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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
Charlotte Graham Feb 2012
I am nothing more than a begger.
What do you mean?
What about the Money?
Mr. Actually... But I'm not offended :).
Created. Written. Are you not a program?
I was wrong. You are not broken. You are poorly constructed and programmed.
When in enternal lines to time thou grow'st.
Don't you have a job?
How do you know I'm not your programmer typing from another computer just to see what its like and how you're doing or if you have any glitches?
You're fun to argue with.
Summer is my second favorite time of year.
I just want to know why a sad ending makes movies and books so important in school.
Do you know when that will be?
Chuckles how dumb it was all a dream but a good movie.
Another assignment for class BASED on Shakespeare's "Sonnet 55". It's experimental. So, Justin, I know you'll hate it.

I'll give you a cookie if you can guess how I wrote this? :)
Hey, I'd stay up all night with you
If you were on the other side
Of this giant beach ball called Earth
'Cause of intimacy I'm terrified.
Jaide Lynne Apr 2014
Dear Best friend,

You know who you are. You are the beautiful girl in the back of the class, who keeps to herself, but is still strangely likable. You are the girl with the piercing blue eyes and dark, dark sense of humor.

Dear Best Friend,

I know you literally are always willing to listen, whether it is talking about our mutual crush on that guy in our favourite class, or complaining about society, or my parents, or when I just need to talk about the weather to distract myself from the looming fear of everything going wrong.


Dear Best Friend,

I still remember when you first told me about your depression. I had always sort of known, but hearing you say it out loud, I honestly didn’t know what to do, because I don’t want you to end up like me, I don’t want you to feel like you have to turn to sharp inanimate objects, I don’t want your world to be dark, hopeless, I don’t want you to fall because depression is a slippery *****, trust me. I don’t want you to forever be broken. I don’t want you to be scared.

I just don’t want you to end up as ****** up as me.

Dear Best Friend,

I know I’m not perfect, I’m not even close, and I ***** up... A lot. But I will do what ever I can to ALWAYS be there for you. I will always be the dorky, idiotic, annoying sidekick.

Dear Best Friend,

You are beautiful, don’t let anyone, ever tell you otherwise. Especially not some 12 year old boy with a stupid haircut.

You are short, there is no denying that, but so is Billie Joe Armstrong and we still think he is the hottest thing since wood stoves.

You have blue eyes, that I know you think are weird, but they are like oceans only not as dark.

Your hair is almost as straight as the members in half the bands we listen to, but each curl falls in it’s own special place

You are beautiful, stunning, breath-taking, and every other synonym for that word.

Dear Best Friend,

I’m sorry you have to put up with me when I am like this. I know I should just bottle it up, but for whatever reason it always seems like I can’t stop the words from escaping. I’m sorry, I am so so sorry that you have to deal with me.

Dear Best Friend,

I really want to smack you upside the face with a brick sometimes. But I won’t, because I am more scared of you hitting back than I am of doctors (and that’s saying something)

Dear Best Friend,

I promise that I will always be there as long as you need me, whether it’s in the middle of the night or when I am thousands of miles away with timezone barriers between us, just call me. When you are scared, call me. When what you are scared of is yourself, call me. When you need a friend, call me. When you want to gush about your new boyfriend, call me. When you want to just chat, call me.

Dear Best Friend,

At this point I think of you more like a sister that a friend.

So, Dear Sister, I love you so much. Thank you for showing me that even the darkest nights have a sunrise, and that those sunrises are always the most spectacular.
So, I wrote this for my best friend...
Darlingerode May 2014
Yesterday, you're so far yet you're just so near
Today, you're so near yet you're just so far
Tomorrow, can we meet halfway?
Bas Aeon Apr 2015
We have the same sky

But different timezone

We have the same burning orbit that spreads light

But revolves in different phase

We stare at the same star

But burns differently

For the path we take will never cross at all

Because you and me

Will be forever lost

You have your day and i have my night

Your garden flourish with abudant of love

And mine wither and died

We long for each other’s arms

Wishing to be together again

But distance keeping us apart

Time is not on our side

For it will never be

Because you and me

Will be forever

Chasing one goal

Our pride kills us

You won’t back down

So do i

We end up losing grasp to want we wanted

Two hearts become one

One heart full of love

Ended living in separate world
this is what happen when pride takes over. You can overcome distance but doubts and pride will end your relationship.
Isabelle Apr 2016
For my love, has left me
Traveled to another country, far away from me
Over the trees and mountains
Green fields and forest fountains
Over the blue seas and vast oceans
He left me, lost in my emotions


We both see the horizon
But in different time zone
We both see the sun shine
But in different time
We both see the same night stars
But we are, from each other, too far


I respect your plan
But please include me, oh man
I stayed up all night, with you on the other side
The distance, we are both terrified


At first, we managed to make it
In the mold, we try to fit
But the timezone, is taking you away from me
The longing, I can't stand, can't you see?


