We had wanted to leave our homes before six in the morning
but left late and lazy at ten or ten-thirty with hurried smirks
and heads turned to the road, West
driving out against the noonward horizon
and visions before us of the great up-and-over

and tired we were already of stiff-armed driving neurotics in Montreal
and monstrous foreheaded yellow bus drivers
ugly children with long middle fingers
and tired we were of breaking and being yelled at by beardless bums
but thought about the beards at home we loved
and gave a smile and a wave nonetheless

Who were sick and tired of driving by nine
but then had four more hours still
with half a tank
then a third of a tank
then a quarter of a tank
then no tank at all
except for the great artillery halt and discovery
of our tyre having only three quarters of its bolts

Saved by the local sobriety
and the mystic conscious kindness of the wise and the elderly
and the strangers: Autoshop Gale with her discount familiar kindness;
Hilda making ready supper and Ray like I’ve known you for years
that offered me tools whose functions I’ve never known
and a handshake goodbye

     and "yes we will say hello to your son in Alberta"
     and "yes we will continue safely"
     and "no you won’t see us in tomorrow’s paper"
     and tired I was of hearing about us in tomorrow’s paper

Who ended up on a road laughing deliverance
in Ralphton, a small town hunting lodge
full of flapjacks and a choir of chainsaws
with cheap tomato juice and eggs
but the four of us ended up paying for eight anyway

and these wooden alley cats were nothing but hounds
and the backwoods is where you’d find a cheap child's banjo
and cheap leather shoes and bear traps and rat traps
and the kinds of things you’d fall into face first

Who sauntered into a cafe in Massey
that just opened up two weeks previous
where the food was warm and made from home
and the owner who swore to high heaven
and piled her Sci-Fi collection to the ceiling
in forms of books and VHS

but Massey herself was drowned in a small town
where there was little history and heavy mist
and the museum was closed for renovations
and the stores were run by diplomats
or sleezebag no-cats
and there was one man who wouldn’t show us a room
because his baby sitter hadn’t come yet
but the babysitter showed up through the backdoor within seconds
though I hadn't seen another face

        and the room was a landfill
        and smelled of stale cat **** anyhow
        and the lobby stacked to the ceiling with empty beer box cans bottles
        and the taps ran cold yellow and hot black through spigots

but we would be staying down the street
at the inn of an East-Indian couple

who’s eyes were not dilated 
and the room smelled
lemon-scented

and kept on driving lovingly without a care in the world
but only one of us had his arms around a girl
and how lonely I felt driving with Jacob
in the fog of the Agawa pass;

following twin red eyes down a steep void mass
where the birch trees have no heads
and the marshes pool under the jagged foothills
that climb from the water above their necks

that form great behemoths
with great voices bellowing and faces chiselled hard looking down
and my own face turned upward toward the rain

Wheels turning on a black asphalt river running uphill around great Superior
that is the ocean that isn’t the ocean but is as big as the sea
and the cloud banks dig deep and terrible walls

and the sky ends five times before night truly falls
and the sun sets slower here than anywhere
but the sky was only two miles high and ten long anyway

The empty train tracks that seldom run
and some rails have been lifted out
with a handful of spikes that now lay dormant

and the hill sides start to resemble *******
or faces or the slow curving back of some great whale

-and those, who were finally stranded at four pumps
with none but the professional Jacob reading great biblical instructions at the nozzle
nowhere at midnight in a town surrounded

by moose roads
                             moose lanes
                                                     moose rivers
and everything mooses

ending up sleeping in the maw of a great white wolf inn
run by Julf or Wolf or John but was German nonetheless

and woke up with radios armed
and arms full
and coffee up to the teeth
with teeth chattering
and I swear to God I saw snowy peaks
but those came to me in waking dream:

"Mountains dressed in white canvas
gowns and me who placed
my hands upon their *******
that filled the sky"

Passing through a buffet of inns and motels
and spending our time unpacking and repacking
and talking about drinking and cheap sandwiches
but me not having a drink in eight days

and in one professional inn we received a professional scamming
and no we would not be staying here again
and what would a trip across the country be like
if there wasn’t one final royal scamming to be had

and dreams start to return to me from years of dreamless sleep:

and I dream of hers back home
and ribbons in a raven black lattice of hair
and Cassadaic exploits with soft but honest words

and being on time with the trains across the plains  
and the moon with a shower of prairie blonde
and one of my father with kind words
and my mother on a bicycle reassuring my every decision

Passing eventually through great plains of vast nothingness
but was disappointed in seeing that I could see
and that the rumours were false
and that nothingness really had a population
and that the great flat land has bumps and curves and etchings and textures too

beautiful bright golden yellow like sprawling fingers
white knuckled ablaze reaching up toward the sun
that in this world had only one sky that lasted a thousand years

and prairie driving lasts no more than a mountain peak
and points of ember that softly sigh with the one breath
of our cars windows that rushes by with gratitude for your smile

And who was caught up with the madness in the air
with big foaming cigarettes in mouths
who dragged and stuffed down those rolling fumes endlessly
while St. Jacob sang at the way stations and billboards and the radio
which was turned off

and me myself and I running our mouth like the coughing engine
chasing a highway babe known as the Lady Valkyrie out from Winnipeg
all the way to Saskatoon driving all day without ever slowing down
and eating up all our gas like pez and finally catching her;

      Valkyrie who taught me to drive fast
      and hovering 175 in slipstreams
      and flowing behind her like a great ghost Cassady ******* in dreamland Nebraska
      only 10 highway crossings counted from home.

Lady Valkyrie who took me West.
Lady Valkyrie who burst my wings into flame as I drew a close with the sun.
Lady Valkyrie who had me howl at slender moon;

     who formed as a snowflake
     in the light on the street
     and was gone by morning
     before I asked her name

and how are we?
and how many?

Even with old Tom devil singing stereo
and riding shotgun the entire trip from day one
singing about his pony, and his own personal flophouse circus,
and what was he building in there?

There is a fair amount of us here in these cars.
Finally at light’s end finding acquiescence in all things
and meeting with her eye one last time; flashed her a wink and there I was, gone.
Down the final highway crossing blowing wind and fancy and mouth puttering off
roaring laughter into the distance like some tremendous Phoenix.

Goodnight Lady Valkyrie.

