haiktwo

we train ourselves dumb
divine fraudulent creatures
potential, blinded

haik!

treasure my absence
i won't come home without it
soon we'll all be gone

bookend

we danced in water, fully-clothed, deeply sunburned.
and then he brought me a feather.

the wind dance

on a clear, borderline crisp afternoon, she sits sea side, bike kickstanding, while watching the kites chasing kites on a backdrop of mountains.

the fliers are conductors, the wind the orchestra, the sight the sound.

people stop everything. they slow their pace to a standstill, chin cocked and eyes squeezing out the glare of the sun as they watch the dance, every-coloured nylon on sky.

exceptionally choreographed, the fliers mimic the dance on the grass while an old man steals it in his 8mm for later.

she watches the fliers and only the fliers now, erasing the handles and strings that attach them to the sky. the mimes, enraptured in dance, push and pull and push again, lunging, hands up by their ears, extending their arms from the elbow, down to their hip bones, compensating for drag, all slowly and in control.

it is a native call of sorts.
delicate fury, winds tamed, hearts unearthed.

each flier hanging from the sky, as grounded as the kites are weightless. they act in perfect unison.

there are three types of fliers out on this afternoon:

1. the fliers who taunt the wind. who test their skill by flying their diamonds, stars, triangles, boxes, straight towards the ground before tucking it back into the blue, flirting with disaster.
2. the fliers who play with the wind. who make soft lines, loopy figures, and pretty designs, covering all territory, exploring the sky as they would a lover.
3. the fliers who fight just to keep their kite airborne.

but they all have the dance in common.

it becomes a meditation. each ritualistic loop, each tantric figure eight.
it is easily the most perfect place to be at that moment, in that weather, on that day, in this city.

but as in every story, beyond these fliers near a granite sculpture on the far side of the field, a young girl struggles to share their sweet air but instead ends up walking her kite like a dog.

toss me a new one

for the forever it takes to scrape the drunk off my teeth i will think about what could have been, what would have been, had i not been so new.
for the forever it takes to down this green water, to claim back what was once mine, good health yesterday, i will deliberate what name to call you by.
for the forever it takes to sludge off the eye make-up, to count and re-count the change, to find my id, to dispose of the bottles/business cards, i will look forward to it happening again.

some friday, a long time from now

tried and tempted. nothing more than a bottle of wine and a balcony view.
we'll throw pennies at the sidewalks below, only hoping for something fatal. something we can call real.
the strong can take our hands time and time again, but nothing will make us more giddy than to slip our greasy fingers through their hold and run.
we'll look back ten minutes later when we'll both double over, and you'll claim how you can't run while you're laughing.
with your hair on your tempid forehead, your cheeks perfectly flushed. oh, you're a sight for the faint hearted!
boothed merchants will push bracelets and goods on us, nothing we need but everything we hope for. a shiny jem, a seedless jam.
you'll claim to save those take-out containers due to laziness. but it's all to remember a good time - a better time. a time when no one counted calories, or minded the garlic breath. you'll save those containers forever if you have to.

catalyst

he wished that she knew.
i can assure you that i do.

pork

the butcher takes his smoke break out front of his shop.
with blood on his apron, he digs for his cigs and matchbook.
the cigarette sits small between his fat fingers.
inhale. chinamen aren't usually as tall as he is.
exhale. he hates his job.
inhale. he only stays for the
exhale. pretty lady who comes in on fridays.

someday

i want to wake up and find you there.
i want to make breakfast, different breakfasts every morning.
i want to go to work because i want to, not because i need the money.
i want to spend my lunch breaks meeting new people, eating at new cafes, or busting home to walk the dog.
i want to meet you after work where we would go to the old theatre, the sushi inn, the beach where we'd surf.
i want to come home to a warm house with fresh flowers on the kitchen table and with walls that smell of us.
i want to drink red wine while we make dinner.
i want to make use of our fireplace where we'll read, play guitar, write or i'll beat you at cards.
i want to share a bath with you.
i want to explore the dark with the only senses that can.
i want to do it all over again.

ultimate fear:

i am only a vice.

his demons are calling.

poor boy chases liberty until she rears her ugly head. he always finds her two towns over with tar on her fingers and addiction on her lips. no one believes him anyway. they take his single truths as a monument of lies because they always were. yet, unyielding, he takes the stage. he renders to the last second to slip between the flats. he won't even humour us with a bow. he will have already slipped out the fire exit for a smoke and a taxi to the station.

he will just barely make the train out of town. the door will close on every magazine and newspaper the tardies shove in where the doors meet, will crush it everytime. he was smart and jammed the door with his neck so he'd not too soon forget the time he almost missed his only way out.

his will to forget is shoved in the closet with all the meaty demons he feeds at night. he keeps his demons where he knows they’ll be, harbouring them, averting surprise attack.

this poor boy carries the world, bad shoulders and all. he weeps for the company who rarely comes around anymore for they heard the demons – their scratching – from the closet. they ran scared like most do.

the poor boy lives in his mind, the only place where he can float above all this. his body will continue will continue, will keep on, keep on, doing everything it’s doing, so as not to get a rise out of the demons. isn’t that the idea? trick the demons into going away. or reversely, staying exactly where they are, so when he skips town next, they won’t know how to find him or how to keep up. it’s really a brilliant scheme this poor boy has.

the girl was a merciless stage manager. holding the script, prompting the cues. she unalarmed the door for his silent escape. she distracted the conductor with her eyes that smile, the way they do, for that split second it took him to get on. she's been meaning to ask him how he keeps his demons. hers are out of control - running the streets, burglarizing pet stores, thieving art galleries, amok!

that once merciless girl was there when his company high-tailed. she was walking up the steps with a jello mold. his company, in such alarm, knocked her jello mold out of her hands. the red and green and yellow and pineapple chunks smashed into the snow. having nothing to offer but rainbow looking vomit, she headed home, hoping her demons hadn't changed the locks on her while she was gone.

she sees him floating above it all. she sees this because she does it too. but not to worry, she won’t inform his demons. she’ll be the one holding his bus fare while he ties his shoes, the fast ones, and will be the one skipping town with him. they will run so fast their demons will have no chance and no choice but to find someone else to burden.