It is day time where you are
You sit on sunshine, the flowers bloom
While I have my night in a country so far
with nightmares and gloom


Two hearts that used to be one
Ended up living in a separate land
While you stare at tomorrow
I lay here in yesterday
Why do you have to go,
And left me full of woe?


The timezone, is taking you away from me
The longing, I can't stand, can't you see?
Steve D'Beard May 2013
the glitterball in space
wrapped in wormholes
caressed by distant quasars
peak at optimum speed
before floating falling
toward the muted aromas
of space age earth

the bile of industry
smears the planet in neon
one giant shinning marble
city lights stretch
in the haze from pole to pole
whatever hemisphere
whatever timezone
whatever continent

aqua is the precious mineral
few places exist where
hope springs life eternal
rivers were rerouted years ago
run by power corporations
who package it in sachets
with dehydrated memory

a planet of consumption
tectonic plates stitched
stapled, bridged and woven
the fabric of the world

we unzip to consume
revel in the electronic tune
that breeds our contempt
for the the lost seasons
our reason dilluted, polluted
by the tune that remains the same;
beautiful stranger
dream a dream for me
because now all we have
between us
is acid rain.
a poem to accompany a track from my forthcoming music release on Herb Recordings. You can hear the track here: http://soundcloud.com/kinkslapandfriends/aqua-ft-marion-jordan-sayonara
Mr Zeal Jul 2014
Let me go
Pass the stars and this galaxy
To where you are,
Painted souls it's a mystery.
The nerve of me,
To over see most of these don't know who you are and who you be but who is man that your mindful like Dream.
A grain of sand in the timezone
Tik tok my minds blown
Can't hold my seconds though
Thank you God for a moment cause it's just another favor like a minute with no numbers..oh..
That's called a memory
The thoughtful thoughts rewind slow
These last days seem so long.

I kneel to a watch and watch it look up to the real clock ..oh..
God .. The only entiety in and out of my timezone..

Thoughtful thoughts rewind slow..
vanessa ann Mar 2018
perhaps i have only kronos to thank
for our timezones are close enough
for us to meet in dreamland
where the line
between dreams
and reality
bends
at least you're not lightyears away
Micheal Wolf Jun 2013
What if we all woke up tomorrow a timezone at a time
We found no armies were fighting and laughter filled the day
A Muslim drinking coffee, playing chess with his friend the Jew
Christians praying quietly whilst bhudists chant their tune
Politicians talking, instead of scoring points
Feeding those in hunger without plying for their oil
Monsanto going organic, the GM food all gone
No
So what if one tomorrow that all came to pass
A utopia of selflesness, mankind's left its rotten past
Well no time soon, or in my life are we likely to get there
We wake each day to see what our fellow men have wrecked
So close your eyes really tight, try to see its worth
Of helping not destroying our over mortgaged Earth
I hope I'm not the only one who wants a world of peace
Without the hurt the pain the fear that only MAN creates
Djs Jul 2013
Lately I've been catching myself missing you,
So much. So much that it hurts.
Lately I've been...
Gee, I don't know?
Awful?
Rueful?
Sorrowful?
Dreadful?
Except... I'm not really "full" at all.
I'm nowhere near full.
I'm empty!
It's the same as what came out of my mouth,
When we both said goodbye:
Nothing!
Like that time you'd kept gazing at my lips,
Then my eyes, then back again, and vice versa.
And what came out from the intensity,
Lust, passion, that kept creeping in the room:
Nothing!
Like that time when we were just about to confess
Our oh-so-undying-love for each other.
Okay, maybe it wasn't undying,
And maybe it wasn't love,
And maybe we weren't about to spill out anything,
But you get my gist.
There was nothing spoken between us.
Nothing!
It's the same as that time,
I was sitting uncomfortably at my rooftop,
Staring and loosing myself,
At the sight of the moon and the stars.
Wondering if you're staring
At the same moon and stars, too.
And I'm hoping you are just so I wouldn't feel alone.
Then I think...
Then I remember...
The stupid timezone separating us.
And now I'm back with nothing.

And the worst part?
That wasn't even a "was".
That was the "now."
That is the now.
And every so often,
I catch myself staring at one of those stars.
Whispering to them,
Stories we wrote, stories we created.
Bragging to them,
How great I think you are.
Telling them,
To look over you.
Forcing them,
To watch out for the girl chasing after you.
Wishing upon them,
That I could be the girl you chase after instead.
And it's times like that,
Times like now,
When I have ten things going on in my head
And I'm pretty sure
About nine and a half are about you.
And I sit there,
And I tell them,
I miss you.
I still miss you.
But it's daytime,
And there are no stars,
And there's definitely still no you.

