sometimes i think my muscles are turning into concrete

a sloth moves slow in my head.

i think about it before i move an inch.

inch worm.

salty eyelids and cappucino breakfast.

i'm here for love.

The Murder of the Blueberries

picked in the dewey morning, placed in basket.

they are round, full, soft, character oozing out.

bought under the sun, contained and lidded, shut in the cold, dark, dungeon;

left there.

the gelid atmosphere creeping close, sinking in, completely inhospitable.

benumbed, the soft fruit become marbles, hard like glass.

claustrophobic in their coffin, caught little cadavers until they are called for,

spooned into dishes, one by one,

a little parade,

placed in the mouth, thawed, crushed, and swallowed.

destruction complete,

the blood of blueberries on my tongue.

from the bottom of my heart

comes a heave of air.
if sighs had the power to teleport people, i swear that one would have landed you
right there
in my lap in that dusty truck.

The future is yours

You make one choice.
And then you get to figure out how long it takes to fix it.

What if none of the options were right anyhow?
Is this life, futility?
How is what you feel one moment any more right
Than what you feel at another time?

Is it a matter of public opinion? The foundation of democracy;
Majority rules? A sacrificial lamb; one for the many?
Ask the lamb why it is being slaughtered. Does it know?

One thing forever, all the forever within your grasp.
One title, one purpose, one function to serve,
Repetition until the end.

Your choice is your one moment of freedom.
They will tell you to embrace it, to revel in the openness, own it.
So why does it crush you, compacting your insides,
Like a forsaken gutted car in cubic form?
Is this the masterpiece of your life?

Skittish

If you move too quickly, I will run.
But it doesn't mean I want to.
It's an escape mechanism my heart created
when it figured out
that I'm vulnerable.

I have so little control, I'm paralyzed
by what could be. The whatifs travel in packs,
my most feared predator.
They nip at my heels, draw blood as my heart beats
loud and fast in my ears.

So be patient with your pet. I don't always understand.
Maybe if you stand still, just quiet enough,
I'll come
and learn to trust in your affection.

The innocence of babes

When you entered the world,
the walls were white,
there was light on your face,
and you experienced affection.

In your mother's hour of bliss,
someone was hungry.
Someone was told "There's nothing we can do."
Someone's home was destroyed.
Someone's father was shot.
Another father carried a pink piece of paper, and worried about his family.
Children's homes were torn apart by legal papers.
Someone held a razor, stroked the sharp edge with their eyes.
Entire families were wiped out, for having the wrong colour skin.

And the first thing you did
was cry.

Only obediant when bridled

No.

You are not entitled to any of this.
You can't just expect everything to land into your open whining mouth.

You did not work to earn it, or pay for it. You do not own it.
What kind of self-righteous bastard are you?
Bastard doesn't begin to cover it. You are an abomination all your own.

I will no longer coddle you. Take your demands somewhere else,
where they will never again reverberate in my ear. Once
I might have gladly fed you the moon, grain by grain,
singing sweet lullabies over you all the while. Once
I might have quenched your thirst with the nectar of a thousand sweet lilies,
charming the bees to find another field.
That time is far past.

For I've burned the veil you had cast over my eyes.
I am my own. You hold no claim to me.

Pressure

Time changes everything. Perception shifts with the sand in the hourglass.
Not an accurate representation, since man can turn it, smash it, ignore it.
Time, unlike sand, does not obey traffic signs.

Time versus peace: draw the graph
your pencil chasing down lines as you
sweat, your eyes tied to the clock's ticking
by fishing line, the hands tug and you bite.

While the seconds seep away, you panic, struggle,
stricken by the realization of time spent.
Flop all you want, the line has pulled you out.

Nostalgia

The smell is new.
And I don’t know why it’s so
Recognizable.
Does it hold its promise in its scent?
I can’t explain. It just speaks to its freshness, its
Clarity. This is how the future is spelled out:
Through nasal passages winding down to lungs,
Air dragged deep within, translating the message to your blood,
Carried throughout,
The promise feeds all you are.

Nowhere to go but my head

Your time is going by. And I can't help but wonder if you're just trying to cram it all in.
Do you enjoy this? I can't help but wonder what you gain from degrading me.
What is the trade? For my agony, for my loss, what is won? There must be a profit.

I become less.
I am so tired. My deepest urge is just to sleep, drift.
Even the nightmares would be bliss, if only for the familiar faces.

The end of the conflict

Anger flashes hot across your face.
I've pulled the invisible trigger to your wrath.

It's in a new place every time. I'll
tiptoe,
hold my breath, and cross my fingers,
feeling out your ever shifting moods.

You can live inside your head and allow yourself to be ruled
by your passing passion,
irritation not being the same as sensitivity.
But you will never understand who the victim is.

I know there is no more I can do.
You scream for me to
JUMP
an impossible feat. And I try, I've tried,
but you always move the bar.

I am exhausted.
Nothing, nothing left at all in me. I dream to escape one day,
rehearsing in my dreams how life will be different,
how
I
will choose. It's close,
so brace yourself.
Your circus girl will be gone.

Know This

How do you know?

How do you squeeze the life air out of the worries
before they suffocate you?

I want to be sure... but it's just so
scary. And I'm
small.

I know you know.
And I'm glad one of us does.
One day soon, I will too.
You know this.

Useless

It's clear, then,
that we are what we do.
Worth stems from production.

I'm sorry
that you have no use for me
because I can't do your
biding.

You

why can't I be like you?
your skill draws
a sigh
outpoor my lungs.
the soul's voice of longing.

I am able.
I can do many things.
but none are like...
that.

and I blame my body, its makeup somehow lacking, inadequate.
maybe it's my mind, not willed enough.
or maybe it doesn't matter.
it's just the whole thing.
I can never be you.

On My Mind

on my bed.
just me.
the ceiling has never been so fascinating.

in the empty room we have a conversation where i play both parts.
but of course you missed it.
your every word on replay in my mind
like the highlights of last night's hockey game.
well, maybe not all the highlights.

my favourite moments are when you
are there

A Christmas Holiday

The white berries hang overhead,
a not-so-sly booby trap,
schemed by a stranger for whatever purpose,
no one really asks.

An eye catches the plan,
but its mouth remains closed
twists to a smile.

Some deformed relative of the Venus flytrap, the insect
lightly grazes her fingertips on two hairs
of his arm.
He takes his cue, his eye's plan realized.
He swoops her, bound under the magical powers of the mistletoe.