The evening descends and turns into a sandwich hysteria
as we find ourselves riding between cities of transports
and that one mad man that passed us speeding crazy
and almost hit head-on with Him flowing East

and passed more and more until he was head of the line
but me driving mad lunacy followed his tail to the bumper
passing fifteen trucks total to find our other car
and felt the great turbine pull of acceleration that was not mine

mad-stacked behind two great beasts
and everyone thought us moon-crazy; Biblical Jake
and Mad Hair Me driving a thousand
eschewing great gusts of wind speed flying

Smashing into the great ephedrine sunset haze of Saskatoon
and hungry for food stuffed with the thoughts of bedsheets
off the highway immediately into the rotting liver of dark downtown
but was greeted by an open Hertz garage
with a five-piece fanfare brass barrage
William Tell and a Debussy Reverie
and found our way to bedsheets most comfortably

Driving out of Saskatoon feeling distance behind me.
Finding nothing but the dead and hollow corpses of roadside ventures;

more carcasses than cars
and one as big as a moose
and one as big as a bear
and no hairier

and driving out of sunshine plain reading comic book strip billboards
and trees start to build up momentum
and remembering our secret fungi in the glove compartment
that we drove three thousand kilometres without remembering

and we had a "Jesus Jacob, put it away brother"
and went screaming blinded by smoke and paranoia
and three swerves got us right
and we hugged the holy white line until twilight

And driving until the night again takes me foremast
and knows my secret fear in her *****
as the road turns into a lucid *** black and makes me dizzy
and every shadow is a moose and a wildcat and a billy goat
and some other car

and I find myself driving faster up this great slanderous waterfall until I meet eye
with another at a thousand feet horizontal

then two eyes

then a thousand wide-eyed peaks stretching faces upturned to the celestial black
with clouds laid flat as if some angel were sleeping ******* on a smokestack
and the mountains make themselves clear to me after waiting a lifetime for a glimpse
then they shy away behind some old lamppost and I don’t see them until tomorrow

and even tomorrow brings a greater distance with the sunlight dividing stone like 'The Ancient of Days'
and moving forward puts all into perspective

while false cabins give way
and the gas stations give way
and the last lamppost gives way
and its only distance now that will make you true
and make your peaks come alive

Like a bullrush, great grey slopes leap forth as if branded by fire
then the first peaks take me by surprise
and I’m told that these are nothing but children to their parents
and the roads curve into a gentle valley
and we’re in the feeding zone

behind the gates of some great geological zoo
watching these lumbering beasts
finishing up some great tribal *******
because tomorrow they will be shrunk
and tomorrow ever-after smaller

Nonetheless, breathless in turn I became
it began snowing and the pines took on a different shape
and the mountains became covered white
and great glaciers could be seen creeping
and tourists seen gawking at waterfalls and waterfowls
and fowl play between two stones a thousand miles high

climbing these Jasper slopes flying against wind and stone
and every creak lets out its gentle tone and soft moans
as these tyres rub flat against your back
your ancient skin your rock-hard bones

and this peak is that peak and it’s this one too
and that’s Temple, and that’s Whistler
and that’s Glasgow and that’s Whistler again
and those are the Three Sisters with ******* ablaze

and soft glowing haze your sun sets again among your peaks
and we wonder how all these caves formed
and marvelled at what the flood brought to your feet
as roads lay wasted by the roadside

in the epiphany of 3:00am realizing
that great Alta's straights and highway crossings
are formed in torturous mess from mines of 'Mt. Bleed'
and broken ribs and liver of crushed mountain passes
and the grey stones taxidermied and peeled off
and laid flat painted black and yellow;
the highways built from the insides
of the mountain shells

Who gave a “What now. New-Brunswick?”

and a “What now, Quebec, and Ontario, and Manitoba, and Saskatchewan";
**** fools clumsily dancing in the valleys; then the rolling hills; then the sea that was a lake
then the prairies and not yet the mountains;

running naked in formation with me at the lead
and running naked giving the finger to the moon
and the contrails, and every passing blur on the highway
dodging rocks, and sandbars
and the watchful eye of Mr. and Mrs. Law
and holes dug-up by prairie dogs
and watching with no music
as the family caravans drove on by

but drove off laughing every time until two got anxious for bed and slowed behind
while the rambling Jacob and I had to wait in the half-moon spectacle
of a black-tongue asphalt side-road hacking darts and watching for grizzlies
for the other two to finish up with their birthday *** exploits
though it was nobodies birthday

and then a timezone was between us
 and they were in the distant future
and nobodies birthday was in an hour from now

then everything was good
and everyone was satiated
then everything was a different time again
and I was running on no sleep or a lot of it
leaping backward in time every so often
like gaining a new day but losing space on the surface of your eye

but I stared up through curtains of starlight to mother moon
and wondered if you also stared
and was dumbfounded by the majesty of it all

and only one Caribou was seen the entire trip
and only one live animal, and some forsaken deer
and only a snake or a lonesome caterpillar could be seen crossing such highway straights
but the water more refreshing and brighter than steel
and glittered as if it were hiding some celestial gem
and great ravines and valleys flowed between everything
and I saw in my own eye prehistoric beasts roaming catastrophe upon these plains
but the peaks grew ever higher and I left the ground behind

The sound of silence is a chainsaw
with no fuel, longing to gnash its teeth
against the husk of sweet bark.
It is the cold wind on a winter’s morning
that sweeps across a frozen Lake Michigan,
gently kissing the motionless street sweepers
in the city beyond.

The sound of silence
was never the sound of one hand clapping,
nor was it ever kosher.
It was never the final breath
of a young wanderer dangling
from the husk of sweet bark
that chainsaws longed for.

The sound of silence
is the paper blanket given to
homeless men and women,
the aftermath of broken plates
in the home of a south side apartment,
the lingering misty droplets
in a bathtub full of cold red water,
all of this
unheard and unseen.

The sound of silence
is not the absence of sound.
It is simply not noticing
that a starving child was whimpering
in the first place.

I want a beard like Chris's beard
But I can't even grow hair on my chest
This may sound strange if not a bit weird
That I have a Chris beard full on man crush

I swear I'm not gay, why I'm even straighter than straight
You can call my house and ask my wife
She'll tell you I'm out back juggling chainsaws all day
And other manly things I do with my life

But with hair on my face there's not the slightest trace
Not a follicle will you even find
But with Chris's beard I think that it's clear
That sucker could grow over night

So yes, I want a beard like Chris's beard
And that is the straight up fact Jack
Cause with a beard like Chris's manly beard
I wouldn't have to put up with anyone's crap

Glades and Creeks.

One day in a journey far far away,  the forest was speaking to a lone wanderer.
"I am quite the clean forest, am I not?." The forest whispered soothingly.
"Mmhm." Spoke the wanderer, passive by such an interjection.
"Of course. Thousands of forests have wilted and died under the hand of man. I remain lush and brimming to the birch with life."
"Where is my way out of here?" The wanderer asked, becoming quite needy at the thought of having to spend the night in that dung-infested greenhouse.

The forests name was Evergreen. Allot of forests were named Evergreen. This forest had just been sold cheaply to a large logging firm who would come and tear the ugly trees down. The proprietors of that sale was a tribe of Indians. The specific agent who devised and contracted the sale was named Nahiko. An Indian tribesmen who, like his ancestors could speak to the forest.

Indians were what Europeans called people from India and natives of America. Allot of Indians in America were killed for being Indian. When an Indian boy came of age, they would be thrown into a jungle and starve until they saw an animal spirit. This was probably prelude to eating said spirit animal while thanking it for helping him live on.

"I, Evergreen implore you to stay within my womb of plant and fauna."
"Hm." replied the wanderer. Not wanting to argue.
The wanderer took a seat beside a flowing creek on a rock. The creek lead up to waterfall, which in turn lead through a river that spanned for miles. The river did not speak as it was an extension of the forest, Evergreen. Down the creek was the old homes of the Indian tribe.
"Have you ever saved someone else?" The wanderer asked.
"My yes, of course. Everyone who is to enter without water or food is rescued by my charming animals! And luxurious streams. I am quite hospitable you see. There was a tribe who lived within me, they were by name called the Perchil tribe. But they had to leave for more. Hmph. As if anything up in that ****** town is worth more then me."