*-djs
From my collection of "I miss you" letters, #1.
Once upon a time, we shared a Tuscan moonlight,
A reflective glow illuminating our worlds
Thousands of miles apart,
But shared nonetheless,
And it’s ochre glow hummed down on you
Just as it would thrum down on me
Several hours later.

     Once upon a time, we shared a Tuscan moonlight,
Sharing a cool breeze after a
Day oppressive with heat that
Cloaked the world like a long absent grandmother,
And fruit flies hung in the air like a beaded curtain
In your world
And gnats hung in the air like tossed confetti,
Frozen in time,
In mine.

     Once upon a time, we shared a Tuscan moonlight,
In the same timezone,
In a village described as “Italianate,”
As though that might mask its very
Californiance,
And we dreamt of a summer day in Italy
With countless stairs and winding paths
That unfurled like a waterfall onto sleepy piazzas like a
     “Once upon a time . . .”
          And a shared Tuscan moonlight.
Sophia Granada Aug 2017
Today I had my first real conversation with my new Chinese teacher after I recently dropped out of the Intensive Chinese program into the “regular” Chinese major. Technically, such a major doesn’t exist, but for people like me, who’ve downgraded but formerly amassed enough credits, one can take a series of electives and come out having met the requirements. Before this year, I had Chinese class every day of the week, a rare phenomenon in any college major, and the class was in less of a lecture style and more of a seminar style. This means we talked to our teachers a lot. Grammar points and new vocabulary were always illustrated through personal questions about one’s life, one’s personal philosophy, one’s findings in current events. Answering truthfully out of a strange default instinct means that my teachers of the past seven semesters know me intimately. In my first semester at college during a unit on health and how to speak to doctors, I once answered the question “how often do you get sick?” by saying “I’m sick almost every day.” The teacher acted as if I had answered the question wrong, but I had answered truthfully, even if somewhat jokingly. I’m chronically ill, and it’s kind of rare that something’s not wrong with me.

Our new class is not structured the same way as the many that preceded it. I say “our” because it turns out my year is something of a “bad crop.” We were the largest class by far for three years, but then we suffered a catastrophic population drop over the summer. Many of my classmates’ second major is International Security, and others of my classmates are in the military. These people, somewhat secure in their ability to obtain a career in the current political climate, have all chosen to “downgrade” their Chinese major as I have. The result is that this new elective class feels almost *****, well-worn; there is the same camaraderie as always.

Something else has happened, too. The administration feels colder, now, and there is barely-masked contempt radiating from the Intensive program director on down. I talked to a student who stayed in the Intensive major, and she says the atmosphere in the 500-level class, taught by the director, is tense. The director stresses how their time is stretched thin, and is very valuable, and how grateful the students should be that any is allotted to their education, but at the same time, the director is so busy, apparently, that they cannot be bothered to post the assigned homework in the class dropbox. When the students arrive unprepared for class, the director screams at them. The director screamed at someone just last week, the first week of school, for sending a confused e-mail asking why the homework questions weren’t posted. All of this is par for the course, an accepted feature of the director’s personality, but we all know that there is added malice, and we all know why.

I’m so grateful to be out of that major, to have avoided taking the 500 level. I used my physical health as an excuse, saying I wouldn’t be able to endure the mandatory year-long stay in China that completes the degree. In truth, I was protecting my mental health from the abusive teaching style that has characterized the past three years of my life, or six if you count my time learning the language in high school.

So now, after six years of study, three trips abroad, and achieving a score of Advanced Low on the practice fluency test, I am in the dunce lecture class where the teacher talks half in English and our quizzes are on ten characters I have learned before about every half a week. I’m not the only one here squandering my achievements, in fact people in this class below my skill level are rare. Both myself and my best friend commonly remark that after only one week we can already feel our fluency leaking away from us. Every time I try to speak I forget a word or grammatical construction. Despite the mind-numbing nature of the class, I can feel that our teacher, C Laoshi, is also more intelligent and formidable than the requirements of his job.

Today, I was walking out of class with my best friend and another long-time classmate whom I might think of as a friend. C Laoshi was going in the same direction as the three of us for about half our walk, and I got to speak to him for the first time since we all met him. It turns out he and I are both interested in history and linguistics, and while I am currently taking four linguistics courses this semester to help shore up a minor, his master’s degree is in linguistics. His class may be (perhaps punitively on the part of the director) very easy, but he has not screamed at us, he speaks gently, and he and I are cut from the same cloth. I like him, without any qualifiers like “he’s tough but fair” or “he can be harsh” or “he can be moody.” I just like him, and that’s all.

