And chances blown.

I miss you.

Middle-aged couples
always argue during
road trips.

my parents misplaced
matter-of-factness
upsets me. They ****
themselves trying to
be right.

if we grow into middle
age together, which I
feel is a distinct
possibility, can we let
down our guard? I
don't really care to
be right. I just want
to be here. With you.
Carpe diem or what
ever the Romans
called it.

I'm sure I could see an Illuminati reference
in the combination of 'play-pause.'

thing is,
I'm winning if I'm talking about it

******* idiots couldn't keep their secret society a secret

My life is occasionally a continuum of anxiety of and or relating to the possibility of my going insane. My greatest fear is schizophrenia, thanks mostly to Aldous Huxley's Doors of Perception. At my worst, I am standing in a Wal-Mart under the surrealistically bright lights of dead consumption waiting for my head to become an unfamiliar place filled with unfamiliar voices. It has never happened. The closest I ever came was on the night of February 4th, 2013 (which, in this case, just so happens to be last night), when in a state of silly pointless inconsequential anxieties I thought I heard the faint hum of an unfamiliar voice chanting, 'Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey.' It went away, but the moment I started hearing it I freaked out a little inside as I was lying in bed having just finished reading. I attributed it to the possibility of over-reading, over-conceptualization, not enough time in the real world. I blamed reading and writing and watching for the feeling that I'm never quite in the real world, because my head reads and writes and watches and asks itself; “are you real? Can you truly say with any certainty that you exist? How much sense does depth perception make, and now go to sleep and dream in your head because one day dreaming will be considered a symptom of mental disease. Enjoy it before it terrifies your strange fettered wits.” Sometimes I listen to music in my head and wonder if that's insane. Sometimes I listen to music in my head and contemplate innocence. Sometimes I listen to music in my head and sing along. Sometimes I listen to music in my head and realize all music comes from inside so I calm and I calm and I calm.

I had a dream about

               (what's that? sorry? let me grab the phone.)

once I imagined
  
     (I need you to listen to what I'm telling you, Kyran.)
                            
                        the sun is shine, shone, shaning.. what a

           (can you work 11 to 7?)

                racism, sexism, for God sakes, humanism is what we suffer from

   a great big prejudice against ourselves.


  Now shut your ******* mouth and keep your hands busy, feel sorry for wanting

          and just buy what you want.


                    if I have to ask you again

              
           prepare to feel terrible.

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.

These are the words I pick
through thick Irish. Love
affair of some sort between
the bar tending woman and
a friend of the guest. Mitigation,
mutiny upon an S.S. Lovebird
Somewhere Sometime (world
affairs), can't blame the *******
for gazing left at the television
as he's only the messenger boy.
What is this, a medieval fantasy
novel?

I guess the name of wherever I
am and ponder how far away my
life is.

counting days can be cozy
so it's not so shagged like bleeding shot man
dragging himself through sewer about to die
but can be a case of days
here and gone again

like a million little murders.

the sled flattens cans on its way down the rock-face
oh, bottomless pit, how have thou forsaken the moth without the lantern!
carry me and I will carry me farther,
shoot a man and he will die for a day
teach a man to shoot and he will die for a lifetime.

Inalienable in the sense of extra-terrestrially impossible
Cold in the float-plane at 8000 feet or as high as an average cascade
'Average' being an ******* who believes himself average
**** that *******.

slumber as fast as you can to reach first place.
go, go, go!

the race has started!

Yielded to the toast on plate,
it's a quaint morning but it
began in boredom. I closed
my eyes and kept them tight
because I knew I had nothing
to do but keyboards and screens
with a side of cleaning. This is
freedom? I suppose freedom is
the choice to this multiplied
one million, but when you
wake up bored, now what?
Someone once told me that
motivation is like a bath-
recommended every day or 2. I
suppose they're right. I really do.