Further up the river, away from the forest was a town named "Milan". It was named after a kingdom of the same name in Italy. People in Milan spoke German. This was odd given Milan lay in south America, but not unusual given its history of being a port to German slave traders who came from a German colony called "Tanganyika" in Africa. The town was named Milan because the Germans wanted to appear more Italian. This desire was apparent in their most famous dishes "schnitzel Pizza" and "Pasta Salsiccia". Pasta Salsiccia was pasta in a sausage casing often served with tomato sauce and mashed potatoes.

Perchil was also a member of that Indian tribe. He was Nahiko's brother and had a family of his own. Perchil was born in Evergreen and educated in Milan. He had been fighting with Nahiko over the terms of sale of the forest. Nahiko had wanted to preserve the land of old tribe. Perchil was already drawing up plans to sell it to an oil foundry. Their land happened to be on top of a great oil reserve. That means allot of animals lived and died on that land millions or thousands of years ago. There body would dissolve into a black gooey liquid used to fuel heavy machinery. This machinery is used by logging firms to cut down not exclusively, forests named Evergreen.

The wanderer, feeling awkward asked. "So, you'd rather not want to be destroyed?"
"Oh, I am a forest and I do maintain a will of my own and wants. But I cannot rather things should be anything other than what they are. The world is a destructive place. It is disrespectful of its former home and ancestry. I know this. I have tried however, to ward off the workmen by scaring them with my animals. In the end I shall become a town or a shopping mall."
In 3 years time, the deed to "Evergreen plains, Milan" would be sold and used to build a shopping mall named aptly "Evergreen Mall". And the forests voice would be spoke out of loudspeakers, but in the form of either a pre-recorded message or announcement about a lost child. Nahiko and Perchil would be married in Evergreen Mall. Nahiko three times.

"Oh woe is me, I lament my lost brothers and sister forests who are no longer beaming and prideful of their enormous trees and crested riverbanks."
"Maybe they should have defended themselves better." The wanderer spoke, trying unsuccessfully to show concern.
"Well, I for one will never give up fighting the man!"
"Good for you." The wanderer then ate his lunch.

Three days from now, the forest would stop speaking to anyone who arrived within its borders and see the lone wanderer again. But this time, he would be protected by four glass windows inside a piece of machinery powered by black gooey liquid called a "harvester" which lifted up wood and cut it into easily transportable pieces.

"Do you, believe in god wanderer?" The forest asked, to strike up some conversation.
"I do believe in god. He's the reason I get up in the morning and assists me in supporting my family."
"I don't. I don't think I believe in god, wanderer. If he exists, how could he let something so beautiful as I and my brother and sister forests be turned into shopping malls and townships like Milan."
The evergreen forest had seen the name "Milan" as a city nearby on a poster which flew into the twig of its tree. The poster was now lying on smooth ground weighted down by a root, as so the forest can read it over and over again. The poster advertised Pasta Salsiccia at a local restaurant in Milan. It had appetizing pictures of Pizza with crumbed steak on it and Pasta filled Sausages.
"God once flooded the earth, destroying all forests and people for their misgivings. Maybe you misgave and people are your divine punishment."
The forest grew silent and whispered soft hymns of wind against the leaves and overgrown shrubbery.

The edge of the creek, where the wanderer sat on a rock had a hard sand that stretched out a few meters disappeared into the dirt. It was unusual to see a small bed of sand without any other visible placements of sand. The wanderer had been dumping it there, with permission from the forest so he could form a base to store his harvester. The forest did not know of the sands purpose, she thought it looked pretty.
"If I were god, the world would be nothing but forests!" Evergreen stated. The gentle words turning a harsher coarse crackling of branches.
"The world seems to be nothing but people right now. Maybe gods a man."
"Unlikely! If god was a man, he would certainly love forests enough to never cut them down."
"Hm." The wanderer was dissatisfied with this explanation, but didn't want to argue.

"Would you **** anyone who came into your forest, just to prove a point?" The wanderer asked, waiting pensively.
"Oh no, as I said. I cannot change what already is and certainly would not bloom the effort to try. Besides. I also know about those people and their weapons. When it comes to human beings, no matter how hard I fight they will always win. How they ever came to develop boom guns and ratatatat chainsaws I have no idea. If they came from my forest, people would certainly have never developed tools so cruel and menacing. But, I suppose Eden had her way for you. Even if it was, at the cost of all our kind."
"Yeah. No matter forest or person, people always win. I'll always be below some rich powerful man too." The wanderer felt melancholy for feeling unimportant. The forest felt the same melancholy for her life and the world.

Suddenly and finally, a noise came from the wanderers pants. He then picked out his phone, clicked it and took it to his ear. After two hours, the wanderer walked east and out of Evergreen forest. He visited her three days later in his noisy harvester. made to cut wood. He parked on his sand bed. The wanderer left his harvester and locked the door without a word. Evergreen forest was properly harvested of its trees in 3 years time. Never uttering a word or complaint. The painted marking on the harvester she saw everyday however, was her last thought as she disappeared. The word painted onto the door of the harvester, its operator. "Perchil."

I knew a man once who could read the trees
He'd stand in a field with nothing on
And look at them for hours
(He couldn't talk to flowers)
But he would pour over every branch
Trace every knot and feel their bark
He translated a sycamore for me once
But oaks and beeches were his favourite
He said he just preferred their type.
The elbow bends told him of seasons
The trunk's tilt told the prevailing winds
Their denseness in relation to their neighbours
Told him all manner of gossipy things.
The colours and the hues told of the soil
The moulds and lichens the local fashions
He'd tell you if they'd ever been frightened
By hippies, chainsaws, axes or lightening.
And as I looked on, I realised something
As I read his naked body with no clothes
This man was obviously a stark raving lunatic.

You were the only person I would ever want to be with.
You have wiped out all the memories in my head.
I feel empty.
You have given me hope and meaning,
And taken it away in a moments pause,
Replaced it with distrust and anxiety.
I am left with only my eyes, hollowed out and dark,
Distanced from you for eternity.
I will miss you forever.
If you came back and told me you still cared I would jump into your arms.
Because if you haven't realized I have nothing to live for.
I am a white blank slate in a crowd of translucent multi-colored slates.
I am the girl with the empty face in an arena of smiles and grins.
I am so far away from everything I feel like a walking corpse.
If you hate me I don't blame you, I hate myself most of the time when I look in the mirror.
I have nothing.
I am nothing.
I am the nothing you once kissed, held, and told "I love you." to under soft white sheets.
I wonder sometimes if I could fly back into that moment in time as I slept, just to feel your arms around me, your eyes looking into mine with such intensity I could hardly breathe correctly.
If only I could just breathe like that once more,
Instead of not wanting to breathe at all.

This is where it almost blew us away.
Where stunned silence gave way to
chainsaws and sirens,
where a whole community rolled up
its chequered sleeves in solidarity,
brought tractors and barrows,
ladders and axes and enough rope
to pull it all together.

(we've seen it all on screen)

It split bare trees.
Some lay paralysed,
varicosed roots flung skywards.
Others, headless, fixed like totems
gave a new slant of light to the polished cobbles.

Some were touched, others not.
Some cursed God's reasoning,
others sure of scientific fact.
The abyss did not divide them.

Peace coincided with the setting sun.
The wailing of sirens and chainsaws gave way
to the sound of unadulterated joy.
(Earth allows these moments-
they are her children.)