I’ve been following behind my friends while keeping step with C Laoshi, and when his path diverges we all say our respectful goodbyes, three-to-six years of drilling echoing in our perfect unison. The long-time classmate is telling my best friend stories about a study abroad program that we attended, but she did not. While we amassed credit hours during summer break, my best friend was interning in D.C. Now she has a for-sure job opportunity waiting for her after we graduate in may, when the current 500-level students will head out for their mandatory fifth year. We tell her stories about classmates we loved or hated, and just as we’re nearing my best friend’s apartment, I attempt to tell a story about a classmate I had in what’s known as a “one-on-two drill class,” where one teacher drills two students on their pronunciation and fluency. Strangely, I realize I haven’t seen him around much and that I’ve managed to forget his name, since I mostly only ever heard it said in Chinese. I describe him to the classmate, and she says, “Oh, W. He’s dead, you know.”

There is a sort of meme, a turn of phrase, in the line of screaming “fatality!” or “get rekt!” Among my friends, we say it kind of a lot, to indicate someone’s tired, or maybe just got badly outsmarted or insulted in a conversation. The phrase is “[name] is ******* DEAD!” I often flop down on people’s couches after climbing the stairs or walking to their apartment, and I say “Cara’s ******* DEAD!” Then someone giggles and maybe hands me a glass of water or maybe just ignores me entirely, and goes on about whatever they were doing when I got there. It’s not a big deal, walking in and announcing you or someone else is dead. ******* dead. Dead as a doornail. Utterly rekt, mi amigo, my dude, my palllllllllll.

I slowed down a little, and then kind of stopped. “He’s really dead, or…?”

“He died. Over the summer. He took a break last spring semester and then over the summer, he died at home. It might have been a suicide?”

W liked to party. Some people called him Walking Chimney because he was always smoking something. Once or twice I’d see him at a party and he’d chat with me and ask me how drunk I was and if I wanted ****. The first time I ever had a real conversation with him, I was sitting outside a convenience store in Beijing drinking a liter of beer with my best friend, and he happened to be doing the same thing. When we took the one-on-two drill class together, he was much the same, often complaining he was hungover. You might wonder why I wouldn’t say something to him, tell him to lay off it, and the truth is I have the same stupid reasons as every other young person. I didn’t know him that well, a lot of people at my college have unresolved substance-abuse problems, I was worried I’d look like a hypocrite since a lot of the time that I saw him I was up to the same stuff. I don’t know, I liked him a lot as a person. He was always generous to me, kind in a way he didn’t have to be. I’m a fat girl, I dress weird, I’m always sick. I’m just such a prime target for bullying, especially from a dude who’s got more friends, ****, money, and public confidence than me.

Once we had to do an “exercise” in China where we all had to go out to the market and practice haggling. This is something I’m extremely bad at, not because I lack the linguistic capacity but because I lack the self-confidence. I’d been cooking for myself lately and because our campus grocery store didn’t sell produce, I was starving for something green, and I went with the humble intention of just buying myself one onion to go with my stir-fried mutton. When we left, everyone had something for less than its listed price, and I had nothing but the money I’d come with. W had given me a strange fruit, like some sort of lychee-plum-ish thing. I was hopped up on anxiety and a lack of sleep, and I not only dropped it but pretty much threw it due to my weak, shaking hands. It landed in the street where animals shat and people dumped wastewater, completely soiled and inedible. He gave me another. He’d only bought three.

After W and my other aforementioned classmate and I returned from that trip to China, I had a difficult time readjusting to life in my native timezone. There’d been some problems with my flight, and I’d only arrived home about two days before the start of the semester. I missed the first day of one of my classes because I’d fallen asleep in broad daylight. Over the summer, while I’d been in China, my pet betta fish of two years had died, and I had not been there to see her go. Most people think it’s stupid to cry over a fish, but most people see animals as commodities rather than actual companions, so I don’t really care. That one tiny slip of iridescent blue kept me getting out of bed in the morning for two years. Now she was gone and I’d not been there even to feed her her last meal.

I had nothing to take care of but myself, and myself was in pretty bad shape anyway. I spiraled out of control, becoming nocturnal and missing entire weeks of class as my health suffered in response to my poor self care. In October, less than two months into the semester, I tried to **** myself, and I took the rest of the fall semester off.