The best way to honour a passing or passed loved one is to go through every feeling naturally, and let it all unfold as it must. But do not let it paralyze you; do not let it destroy you. How do you think your loved one would feel should they see their death, ultimately, caused your death? They'd feel pretty guilty; they'd wish they hadn't passed and they would become angry and upset and destroyed in the thought of its inevitability. As such, the best way to honour a passing or passed loved one is to passionately pursue life; enjoy every moment and accomplish with the thought and the memory of them in your mind and imagine if they could see you and say, "my death did not **** them, my death helped to bring them alive, so now I know I can truly rest in peace."

That's what it truly is to let a soul rest. To move on and let their flame fuel your essence, not burn it to ashes.

That is true love.

What is a fear of death beyond ones fear of whence they came? You are not alive, if you were not dead prior. Our confusion and misconceptions are signs of something unsightly within society; an idea of cause and effect. There is no cause, and there is no effect, at least not beyond the ***** conclusions of the human mind, which is, in effect, all delusion. We're neither fools or saints, and it doesn't matter what you wear, where you're from, of what you believe in. We are all one in substance and one with the true and natural matter of the universe, when we're ****. Also, trust me. Being **** is only rude because our crude minds have altered the context of *** and what's beautiful. Disgust or attraction from ones naked body is a sign of our losing touch with reality. Do you prefer the looks of one tree to another? If not, should you care if whose **** is your girlfriend, your mom, or your brother?
This doesn't mean you should be sexually attracted to the latter, and not to the former... but one must understand the difference between nudeness and *****, because *** is beautiful, at least when it's normal, and raw.

*** is no sin, and nudeness no vice; sexists don't win, and nudists don't fight.
So pass me your bullets, artificial like clothing; put down your guns, a production of loathing.
Insecurity flourishes in Converse and cars, in defining whats right to Prime Ministers and Tsars,
So lift up your fists and break all of your fingers; allow all the pain inside your hands to linger,
Make doubly sure your trigger finger can't fire, otherwise that same finger may make a peace lover a liar.

Are we all higher than the primal sweat we perspire?
Yes; when we find it in our hearts to inspire, and not expire the souls of ourselves and of others;
To realize we are all but sisters and brothers,
Living as lovers,
In love.

Perhaps the lions share found itself inside my coat
where I never thought to look for the dastardly sins of a mall security officer
I was to assume his best intentions at heart! he is here to guard!
however, that's lost in the bramble of bush and the mountain of crystalline cloud-water
sky-ocean
plummeting over my head.

strange neighbourhood if you ask me.

Innocently enough, I found the kerfuffle of fluff bunched up in my knuckles because,
I never punch an innocent man twice.

Now take the spice out of the words, 'Hey, I'm a nice guy,'
And you'll have a half-truth that will trick yet still suffice;
I test my pick-up lines on mice and rats like the most esteemed of scientists,
Who engineered the difference between maize and rice using language as their disguise

I languish in this life.
I deal too much in the technical's and it leads to awkward strife,
Inside my mind.

I notice the fact that I think,
And watch the fact that I see,
And, for some reason, become ungrateful that my site
Isn't 360 degrees.

It is in my dreams.

I also seem to ask myself the question far too often;
"Are you sure you're living yet? Are you sure you're alive yet?"
Because I seem to forget that yet implies before and after;
And I stave off the potential for my mind to become some sort of existential disaster;

Nothing has changed about me biologically for 3 or so years,
Yet with the constant bombardment of scientific, philosophical, and existential food for thought
I seem to notice now
More than ever
My mortality.

And it's not just my mortality,
I ask, "What IS reality?"
And the slight lack of focus in my eyes makes me ask in framed legality,
"What is this actuality?"
And I lose sight that all humanity
Serves the same such similar circumstances,
With the 5 senses imperfections
And I'm sure that most of us are quite insane.

Please, don't abstain from braving existential terrain,
It will help you to obtain
The fact
That life is such a mystery,
And it's best to work with mystery,
In transcendental synergy,
Because suddenly humanity
Is null and void.