In a battle of strength, small hands
locked in solidarity, made way for life.
Straining against an opposing force,
tugging on a rope
where the trick is to stay grounded,
to hold on and not let go.

copyright © Caroline Grace 2014

We had a family meeting
And decided that our tree
Would no longer be a fake one
It would be as real, as real could be

I said that it's no problem
In fact I think it's fine
I truly miss the Christmas scent
Of wet and musty pine

I reminded them that last year
A new, lit up tree we'd bought
They passed off my weak arguement
With barely time or thought

So, with three weeks until Christmas
The search would now begin
For a tree, just full of needles
Not too bushy or too thin

I started with the want ads
Saw the lots with trees for sale
But, most were all on order
I begged, to no avail

My wife said, let's go cut one
In a woodlot, cut one down
I said we're in the heart of a big city
We have to go two hours out of town

I told them, I'm not going
Then my daughter, shed one tear
I don't know how she does it
But, she's got me wrapped....I fear

So we loaded up the family
Drove until we found the place
With so many others out there
There was no parking space

We parked out on the roadway
Half a mile from the gate
When we go there to start cutting
We were told....two hour wait

We'd brought an axe and hand saw
For when we found our perfect tree
Then, we were told...no...only chainsaws
Did I have one...nope...not me

I had to take a short refresher
On how to use their little saw
And of course, this being Christmas
It cost me fifty more

Finally, we started out
There were trees, of every kind
then the fellow said, that this years
Were in the back....way down the line

He said that this year, beavers
Had flooded out the lower plains
And the trees down here were stunted
And would have to start out once again

The ones that we could cut down
Were back a mile up the hill
I wasn't sure then if it was him
Or my family I should ****

I protested, but my daughter
You know. with the one tear leaking eye
Looked at me and smiled
And I said, that I would try

We hiked up to the woodlot,
There were trees of pine and fir
And a spotty faced young helper
Who asked "What kind do you want, sir?"

Long needled, or a short one
Douglas fir, or knotty pine
The choice, well it was endless
And the choice, well ...it was mine

The next thing that he asked me
How big should the tree be?
I looked a little flustered
And then he said to me

Once you cut it down ...you own it
Measure it, and cut it down
Make sure you get the right one
It's a long way back to town

My wife said, 8 or 9 feet
The kids, no help at all
They were both playing on their cellphones
And making plans for later at the mall

We chose to get a pine one
Eight feet high and just as wide
I didn't know exactly
How I'd get it home and back inside

Two minutes, and I'd cut it
We had a tree, and just my luck
They'd started out without me
I had to drag it to the truck

The boy said, they'd wrap and measure
Down front where I came in
I looked down down at my killing
Not too fat, and not too thin

Two hours later I arrived
All wet and soaked and peeved
But deep down, I'd made them happy
And this made me relieved

Once he wrapped it tightly
I was shocked at the tree's price
He said, two hundred forty
In fact he said it twice

30 bucks a foot for pine
That would be dead in two weeks
I was so mad when I paid him
That I could barely speak

I walked back to the truck alone
I left the family with the tree
I thought two times of driving off
Ok...in truth....It was three

They tied it down upon the roof
Said the rope, was free this year
I almost blew my top right then
I saw my daughter....and her tear

We drove it home in silence
Stopped once on the way
I had to spend twenty more dollars
For a tree stand, at the Bay

I dragged it in the living room
Cut it open, let it spread
It, didn't really fluff out much
I think our tree was dead

It took almost an hour
It lay there, dropping needles on the floor
I thought , yep, this is Christmas
Who could ask for any more?

The kids were gone already
When I put it in the stand
I had wired it, into the wall
This was not the way I planned

A simple family Christmas
With a tree is a pain
I've got a fake one in a box
I'll not do this again

There's bare spots at the bottom
It's unbalanced near the top
There's sap all through the hallway
I've got more, just tell me stop

The tree is now all covered
With decorations and with lights
I water it twice daily
So, it doesn't burn up in the night

Next Christmas when they tell me
We want another tree
I'll tell them, go ahead and get one
But, do it with out me!!!!

Me when I'm ******:

Stage 1: Politely nodding and smiling. Thinking: Omfg shut up.

Stage 2: Staring at them blankly. Thinking: I'm gonna **** myself.

Stage 3: Clenched jaw and glaring. Thinking: I'm gonna **** YOU

Stage 4: Completely lost it, revving chainsaws (no accident that I pluralized chainsaws) and burning **** down, the town is in ruins and I am evilly cackling insanely and raiding chocolate stores. *Thinking: MWHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

(AP) Chicago vicinity hit hard yesterday by fierce bracing winds approximating unmanned chainsaws violently cutting across streets sidewalks heavy lakefront blizzard icy snow resembling slivers of broken glass slashing stinging skin news alert of return of dreaded snow worms attacking women and children technically known as Kinorhynchan Oligochaetes Nemertines these deadly transparent parasitic creatures slither slightly ticklish creep inside boots preferring hairless legs of children slimy vipers dig between toes devouring traces of toe jam then gnawing toenails until they reach foot bed where they fester in bitter dark brown green milky juices crippling little boys and girls in shaven women the elongated legless carnivorous ice worms disguised as mere icicle drippings climb up calf knee thigh ****** ****** ovaries feasting on female eggs their favorite food many northern women choose not to shave during winter season so as not to fall victim to the snow worms

a timeless and whimsical love.
standing tall or small in the rain or shine
in her own celestial beauty,
textures painting the world’s first picture like
all the smoke and the
oceans and had come together to dance.
and dance she does, careful in the wind,
a ballet of everything we know.
serving the world with
delicate hands,
expecting nothing in return,
truly the unseen mother.

though her beauty fading with time in the eyes of others,
never for those of us whose hearts are made out of stars.
so an ode to trees,
is surely deserved.