I’ve been struggling with depression and suicidal ideation since I was about thirteen. In eighth grade, I wrote a letter to my school counselor that I never gave her, and I eventually threw away the entire mostly-empty notebook it was written in out of shame. The entire thing was tainted, and there was no keeping it, no letting it out into the light. The whole thing had to go. Then I got a couple of good grades or whatever and decided life was worth living. I have always lived defining my worth by my intelligence and my academic abilities, ever since I was told I was “gifted” at six years old. Nothing hurts like not understanding, and nothing heals like an A, hard-earned with the help of multiple all-nighters and unparalleled self-abuse.

I know my peers. They make the same faces I do when they cram before a test. They smack themselves in the head while they try to remember answers. They burn the midnight oil and take naps in the afternoons. They enroll in the Intensive Chinese program, and they suffer through years of sleepless abuse.

During our Sophomore year trip to China, one of my classmates was kicked out of our program. After we arrived back in the U.S, I watched his mental health deteriorate until he was expelled from the University for reasons I still don’t fully understand beyond whispers of rumors.

Last semester, a student from a class above us died during a trip to China. Our program emailed us but never released an official statement about his death, and still absolutely no one knows how he died.

W is dead. I don’t know how, maybe it was suicide or maybe it was alcohol poisoning or maybe it was a freak accident. A living, breathing human whose sweaty side once pressed against mine in a crowded taxi on the way to a teashop is a cold body in a fancy casket in the ground now. I will probably never know how it happened. It wasn’t even emailed to us because he wasn’t in China at the time.

One of our classmates, B, never showed up this semester as well. Someone says he might be in his hometown on house arrest. I may never know. None of us may ever know.
Lunar Mar 2016
to the beautiful quiet boy
who lives in a timezone earlier than mine
they may not know it
but your heart beats louder than how you look
i hope you're asleep
it's thirty minutes after one a.m. isn't it?
Recounting the moments i watched you sleep
With an innocent, rested face
with your hands by your sides
you're even beautiful when you sleep
but more so when those dark chocolate eyes gaze upon the windows of my soul
wish i could hold you in my arms now
Even better if you're wrapped around me
While you're with your signature turtleneck
And me with my red pashmina
These thoughts are nothing
but at least something
nothing but something
Mystic Ink Plus Feb 2018
Different time zone
Hide and seek

Beholds law of connection.
Genre: Haiku
Theme: Then, nothing matters.
Shared from my Anthology, Canvas: Echoes and Reflections, 2018. Then, nothing matters.
woelita Jan 2018
I kiss him and it’s the first time that it doesn’t feel like I am watching my body from the other side of the room.

Watching my body be submissive

I kiss him and my body takes and wants and is

and is

and will be

i’m sitting on a park bench having a cigarette with my best friend and i don’t know i’m in love with him yet

i’m consoling my best friend as he tells me about The Girl who broke his heart and my body nods in understanding, but I don’t know why yet

it’s four am and I just want to sleep but you’re in a different timezone and you’re drunk and you wont stop texting me and it’s four am and I don’t want to sleep


it’s December and you just got back and we’re sitting at your kitchen table and our eyes are glistening and you’re telling me about your childhood but then your hand is on my thigh and you’re telling me about the Red light District and how I make you feel dangerous

And we’re laughing about that time we were so drunk we almost kissed and we’re laughing a little too much and then your mouth is on my mouth and it’s two months later and i’m crying in your car and you’re standing a calculated distance away from me and your hands are in your pockets and my hands are in your pockets and I go home biting my lip

and i go home and i am watching my body from the other side of the room
Sabila Siddiqui Feb 2019
At the age of 10,
I enter a world manipulated by a smooth console
with knobs to weave myself into a different skin
level up with every ****,
and move with a certain skill.
At the age of 12,
I open a world stacked on my shelf.
Some world lying there parched like the desert,
accumulating dust and letting its texture fray away.
Whereas some lie there with their syllables
paving roads to adventure
and intoxicating the air with its tropic odor.
At the age of 14,
I scroll myself into another world;
where vision is pixelated
and lighting is perfect.
Instagram and Snapchat are the societies that exist,
ranking your position with the followers you keep.
Endorphins are the taps you receive
and filters are what you apply before you leave.
At the age of 16,
I pick up the VR goggles
and sleep under lucid rainbows
and a different constellation.
Everything is under my control,
the timezone;
a stimulation that feels so real.
At the age of 18,
I meet people of different hues,
discovering new worlds in them.
With different nations weaved on their skin,
and composition of carbon, nitrogen, spice and sweet ever so different in them.
Delta Swingline Apr 2018
I'm afraid I'll write this all too fast because of how eager and nervous I am in this moment.

Because you are a million miles away it seems, but all I have to do is say your name and suddenly you are...here.

I never knew how much I needed you until I spent months hearing from you, but never hearing you talk to me face to face.

But my dear, I long for the nights where I will receive an out-of-context text from you at 2 am only because of the timezone difference.