I write this true to mind:
These are the thoughts that float through mine,
And keep me sleepless time-to-time
Or keep me feeling like I'm sleeping,
As the thoughts keep me confined
On occasion.
Yet sometimes I do awaken
And feel myself a direct part of the reality I've forsaken,
Over-thinking,
With the labels that our minds have been creating,
Since the dawn of humankind and man-made time.

you will be the second
whoriffic plot twist.

I read street art once,
that said, "lonely people
talk too much." I prove
my loneliness in para-
graphs to you that light
my darkest caverns. I
create my self-destruction
through my wordy negligence,
and this is why I can't subsist
in the world I make for myself.

I am a well spoken fool
with a very loud brain.
A brain that likes to chew
on itself and cringe as if it
were eating a whole lemon.

Christ, I'm the idiots you
died for.

bring me sunken ships. bring me the
daniel that called your name through
can't and nevers. he waited like a
switchback earring for the roller coaster
to simply answer a simple question in
regards to salt flats in Utah. the all-ages
cross-dress was broken in two and
expected to dance for the window washers
incorporated slogans, in what sense did the
teacher employ simile in the following sentence?
I like to like, it's like love but it's like. whistles and
bears make a combination as deadly as nitrogen
and nuclear fusion. any relation would have it's
way in Greek sandals marking Tumblr asks and
wondering where the littler of the 7 was born.

and it works.

I always get terribly nervous
Running into people I sort of knew
But didn't know
And now I just stay quiet on my phone reading morning articles past the afternoon migration
And laugh at a witty fathers joke.

The way I ate my Lays was weird
She knows it and now conversation is out of any equation
I was about to punch into an iPhone calculator
Circulation ended in my hands down.

Children are creation, lovely doves.

Insecurities range from mild to severe
deal with it, land-rover. deal with it finity, in finity
it's not a meaningful solution
to worry like a bathroom mat.

but honesty is a better policy
isn't it?

I spent your birthday riding busses trying to forget you. HSBC's and courthouses falling by the wayside give way to farmland. $25 left in my chequing account and I can't help but consider stranding myself on Salt Spring. strangling myself with salt water. what is it worth, life, if love fades and creatures exploit each other like coal mines till 9 PM- or maybe it's just my life that is so empty and void. maybe this is my last day alive because the last time I lived was so long ago I can't remember. I'm put on antidepressants, then I'm put off you. I'd seek out *** to validate my self-worth but I don't much feel like sinking to that level would do much to purge my system of this evil presence. I hate myself and you made me hate me more. I watch the highway land scape by like a collection of our hopeless, anxious hopes, and I wonder- what was I doing in the first place?

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.

because you sit
in the truth and
wonder if you've
been lying to your
-self all your red
-light life.

Patterns in the leaf jacket,
Nature plays Jackyl and Hyde with the weather.
I wouldn't mind if light didn't light me like a sun-candle, distant star to others, and dark didn't mean I didn't mind death.
Preferred it, even.
Somewhere in the Dubai of the modern mind, the good still dwells,
And so does an earthy spirit.

I fell in love with a girl who holds me when I'm  crumble-glass and when I'm rock,
No image institutes the angel in her coronary thump,
Poised to be the psychic reading cards inside my nuerons,
The UVic hoodie she's draped in is what I'd like to see her wear nothing but
On a warm Northwest beach,
And more than anyone she is a dream come true
I just hope I have the strength to believe
That dreams really do come true.

As of late I've been dead, but she woke me with a start
Translated into poems
I would usually never read,
Let alone write with the confidence of an overdose gone fixed.

It was quiet that night
The night of the storm.
The boom rattle slap of the windows was
Silent.

It was quiet that night
The night of the storm.
The dry heaves of panic were
Silent.

It was quiet that night
The night of the storm.
The tick of the clock seemed quite
Violent.

It was quiet that night
The night I was born.
I now sit, alone, helping
Clients.

It was quiet that night
The night of the storm.
The boom rattle slap of the windows was
Silent.

Grad me footless,
World class; fruitless,
Jumping backwards,
Three steps; bootless.