I sailed the fjords between Powell River and
Drury Inlet to beyond the Salish Sea.
The land itself spoke from mountains, water falls, islets
From bird song and bear splashing fishers
From rutting moose and cougars sharp incisors.
The place has a scale that needs no advisers
But in our bodies felt, sensed in our story talking.
The Chinese spoke of sensing place by the four dignities
Of Standing of Reposing of Sitting or of Walking.
Indigenous peoples of the passage added of Paddling by degrees
For the Haida and Salish sang their paddles to taboos
To the rhythm of the drum in their clan crested canoes.
Trunks transformed indwelling people who swam like trees.
First Nations marked this land, made drawings above sacred screes
As they walked together, to gather, share and thank the spirit saplings.
So Dao-pilgrims in the blue sacred mountains of Japan rang their ramblings.
Now the loggers’ chainsaws were silent like men who had sinned.
I motored now for of wind not a trace -
I could see stories from the slopes, hear tales in the wind.
Modern hieroglyphs spoke from clear-cuts both convex and concave.
Slopes of burgundy and orange bark shaves
Atop the beige hills, and in the gullies the silver drying snags
and the brilliant pink of fire **** tags
A tapestry of  times in work.
A museum of lives that lurk.
Once the logging camps floated close to the head of inlets.
Now rusting red donkeys and cables no longer creak,
Nor do standing spar trees sway near feller notched trunks,
Nor do grappler yarders shriek as men bag booms and
Dump bundles in bull pens.
The names bespeak the work.
Bull buckers, rigging slingers, cat skinners, boom men and whistle punks.
…………………………………………………………………….
Ashore to *** with my dog I saw a ball of crushed bones in ****
Later we heard the evocative howl of a wolf
And my pooch and I go along with the song
Conjoining  with the animal call
In a natural world fearsome, sacred and shared.
---------------------------------------------------------­---
Old bunk houses have tumbled, crumbling fish canneries no longer reek.
Vietnam Draft dodgers and Canucks that followed the loggers forever borrowed -
Their hoisting winches, engines, cutlery, fuel, grease and generators.
While white shells rattled down the ebbing sea.
Listing float homes still grumble when hauled on hard.
Somber silhouettes of teetering totems no longer whisper in westerlies
Near undulating kelp beds of Mamalilakula.
Petroglyphs talk in pictures veiled by vines.
History is a tapestry
And land is the loom.
Every rock, headland, and blissful fearsome bay
Has a silence that speaks when I hear it.
Has a roar of death from peaking storms when I see it.
Beings and things can be heard and seen that
Enter and pass through me to evaporate like mist
From a rain dropped forest fist
And are composted into soil.
Where mountains heavily wade into the sea
To resemble yes the tremble and dissemble
Of the continental shelf.
Where still waters of deception
Hide the tsunamis surging stealth.
Inside the veins of Mother Earth the magmas flow
Beneath fjords where crystalised glaziers glow.
Here sailed I, my dog and catboat
Of ‘Bill Garden’ build
The H. Daniel Hayes
In mountain water stilled
In a golden glory of my remaining days.
In Cascadia the images sang and thrilled
Mamalilikula, Kwak’wala, Namu, Klemtu
The Inlets Jervis, Toba, Bute, and Loughborough.

The beautiful Tiger strides as her
muscles ripple with strength
She is a stunning power house
which moves with the lightness
of a feather
Although  never with an arrogance
of a king, but with a knowing
of a great general
Her many strips earn't though an
evolution of battle and conquest
The air flooded with a juicy orange
as her many strips drift and float
out like the waves of an ocean

We all become transparent as all
is gathered within the glowing
eyes of a tiger
With her light lime eyes she
***** the whole world in
And a dash of yellow to cut
through everything
Like bright bulbs they shine and
possess a gravitational force  
Enjoying a deep comfort with
her surroundings for she fears
nothing, as the jungle wraps her
in a warm quilt she feels cozy

Her vibrant colour that celebrates
with the trees will disappear to
the colour blind as she vanishes
behind leaves
Caught in the nets of a tigers
glare her presence will cascade
all around you
Pulsing heart you become paralyzed by
her stare as she fires hooks into you  
Lost in the jungle, she is the jungle
If the Lion is king, she is the kingdom

As you stand in the presence of her
magnificent beauty her fire will
engulf you
All a blaze, forest fire orange flames
bellow from her lively fur
As you feel the tremendous power
of this fiery dragon
A thousand chainsaws cut the air
as you are beheaded with a roar
Every bone shall rattle every cell shall
cry as fear is drilled into you
As she blasts a second roar you feel
her fiery force as she burns a hole
right through you

The crouching tiger recoils her every
muscle with a thousand frustrated
springs, she ready's for the pounce  
Crackle and spark as a combustible fire
swamps the air, friction burn
Ignited she explodes her energy
burst through a self made vortex
As we see fire jumping
As she leaps through a secret passage
a tunnel in the air

Hunger driven her jaw widens and
a gateway opens as she rockets
forward with a relentless appetite  
Time stands still as she leaps
through the air
Her flight so effortless she could
be stood still in space as the world
travels to her
As a black hole is opened she *****
her prey in  

So much fiery energy can be enjoyed
when the power of the Chinese dragon
is released

I’m whirling about
There’s fruit I’ve never seen
And chainsaws
Hanging from the ceiling
Collections of rusted
And nostalgic
Remnants
Playthings of my
Past memory
The people here
Mimic the eclectic offerings
Every part of the group
Teems with
Individuality
I feel cherubic laughter
Quiver my lungs again
I head for home
Clutching a book
I acquired
From this impeccable
Trove

Paws and reflect
we're all good little kids
in bleachers, listening patiently,
allowing nonsense to continue
then the trees fell
things got out of hand
kids became adults with super strength
lifted the floors up
threw chainsaws into crowds
yessir
they grew up that day
that hour
and nobody pitied the inhanced
only wished they could join
could be as jaded as the them
climb mountains and spit acid
melt rocks with a look
but no
such characteristics were reserved for the up-and-coming
gods and titans
full of potential energy
bursting at the seams of the skin
splitting open into laughter and mockery
they will save the world
or at least give it a hell of a run for its money.

It has been two years, one month, 22 days, and 16 hours since I last saw you, and I have a gun up to my head. And even though it is my own finger on the trigger, I am just as vulnerable as if the appendage belonged to someone else. See, the thing is, you did not realize how much you meant to the world- and to me- when you found yourself in much the same position as I am now. And that is why I had to bury you, my love, under that old tree that you thought was beautiful but I thought was a mess. Though, when they moved to cut it down, I stood right there beside you in front of those **** chainsaws and I never moved in inch except to hold your hand. I will never forget the way you looked at me then. The next time I saw that look was when we were both standing there at the altar, you covered in blue and green sundress (because wedding dresses were too stuffy), and I in cargo shorts and a Hawaiian shirt you had picked out for me two days before. I remember waking up that night to you studying me. I asked you what you were doing, to which you replied, “I want to write about you”. I remember thinking that it was not humanly possible to love you any more than I did right then. A thought that would later be proved wrong repeatedly as the years passed.
And then, in the fall of 1997, you were diagnosed with a cocktail of manic depressive disorder and multiple sclerosis. I was terrified, to be perfectly honest. But I tried my damndest to keep you as happy and comfortable as I could make you. I began going to church. I wished on every star. We even sold our city house in favor of a simple country lifestyle to get away from the city air and stress of it all. And yet still your condition worsened. I didn’t get much work done anymore, but I was much happier taking care of you than I was working for that ******* company.
And then you left me that note. That ******* NOTE telling me that you were sorry and that you had had spoiled my life. Telling me that I was better off without you. Telling me that you were lifting the burden off my shoulders and that it was the best thing you could do for me.
       They found your body three days later on the edge of the river. You had put stones in your pockets, my love. But what I could never make you understand is that you were not my burden. You were my rope tethering me to the ground when I was in danger of floating off. You were the ship that carried me to new and exotic places when I lost my inspiration. You were the tools with which I painted a beautiful life, and a beautiful future up to this point. So love, when you took that final walk into the water thinking that you were doing me a favor, you were wrong. And that is why I am sitting here, on this ******* bed that once belonged to us, threatening myself for about the millionth ******* time since your passing. But this time, I think I might be ser---

God waited for Abraham's arm to be actually starting down, the biceps fully tensed.

Nothing short would do; in extremity, we learn what's true.

With a good job, a good marriage, a fine son, I had everything one could expect.  
And yet there was a lingering dissatisfaction; a malaise.
It seemed, deep down, that I didn't really feel or believe in anything.