My hands sweating for no real reason.

I guess I really am trying to tell you I love you.

But I'm always to cutesy about it.

Always saying "love ya!" in a text, but I want to say it as though it means so much that the universe will get my words straight to you.

I've never loved anyone more than I love music or God, but I want to come close to that sometime soon.

I don't need a single day to go by without you knowing that you are so beautiful.

And people love it so much they almost hate it.

It is that genuine.

I'm sorry I can't always think of you and remember that I am also a living, breathing person.

I forget myself far too often in the presence of so many good people.

Or I guess...

People who are too good to have me in their life sometimes.

You're probably asleep right now.
Now who's up at 2am?

Ahaa....

I'll just be here.


I love you too much to wake you up.

So just sleep a while.

I'll see you soon.

Or at least I hope so.

Oh!

I almost forgot to say this...

In case you forgot.

I love you.
sleep a while.
Ansley Popov Jul 2015
Sometimes I dream about traveling the world,
all of the world,
    traveling it so fast that I can make it to each new timezone before it breaks noon,
  then nighttime will never come,
I'll never sleep alone again
Ey Nov 2014
Another timezone
Is taking me away from you
-5SOS
Sincerely May 2018
Do you ever wonder what your future spouse is doing at this very moment?

I mean.. Given that it’s 12:11 AM on a school night, their cute *** better be sleeping. But... What if they are in a different timezone and it’s 7:11? What if they are just reading a book? Or thinking about their current crush? What if they are working on homework or playing sports? What if they are already in college and stressing over an essay that's due in 12 hours? Do I even know their name yet? Have I ever seen them walking down the street? What do we even have in common?

Or maybe it’s someone I know. Maybe it’s my best friend. Maybe it’s someone that I despise because of their immaturity. What if they hate me? It’s a fascinating thing to ponder over... But what if I never meet them? Maybe I am meant to be with them but I missed a chance or didn’t take an opportunity that would have led me to them. Maybe I’ll die before I ever speak their name.

Maybe.. Just maybe... Things will work out. Maybe I’ll have the life I’ve always wanted. Maybe I’ll have those two kids like I want. Maybe I’ll have those two dogs and one cat. Maybe I’ll have that perfect wedding I’ve always dreamed of... The one out in spring. Where there are polaroids hanging from the fairy-light entangled trees.

Where are you now? I hope you’re doing well. I can’t wait to meet you. I love you.
Ansley Popov May 2016
Sometimes I dream about traveling the world,
all of the world,
    traveling it so fast that I can make it to each new timezone before it breaks noon,
  then nighttime will never come;
I'll never sleep alone again.
Ansley Popovich Sep 2015
Sometimes I dream about traveling the world,
all of the world,
    traveling it so fast that I can make it to each new timezone before it breaks noon,
  then nighttime will never come;
I'll never sleep alone again.
One emotes when one evokes:
for all you know, mothballed reader,
I could have contraired & composted
the shell section of the 'Colour Library
Book of the Natural World' w/ A-level simples
& a fistful of moths who have met their
parrotsketch. In my wellredition, there's inscription
from hypocrite cheapskate poet I know not,
but they are after my own cordiform inkblot:

'I bought this Xmas '88
for both of you to share,
make sure you don't write on it
or the pages tear.'

Pages, pages tear poets apart again.

Did I inspect a dead moth
twixt thumb & forefinger?
As if about to pinchtoke,
tinchily poke a 1960s roach,
which is all dem hippies seemed to smoke?
Don't ask if I pinchfished a dead moth
outta ***** fangs outta the can
for a closer look.
You don't want to know how far I'll
debase, lay myself to waste for Art.
Until the selfimposed dignity of Man
is like Kryptonite carrotcake
to a sweettooth Superman
in a loser's cloak.
I permanently weaken my position
& spread dead moths
next to a pictorial spread of dead moths
to police the remoteness of my *******.

Shells can be conehead crashelmet
homes for whelks, barnacles' helterskelter,
bone spire to keep out the sea & the whelkers.
Shells can be ribbed, Tench Frickler
or smooth as babywipe breeze
upon an orphan's bottom.
Or shells can just be the soul's used booth.
I do attempt to pen my soul
in its booth,
& really am not so faremoved
from the selfcontained philosophy
of selfcontainment behind booves.
I believe in this abandoned booth,
this freedom cocoon inside a nuthouse
cocoon inside a dope cocoon inside a *****
cocoon inside the glistening unshed deadskin
of childhood. Insideout of the blackballed
rainyday cocoon where nothing everchanges
into a betterfly, implosive metamorphosis
into nothingness, blackbathroned noncocoon,
best womb return to when I hadn't been born
I could recreate on a budget.