Call me stupid,
Call me smart.
Call me funny,
Fire for the dead head-start.

Breaking windows,
Crashing cars;
Wasting nights,
In dead-end bars.

Losing grip,
Of jaded souls;
Ditching all our,
Larger goals.

Flying solo,
Through the void;
Running low,
On blood-steroid.

Washing freshmen,
Clean of youth;
It hurts, I know,
Like sugared- tooth.

Growing up,
Is tough, it seems;
But through the thick,
A bright light gleams.

'Fish door,' chants Cochrane. 'Fish door, fish door, yea.'
Most jobs don't come with a box of surreal. Or allow you a bowl of cereal.
This job is different.

Had I fought the minds marginal error by staring into the glare of the granite counter,
I might have found myself to be haunted by the thoughts of misinterpretations as I cowered,
Hiding in fear from the thoughts I had misread;
Perhaps I'm too tired, or perhaps my body is made out of lead and has therefore rotted my mind to the core..
Something like an apple in the compost,
Or the composite measure of a lamp-post in juxtaposition from where I stood most often on the night that she died.

And I cried, and I cried, and I cried, and I cried,
But for the most part, it was irrelevant. For the hell of it, I didn't fight it, as the pain had hit the pit of that slit in my heart where I held her so close;
And for too long, my heart fell into a state of comatose, but I made the most out of all I had lost,
But nothing worth gaining can come without cost..
So it's for this reason I ceased measuring what I had gained, or how differently the furniture in my minds living room had been re-arranged by the causation of my future elation that, for the moment, was making me sick to my stomach...
As I found that inside of myself, comparison can only take away from my shelf of rational wisdom and heart to be handed.
Forever, your name on my heart has been branded, in a form I find quite candid in comparison to what later came to be,
The future love I didn't truly feel until I looked back in alarmed retrospect
And realized, I had just missed the border post where it was the point of my comma that they checked,
So as such, it appeared I was under-arrest,
But while my mind was in jail I toned my behavior to the very best and later broke the vestige of ignorance that had previously vexed that place in my mind I had forgotten to check.

And aw, what the heck, I'll blatantly honest.
I've always thought of myself as modest artist whose realized that the world can't be changed,
Only temporarily re-arranged;
And this current arrangement has gone completely insane,
So I'm waiting around for some revolutionary rain;
*** the clouds are quite visible,
But our confidence is divisible by factors of 300 invisible and miserable Marxists stuck in a closet of oblivious self-denial.

All I know is this world is on trial, and if we don't march the final mile in less than awhile,
We're going to miss our chance to plant the seeds while the soils fertile.

So I'm ready.
Everyone, get ready.
It's time to make this world a bit sick and unsteady,
Because it's time for the furniture in our minds to be re-arranged by the causation of our future elation that, for the moment, is making us sick to our stomach.
And don't turn around, this is the worst time to turn back;
Just cut the slack; freedom is behind those great walls we have yet to attack,
So sit back and wait for the call of the words which we lack,
*** they're coming,
And they're coming real soon.
So soon, I can already feel the monsoon sweeping across the exposed cityscapes,
Tracing the skylines shape in the clouds while I sleep.

it will be a brooding day of fine, crisp air
when the world is born again.

it will seem so full, the cardboard hanging from the mantelpiece will burst into flame like a happy call to arms;
'hold me, darling.'

the facts will remain fiction, and the fiction will remain as-is, and the only real truth will be
absolutely everything.

will I fall in love with a Bodhisattva?

so blatantly alone---
everyone caught
up in their own
affairs they can
only offer me
'sorry you're
sad.' so blatantly
alone and my
parents are far
enough away
that I know I
need to face
this on my own.
so so so alone.
I ride busses
hoping it's
therapy, but
I am torn apart
inside with an
empty hopelessness
about the world---
I want to die and
come back a
happier creature.
or maybe not come
back at all.

so blatantly alone.

Castles find solace in lords. Mansions find solace in money. Money finds solace in money. Money finds solace in money.

I am the biggest
******* who has
ever loved.