.........                                             ­                                 
On Saturday morning, August 11, 1990, my three-year-old son and I rounded the corner at the south end of the block where we live.  We were out for a walk.  (He had been born through in-vitro fertilization, everything else had failed -- including several previous in-vitro attempts.)  He was riding his tricycle -- it's amazing how fast a three-year-old can go on a tricycle with big wheels. . . .  The house next to the corner had tall bushes growing right out to the sidewalk.  As we passed the house, my son speeded up.  My attention was diverted to men working across the street trimming trees.  Their chainsaws drowned out the sound of a car backing out of the driveway next to the house with the bushes.  The car was moving slowly and I can see in the slowest of slow motion -- I screamed, but I'm not sure just when (there's no sound track to this movie) -- the car backing into the left handlebar of the tricycle, tilting it over to the right, my son breaking his fall with his right hand.   (As low to the ground as he and the tricycle were, they could not be visible in the driver's rearview mirror at this point.)  And, then, the car stopping.  Did the car stop because of my scream?  Or had the old man driving the car seen my son at the last second before he disappeared behind the car?
.......

I learned instantly with the terrible weight of that tire inches from my son's head, that I wanted with a giant, horrible wanting for this boy to grow up healthy and to have children of his own who would, in turn, have children of their own, and that having my wife hate me for losing him would be unbearable.

All the unfairnesses I had suffered in life -- ALL of them --
instantly became meaningless. Everything was clear.
This is what I wanted; this is what I believed.

Give me..
Give me that good ****.

You know, that good ****

We're handed pipes instead of pills.
Told to smoke pain away something that's been breed 4 generations deep.
A poverty in the sheets.
An allergic reaction,
nuclear,
biochemical -
skin abrasions, lacerations -
3rd degree burns on our hearts.

Drink away the pain  to sooth the burn.
To silence the scald.

No one even teaches you to hold yourself.
Instead they tell you to find someone else to do it for you.
Make you unable to be whole.
To be three fourths **** up.

Bandaging your own self inflicted scars in the bathroom sink.

To be metal jackets made of sorrow.
To be blacked out Saturday nights, too hung over to go to church with your family in the morning.

To be so high, you never even get low.

To be light bulbs busted, stayed bright too long.

That good **** ain't good **** when it turns you into the kind of slack jawed, numb monster your mother is ashamed of.

We are a generation self mutilated - no, no - self medicated.

Raised by television sets, they made cigarettes look ***.
They made suicide look pretty,
And binge drinking look cool.

They made it normal for kids to pass around bottles of liquor at 14.

You're too young and too fast, and you're trying to not ******* feel ****.

I've been you.
I am you.

So no, it ain't no good ****.

I don't have any good ****.

Cause nothing is good, if it's never been bad first.

If it's never been broke, and broken, and sick.
If it's never cried itself to sleep.
If it's never seen its own reflection in broken pieces of glass and felt akin to the shatter.

You have to feel every inch of the low to make any high worth it.

And let it be a homemade one.

Let it be love.
And lust.
And the sun, and good art, and loud music, and jukebox laughter, and your family telling you, you matter.

Don't let it be synthetic and manufactured. Don't let it be bought on street corners, let it be home grown, and natural.
Raised in the corners of your mother's smile.

Let those good moments be you.
Let those moments be life.
Let them be the warmth before the scald, let those be the moments before you fall.


And I know it hurts.
It hurts to be a volcano victim.
To be so irrevocably in love with life when it can burn you so badly.

Believe me, being numb means nothing.

And yes, I know it's hard.
Hard to be 14,
And 17.
And 21,
And 45.

I know it's hard, so ******* hard to exist every single day.

I know the bouquets of heart break, feel like chainsaws and forest fires.

I know the boys hurt your feelings.
I know your parents don't understand you.
I know your teachers don't listen to you,
I know you hate yourself

And I know you shouldn't.

Because baby,
A pipe,
Or a pill
Or a bottle
Won't ever do any good **** for you.

Triggered much
I'm the boss
Take the loss -
I'm the sauce *****,
A1

Call my bluff
Mindless thots
Gobble ****
Catch me bustin
Like it ain't nut

Go to sleep

Fighting wars with keyboards,
While Grandma knits
Globally postal
Wit that anthrax mix
only hoping that reality splits;

These Lizard overlords
be slitherin quick
Underground:
u kno this wigga, B. Hittin-Licks

I’m ****** imminent  
to infinity and beyond
This dude buzzed lightyear,
Woody full attention;
Lil Bo Peep
She be getting no sleep,
Its a methed up situation yuh

This the celebration

Make yo ****
fissure into splinters
Crack the Ripper
with my finger
on the trigger
just hope it dont slip
~make you quiver
Rock a tight sphincter

Boi got nothing to lose
u bet your *** that I deliver
Devastating maneuvers
leave you hatin fools
Like who dis kid
with parkinsons jitters

Its a disgrace
cant lace ya shoes
But tryna play catch up
**** outta my face
*****,  hail the victor ya trippin'

Make no mistake,
my alias is satan
You lost the game
Restart the mission?

Dyslexic peasant,
I brought yo presents
I'm aggressive
reckless and relentless
got a rope necklace take some lessons

Finna hit em with that finisher
Sippin licks with dinner sure
Smokin out the villagers
**** and pillage conqueror
Down the bottle slurring words
Blurring out the big pictures
Swinging from a high fixture
Slanging sherm above the curve

rello I be rollin
biscuit limp but i be blowin
Out the water laps I'm stroking
Real **** love got homies choking

Smoke bricks kick rocks
Got the socks on with the flip flops

Golf cap on my noggin
Give me top like its hats off
grab some charmin
keep that *** soft
***** gravier than thicc sauce
Like my salad full toss
About to clobber em
Jump jump ***** crisscross

Taskforce Outlaws with chainsaws
Pale horse when that bass drop

And it’s occured to me
Since I lack the courtesy
To say the pleasantries
fore i be pushing out them boundaries

Killer O.J. quenches thirst
a murderous summer is the worst
But if the glove fits, must acquit
need a magnum, Jonnie Cochran
blast em wit the Chewbacca defense

Flowerboy spit my seed *****
Loose lips in the whip aye
Firmly grasp the shaft
when I switch lanes
Pallets of ******* call me rick James
Pull up round the clock
Gone off that rock
Knocked my mf block off ***** I'm insane
Tha fire token renegade

through that snapback
Spills ya ****** brains

We dance in the wetlands:
Hopping tree to tree in galoshes,
In snake boots.
We can hear the rattlers and
Crying crocodiles over the
Buzz buzz buzzing of our chainsaws,
But the bossman says stay down.
So we wait and watch, and when
A snake snaps to bite, we touch it
Just so: on the back of the head
With our buzzing tools. Then
We go right back to dancing
Tree to tree and rock to rock.
Step in the water and scaly babies
Will cry out for mother,
But bossman will say to stay
And shoot the mama if she snaps to bite.
We drive them from their homes,
Scaly devils, with our buzz buzzing saws
And our snake boots. We clear the land.
Where they shall go, we shall follow,
Always there is more to clear
More to cut and haul away
But we must be prepared for
Attack, always awake,
Always ready to shoot and touch
The back of their heads, just so,
With our insistent buzzing saws.

Step 1: Take a breather. Don't start going insane and terrorizing the city with chainsaws. That is in a later step. Go have a cup of tea. Calm. If you're cold go get a blanket. Think warm thoughts. Imagine you are on fire. Okay, actually never mind, don't do that.