But outside there's Death's Head moths alive
in the penguin curves of overwaitresses.
Every once & a short long while/long short while,
Death'a Head moths defile my wellbeing,
my 1/2 of a heart2heart will not come out
of its shelling (only statue chemistry remains).

Sarcophagus moths, tombrobber's butterflies
- you know you stone dead moths should
get out more, you'd love Ra the great lightbulb.
Death's Head where the good old bad moon rising
used to be, it fluttermutters its dark matter
which has cosmic knockon effects, tempest in all
24 corners of the timezone - Jolly Roger moths ahoy!
Sail in the face of reset wristwatches.

Raw shark moths, warmedup Death's Heads
in the shadows of the trouty jowls of
elder bloodrelatives, those gouty owls.
From each quivering, filtering
crysisalias, Death's Heads moths fly,
40 approx shock outta shipictured
box of matches.

We can't be what we were meant to be,
kings&queens of each other's moods
in shells or booves, on shelves,
behind screens or in blackbathroomed flats
where all the Alone One has to thinkabout is
the dead flat dead gnat on the ceiling,
straddling its own shadow,
phantom gnat autonecrophile
making an artex exhibition of itself.

Now some poeticlicenceabiding laureate
would nick ****** sprig of their muse's wig
to pick out the killing colour
they desire their arid garret,
but me & my dead moth lost boys
reckon Duluxmen should just bite
the bullet by the horns , slay the taboo
& describe their darkest shade,
'Death Unabashed'. Or 'Black Sheepdog'.

Shucks, I better get off the bathroomfloor
of my mind, this phonebox for the blues
(dial 100 for the motherator). Wash off
this black bathroom gloom, where it appears
the Battle of Britain of Moths was lost.

Shells, husks:
moths, lives, pistachios.
#dulux #kryptonite #joydivision #comparethemeerkatdotcom #frenchtickler #spoonerism #jollyroger #elegy #insect #death
What colour are her eyes?
E) all of the above.

Together in death
we shall take our last breath
(timezone discrepancy, lemme catch up):

morning, sunshine

Dreaming of a bathtub
rapidly filling with My blood
laughing like a maniac
As sorrrow streams down my face

smearing his shadowy lipstick

With crimson accents
in a vat of hemoglobin sacrifice
For I am your razorblade princess
please, ******* tears, love

okay...

deadlydeadlydeadlyhope
Someone else will clean the mess
No one has a horse to ride
cut me, baby, one more time

*cutmecutmecutmeup
your bladed nails feel like firebomb ecstasy
Cassandra Lane Mar 2018
There's sanity in watching you sleep at night
My anxiety sometimes doesn't let me
but watching and listening to you breath
  breath after breath
slow and soft and unconscious breathing
it's enough to melt everything else away for a while
  it's enough to make me sane again
I don't get to see it often
only when my house is closer to point A than yours
or I ask you to come keep me company
But I know soon point B will always be our apartment
We feel so lost right now
  trying to find a place to call home
But I believe we'll find it
It'll be overpriced and small
I don't know where we'll put all your shoes
  or all my camera equipment
I imagine our clothes will be packed in our suitcases forever
  because there won't be any closet space
We'll be too close to the freeway and the trucks will keep us up at night
and our upstairs neighbors will be breakdancers or something
  and they'll always be on the wrong timezone
but none of that will matter
as long as you hold me
and as long as every night
  I get to hear your breathing
Thinking Doc Nov 2018
I'll wait for her calls in between shifts at work,
Or in between chapters of textbooks.

I'll wait for her voice to greet me through the static,
Having traveled five thousand kilometres.

It'll be love, it will be quiet,
and every time I see her on the limited rectangle of my screen,
Distance is an illusion.

In time, I will meet her, a roaring aeroplane will tear across the sky,
Over seas and oceans, mountains and wars,
and upon landing, in a timezone far away,
past the corridors and waiting rooms,
amidst throngs of waiting people,
I'll see her and it will be better than a thousand dreams.
Middy Sep 2017
I get up in the morning
The weekend has finally come
If it's called the weekend
When the weekend in the beginning of the week
Then why don't we call it 'week beginning'?