Step 2: Go back to your computer and hold down the off button until it completely shuts off.

Step 3: Scream obscenities at your laptop, kick it and drop it off the roof.

Step 4: Wonder why it isn't turning on.

Step 5: Call your second cousin twice removed's best friend's dogsitter's guitar teacher's Polish-speaking doctor who lives in Germany. Ask him for help. Apologize for thinking she was a man and explain the ****** hair in the pictures and her extremely deep voice were misleading. Say hello a couple times into the receiver before accepting she has hung up on you.

Step 6: Send your second cousin twice removed's best friend's dogsitter's guitar teacher's Polish-speaking doctor who lives in Germany a basket of muffins with a heartfelt apology note written in Korean, to prove you are multi-cultural.

Step 7: Hug your computer and stroke it creepily whispering: Awwww who’s a good laptop?

Step 8: Dump a bucket of water on your computer when it STILL doesn’t turn on. That’ll teach it.

Step 9: Cry about your hair not being shiny enough. Get distracted by a butterfly. Wonder why there is a butterfly in the middle of the arctic. Wonder why you are in the arctic and how you got there.

Step 10: Feed your stupid meany-pants laptop to a polar bear.

Step 11: RUN in terror from the hungry polar bear with indigestion that you have just *******.

Step 12: Get your chainsaw and go terrorize the nearest village.

Step 13: Send that village a basket of muffins and a heart-felt apology note written in gibberish so they are impressed by the fact that you are fluent in Gibberish.

(OPTIONAL STEP 14: Send that polar bear a basket of muffins. Just to be nice.)

You're good to go.
Smile and talk like the perfect host
Of a happy crowd, inebriated
Vapid, inane, upperclass professionals
Play nice, your mind is a cage
Chainsaws and stretch racks dance in your head
Fantasies of impending doom,
But alas~ this cannot be
Fear and shame, fear and shame
You are a changeling.
Secretly substituted for a real girl at birth
Alone in a crowded room
Fey don't eat
Fey don't sleep
The perpetual curse of wakefulness
Only desiring to sleep forever
Walking dead, one thing brings you joy
Free fall, kindle the fire
Endorphins and fun chemicals
"The difference between medicine and poison is in the dose"
In this case, your poison
Is a cold cement bridge
Early morning snowfall
And tempting waters blow below.
Eternity passes
And then you become one with the ******* titanic.
Float back to the fairies, my dear.

chainsaws **** zombies
on my movie screen
like a nightly terror
can't help but scream.

find the crawler by the doorstep
watch the creeper look your way
strike an arrow in a socket
bleed and make your lover lay.

In a thought in a cloud
in a word with no sound

fight the distance in between
seas of memories lost in dreams.

The trees are stricken with a terrible illness
a certain shrillness that permeates
their perpetual stillness.
And I have seen them.
Their pitch dripped hearts buried underneath
Their brown and rough bark, our version of skin.
And I have cut them.
Looking for their sap, their form of our blood
Hoping to find it still sticky sweet with life,
Hoping it has not succumb to their illness
That is our men.
Men, with burly beards and chainsaws
That are the trees versions of sterile masks
And metal toothed needles
Chainsaw needles that pump poison into
The trees’ version of our arms
Their form of cancer that
Ravishes through what would be our
Organs.
Men with saws that are our version of chemo
Shaking off the leafs that would be
What we call hair
And I have seen them.
They fall down the same way we would
And are covered by our same dirt earth.

1st Verse/16 Bars
I'm trying to earn more pennies to mark me a moment in life,
A moment in time, I should probably drop this razor sharp knife,
I need to Push forward through this crowd of confusion,
But your in delusion with these rhymes that I'm using and abusing
Cos I'm confusing, consuming, choosing and amusing myself,
refusing so I'm producing more tracks for consuming and wealth,
Snapping your neck at every single beat, whilst you're tapping your feet,
So all  sit back with some popcorn you're in for a much needed treat,
I ponder and wander in my mind sometimes as I see painted pictures,
when I paint I find a story or a rhyme using these triggers,
Whilst I play with words that take years to carve and curve,
something harder to learn and yearn into something much more worth,
More to you than me so my life had, meaning from my birth,
Ripping up turf, trying to find words beneath the core of earth,
So I rap in metaphoric tongue because I'm using poetic justice,
you're frowned from above whilst you try master and craft this.

(Chorus 1)
In order to survive,
Do all you can in life,
Make yourself feel alive,
In order to survive.

(2nd Verse/14 bars)
I use a form of speech that frees the soul to reach your own goal,
so you won't be buried inside you'll confide in deep parts using coal,
to set fire to bars you spit, ripping and fitting every single hole,
Whilst I rap I'm reforming and morphing them into some sort of mold,
Because while I'm hitting, n knitting bars like threads and then sowing,
the lawn whilst I'm mowing n showing people I'm always growing,
in capacity and trying to shove off some of the animosity,
the world's in atrocity whilst I'm producing I feel it subconsciously,
As we would say in Great Britain would you like a cup of Rosie Lee
and then In France they say no musketeers without the three,
but I found me as I perfect and refine every single line,
lyrics so evil I'll be committing a grade A crime,
in time for these dimes to drop without single a fine,
Lyrics so sour you may as well **** a lime.

(Chorus 2)
In order to survive,
Do all you can in life,
Make yourself feel alive,
Find a future or wife,

(3rd Verse/14bars)
I can rap like I'm insane but other rappers are plain,
No strawberry or chocolate just vanilla milkshake,
I dream of crowds shouting my name not in vain,
Because within this ink I'm pouring my soul through pain,
Razor, scissors and chainsaws will cut you all the same,
Like these lines that will cut you up whilst I'm in the game,
i hope you realise but this whole rap is one big metaphor,
A rise to the fame and all the glory comes with downpour,
Crying so hard he might flood the whole ground floor,
Biting so hard into the rap hes got lockjaw,
I hope my next song will be featuring someone who killed a
situation to diffuse the rhyme from the bigger picture,
I'm Slitting my veins to bleed and produce on this page,
trying to push and pull salary above the minimum wage.

(Chorus 1x2)

5 Reasons I stay awake at Night:

Escape .

From the monotony of waking up and taking the same crap from the same life, no matter how many times I shuffle the deck, these are still the cards I've been given
From the nightmarish dreams of reliving my best low-lights and missteps, and coming to terms that I might never be all that I've wanted to be

From the cold reality that these sleepless nights hold the only comforts I truly have left, inside the pages of a yellowed journal, battered and bleeding ink from its blurred lines.

Distraction.

Binging another series on Netflix always sounded more appealing than taking another night to cry into my already soaking pillow until I pass out again

Playing through Pokémon fire red and naming my rival "******" was fun when I was 12, so why stop now? Even though its my.. 132nd attempt.

There is always another more obscure indie band that might somehow understand me better, and I cant leave that unheard.

Fear.

I am so afraid that when I sleep, I might never wake up from that slumber. Not that I'm afraid to die, I'm scared of how badly I want to at times

I'm terrified I will see familiar faces in my best dreams only to wake up and remember they are still gone, and I have to go on without them.
I'm afraid of tomorrow. So maybe if I stay awake past the point of sleep, far beyond tired, I can always stay one step ahead...right?