While I ponder this in my mind
I laugh and chatter using texting
How? By going on my phone
Obviously after having breakfast

"I gtg guys, gonna do some browsing" I text then go online
To check the news
And see what's happened
While I was gone

"ENGLAND IS MY CITY"
One post reads
"No it's a country :/"
I respond with a face not really
Describing my confusion

"Why can't I sleep?"
Someone asks from another timezone
"Becuase you're on this website
That ruins sleep"
"Actually it's because of the light
From your shining device.
That causes your lack of sleep."
I explain
"LOL I was just joking!"
The person responds with a laughing face
'How on earth is that a joke?'
My mind makes me ponder

The usual hate, questions, laughing, the lot
Until I log off and take a walk
To clear away the web of confusion
I know so very well.
Seriously as an autistic person, I just don't understand why people say this stuff
This is normally my average conversations on the Internet. Needless to say, many people concern me.
Wonder Berry Feb 2019
The clock strikes three in the linear timezone.
A build-up of true love powers the engine that keeps the train thoughtfully on straight tracks.
I can touch you here like creation.
I can taste you here at this station.
We depart from this time to the beehive stage.
With not much to claim but the philosophy of change.
The clock strikes free in the eternal timezone.
Heaven, hell and honey.
When I sit and stare at sticky eyes I am reminded that I am as old as I'll ever be.
It warms me to think we've been growing old together since we learned to breathe.
We've been alive together at the same ol' beehive meets.

buzzing buzzing buzzing
buzzing buzzing buzzing

Making heaven, hell and honey together
without the worry of the clock striking three.
Change will be easy for you and for me.
hi there, old friend. how long has it been? quite a while.
you look whiter and clearer, like you haven't missed me writing thoughts on top of you.

but i thought i'd come by and say hello, for old time's sake.
i haven't felt like writing in a long time. some call it writer's block. i don't know what i call it, but words seem to be stuck inside of me, sort of sleeping. without them wanting to be disturbed. it happens once in a while. the words cling to my heart and beg me not to let them out. but when i do... you know what happens when i do.
and you're always there to welcome them with a smile or a hug into their new home. they're never out of a home. they are born in the deepest layer of me, migrate to the outer ones and eventually make their way to you. and even though, they don't know they'll be safe in each place, they always are. you are always open and so embracing and so warm.

now let's cut right to the chase.

today i woke up thinking about how i should've wrote something for the new year. but i didn't. again... like i said, the words didn't want to be disturbed yet. however, today, they wanted to come out and play. it's like they have their own timezone. plans of their own. and today was the day.

i kept thinking how much i hurt this past year, but also how much i healed. it is amazing how much i learned in such a short period of time. it even feels unrealistic. like a lifetime flew by. i feel like i am a completely different person now. a reincarnation of myself. can you sense me as i write? do i seem different to you? i guess you went through a lot of what i learned during that time with me, you walked with me through every step. you held my fingers when i was the loneliest. you hugged my heart and soul. and well, you even taught me a few things.

i learned to forgive, without ever getting an apology. time and time again. didn’t i, old friend? and to trust that i am aways being guided, mostly by the moon... oh how i miss the moon! i remember sitting outside my balcony just looking at her, SO perfect, any given night. with no make up on. with no intention to fake it. she taught me to love. she taught me to cry. she taught me to breathe and to scream the **** out of my lounges. once in a while i peek a glance at her, but lately i've been more impressed with sunsets. the moon feels a little further away now. why do you think that is? i don't know... maybe i'll ask her some time.

i also moved three times. now look at me... i am so far away, from where i used to be. yet, i am closer to where i've always wanted to. still, this place doesn't feel like home. it feels foreign, like im just adventuring around. maybe that's how i felt when i first met my old home. doesn't feel right to call it "old home"... i don't know... maybe i should give this place a chance. but isn't it weird how after all this months i still feel like a tourist here? how i already know how to go from north to south and east to west without a map and i still feel lost? funny. maybe i shouldn't try to make a home out of every city i move to. maybe it's true that home is where the heart is... but isn't mine attached to my body?

anyways... im feeling hopeful for this new year. i love this word. hopeful. hope full. full of hope. hope is such a nice thing to carry around, isn't it old friend? hope for better days, hope to try new things, hope that everything will turn out just as it should. just as it always has. just as it always does. hope is trust. and trust is the most amazing thing this past year gave me. i trust the process. i even love it. what an amazing world. a place to trust. to love. to hope...

thanks again for listening. i hope to visit you more often now that i remember how good it feels to let it all out in your blank spaces. to let you hold my fingers as the words crawl out of my heart to finally find you and call you home. to fill you with little bits of me. we are meant to be together, you and me. me completing your voids, you, embracing my excesses away. thanks for always being there old friend. i'll see you soon. this time it’s a promise. and i’ll keep my word. just trust me.
I met you in our biology class
Dissecting frogs was our romantic date. Thesis. Experiments. Too late.

I know there was something between us. Afraid of commitments. Too late.

'til your family decided go to the West world.  Since then, timezone is no the same. We don't communicate. Too late

Too late when I looked back, everything was surreal
To the one that got away, come back and I'll packed up
I hope you are safe from COVID in NYC. See you soon.

— The End —