Loneliness.

How am I supposed to crawl into a half-made bed, alone when it was made for two? Your body should be here next to mine, but I cant remember the last time I felt that.

If you were beside me, It would be easier for me to drift off through the atom bombs and revving chainsaws that are my addled mind.
I'll lie awake and stare at this pure white ceiling, and think of how Michael Collins must have felt on the dark side of the moon. Sometimes I envy him.

Me.

I know inevitably, my hollow and tired bones will have to shatter as I crawl on top of the broken shards of glass that is my mattress. As I grab the blanket made of flames, I pull it up to my throat, feeling its scalding touch steel the oxygen from my lungs, the asphyxiation slowly taking me under again.

As these shards seep deep into my now lacerated skin, I feel the heavy chains of my bed frame grab me and hold me in my broken solitude, as that sweet mistress of death floats above me, gently reaching out to me.
How beautiful she is, she leans in for that sweet kiss of the end of all things, my lips tremble as I meet up to greet her, but these chains keep me just close enough to feel her cold breath, never enough to feel that serene deadly poison she offers.

But how bad I want to on days when my bed holds me hostage, to kiss her in my bed until everything turns black.

She is grass cut fresh on the hill.
She is the chaos that's holding me still.
She is birds in a nest in a tree.
She is the formlessness I cannot see.
She is here.
She is now.
  She is bread in an oven.
She is a river of blood.
She  is the vein in Atlas' forearm.
She   is  juggling chainsaws and daffodils.
She    is the deer in the forest grown from the ashes of the last forest.
She  is everything and nothing and something and some more or less.
She is the Goddess who birthed all your gods.
She is the oldest and oddest of all.
    Sheisheaven,hell,thedeepestwell.
She is answer E) All of the above.
She is fierce, violent, conflagrate love.
She is the hole punch around the binder ring.
She is the throat through which we sing.
She is swimming through my eyes.
She is running through my mind all night.
She is whispering herself in my ear.
She is the ashes, the forest, the deer.
She will repeat it, if you did not hear.
She is She is Again and Again.

She is:

A story.


A good one.

I will read I will read Again and Again.

so today I awoke
    orchid in head
and gave it all away.

The "all" being
    my grip on the here,
any thought of the now,

    trees Feel.
Chainsaws roar through the awareness of leaves,

puddlejumping in branches waving shade
    in the oil and *** of the street,

leaping in splashing down the block
    from the catastrophe of
white trash eyeing my innocence
    pretended for show

Eye through plight of falling forest,
    I give this away,
Flower in mind withers, decays,
    Puddles soak through to my skin beneath denim.

Waking up to chainsaws -
Morning the spluttering
engine of mourning. It's
in the name of truer
trees. Slicing the butter
trunks, dropping the chippings;
garnishing with finesse
my olive tree below.

I am making a log pile
I choose a chainsaw carefully,
sixteen inch
I prime it,
push in three times
one
two
three
and pull
it roars and comes to life,
I find a tree,
dead and rotting,
poor thing
there is no time to think
so I start cutting
slice
slice
BOOM
it falls.
Next comes liming
small branches fly
time to log it
careful not to hit the ground
the chainsaws teeth chew through birch
it’s a clean dismemberment.
I stack the logs one by one,
building on what is already there
one on top of the other
sometimes they fall
and I have to rearrange
but I never give up
that log pile
isn’t a pile at all.

Feeling you oh my world unjust
from matter grey growing old.

intellect chaotic in cruelty killed
mercies all dead in hearts chilled
for morsels of humanity,ravenous.
with tidbits of graces small ecstatic.

despaired for a dreamy mirage afar
in flaming greed's do I slowly char.

smoky guns rattle dealing out ******
whining chainsaws balding green all
very wombs earthy tremble with nukes
elements all so impure,one just pukes 
men in name only **** with rebukes.
   
all of us many brutalize one world just!


flowing from nooks of a spirit noble
my tears, moistening heart,well in eyes
unseeing and drop silently on earth ******.

Rich bark
clinging to oak
I am perfect
not yet destroyed
by chainsaws
tearing me down
and suddenly
I'm torn away
goodbye brown sap
and sturdy roots
collapse inward
form into a
beaten log
discarded into many
like myself
thrown into a pit
sold for warmth
not my own
time to disintegrate
into ash
flames surround me
lick burn scratch
so suddenly
I turn to nothing
turn to dust
buried with earth
I'm
gone.

i want to melt away
fall through this chair
porous and weightless
obsequious to time
and the disappearing
act it attempts every
second plowing through
space as a false fourth
dimension like fabric
is not artificial

i want to submit to the
super massive black
hole in the middle of
these lonely neighbor-
hoods wanting everything
but always empty
hungrier as it consumes
the almighty balancer
juggling light and dark
existence and absence
chainsaws and flaming
torches while on a uni-
cycle for the amusement
of what

i want to decay to have
a half life scientists will
use to date blank stares
and suburban angst
i decay faster than time
always approaching zero
asymptotic and wistful
for a perpetual motion
set to stare at the yellow
lit rain for eternity
submerged in aesthetic
my toes begin to fall asleep

you never really say piranha.... it’s more like piraña... no wonder english without the necessary diacritic spans north america and australia and the emoji platform, so the romans said: bonum, sed ν (nu) *** linea obliqus, sic ha est ad hoc tetragrammaton pars, et allah est la la; quamvis latin est mort scriptio autem non clara voce - basically just write some latin using english grammar, what’s beneath it? guess.*

i’ve written almost 10,000 poems and still i can only
remember having said one or two memorable things,
i mean, for god’s sake, the pedigree maine ****
that lived with me for the 7 years he lived to
dying of kidney failure said more memorable things
than i did, having only said meow / miał (i.e. he had it, once),
maybe that’s because i don’t actually cradle these outbursts
to much appreciation, hence my own worthy critique -
but like i said it once admiring spiderweb threads and the washing lines:
by the casual phrasing ‘killing time,’ i’m sure people invoke
the meaning: to occupy a definite space;
the antonym? that’s a bit what philosophy preaches - ‘to stand outside
all of time and space,’ well the first one i can do and feel remorseful
concerning boredom, but that gives me an indefinite space,
although this whole ‘killing time’ is a great option, i’m going to
schwarzenegger time with a sawn off umlaut, ooh... kick to the groins
watch the crouching tiger hidden *** change - and occupy
a definite space. see, you have to find the hammers and the chainsaws in language
to escape the waterfall of fictional narration, obviously grammatical
categorisation of words makes it easier to suddenly realise:
am i really typing, or actually hammering a word in?
but realising that grammatical categorisation of words
exposes unlikely-to-turn-rusty tools gives writing a whole worth
of sanity, as no longer the chance encounter, but a safe environment
to abseil like a spider which lost the plot of creativity famed by the cobweb, just ******* out a piet mondrian.

In the still and coldness outside, the constant hum of generators and chainsaws break what was silent.
The deafening buzz, despair in my mind, delivered by wind so violent.
Lives will change; foundations replaced, material things lost in a storm
From loss in remembrance is a way to start over and new life gets reborn
Gradual and forthright we start this new quest
Positive thought, the old at its rest
Rebuild with a new the end not in sight
One day at a time is a sliver of light

Joe Callari