Untitled #2

Soft sweeping hills carved into the earth
Rolling slopes next to lakes
and the infinite eastern sea
Pillars of fog stolen from Scotland hold the sky
and clouds of grey, ambiguous and intertwined with each other
Landscape like a jigsaw puzzle, where every piece is unique but
molds to create a greater unified whole
I sit floating in a personal ocean where I hunt for elusive
fish with an old man who smells of rum
Towns deserted by long forgotten ancient ancestors
and skeletal sailors still chasing their dragon
endless purgatorial fishing vessel voyage rather
than Heaven and Hell
Gaunt and slouched Uncle saunters around,
rum replaces rotten memories of his sad
Nova Scotian story
Enslaved and chained to this beautiful land
juxtaposed with its rampant poverty and ghettoesque aesthetic
A bearded child who has fallen prey to pothead politics
but maintains solidified elements of the childish
innocence that remains in my memory from five years past
walks to me for conversation
Birthplace of Mother, who fled to
Utah
       Arizona
                   Ottawa
and then for me to be born,
have I completed the cycle and returned
to draw the circle or have I destroyed the escape
and condemned her works, a process that took
decades, by longing to return to Old Sweet Yarmouth?

Invisible Rabbis

Sits on roofs drinking rum
Rests in forests, like indians,drunk, stroking his invisible rabinnical beard after using primitive technology
finding metal discs in the
opening of the rocks next to the waterfall.
Reminding me that They weren't happy just small,
driving through their forest frame in a picture
only I saw
And I will never leave him alone
with rocks, weeping at two in the morning
contemplating a life with broken feet, not a broken face
Endless conversations of the important and
unimportant
Why do people do the things they do?
Why could communism work, but won't?
Does "Charles Dickens" have balls for
how he dresses or is he a fag?
Watching over the world from a stool
behind a wall.
Yelling in the streets "We will talk about Nietzsche"
and silently reading it in his basement,
intoxicated elephants above us, dancing
but it never materialized
kisses on the forehead after enlightenment

A Cold Russian Night

I walked across the football field blanketed by snow mimicking a frozen Russian tundra exagerated by the half emptied bottle of vodka in my hand resting next to the other half that sleeps in my stomach. My organs once had solidarity but now have decided that communication is not important and have become hermits who are trying to escape one another. My feet have become frightened as they have to think for themselves now, my brain must have had more important things going on. I stumble across the vast Russian field. My veins, the vodka in them diluted only by my blood, have started a mutiny with my feet as they almost cease working already having trouble walking on snow as it is. By the time I cross I am having an easier time walking, I must be in China by now, gravel, a welcoming feeling under my feet, rolling rocks that are felt through the soles of my shoes. I round the corner of the school, Mat standing patiently, or impatiently for me, too drunk to have taken mental notes on it.

"Hey"
I can't remember what I said back to him, probably incoherent or irrelevant, maybe both. My feet have decided they have had enough abuse and want to rest, they walk away from my body and my head was not prepared and now rests on the ground. The gravel and rolling rocks no longer a welcome feeling. I got back up almost as swiftly as I fell, or it may have taken years by comparison, my head still trying to figure out why we were on the ground.

My head rests on the softest pillow it has ever encountered, my bed slanted so I can lie down, but so I am able to take in my surroundings. Pale blue curtains on both sides, bed with short white railings, crying to my right, silence to my left and a seemingly endless hallway taunting me, "You'll never reach these doors," it would say if it could talk, pale blue shirt and pants much too large for my body, which has almost put itslef back together. Then I thanked the nurse every minute for helping keep me alive.

Sober

Crazy cocaine crystalized eyes
Handlebar mustache of dirt and ash
Death manifested on his tongue in the form
of a welt from eating cigars
Makeshift windowless van driven by alcohol
Car crashes, kills cats and dogs
He leaves for his promised land north
but who knows
Perhaps he's a bum living on change
Downtown Ottawa
No more days when every red van is his
No more middle aged men possesed by late childhood
He has the essence somewhere
Maybe in his brain?
             stomach?
             ribs?
             liver?
             heart?
Months later unknown call from Yukon
Goes unaswered
Call back and his voice crawls through
the phone
No longer sounds like his throat is made
of eagle talons
I hope he's sober

9/11

At this point in time, ten years after two Boeings were hijacked and flown into the World Trade Center by a cell of Muslim Extremists (or leveled by controlled demolitions at the base of the tower depending on one's opinions of the situation). The reality of who orchestrated the attacks are now irrelevant. Thousands have been killed, the West has demonized a culture and a religion and we have started an unjust and hypocritical war.

If undeniable proof is presented condemning the Bush administration as the perpetrators or if it was Bin Laden and a group of Al-Queda extremists who were the architects behind the attacks the Middle Eastern Conflict will not cease, the airport security will not lessen to a reasonable amount of paranoia, the muslim community will still be ostricized by bigots and those unfamiliar with the differences between individuals and the greater "family" they belong to and those who have died will remain deceased.

The reaction to the attacks are not ones that can be redacted, and whoever caused it becomes irrelevant, if those responsible held government positions, they no longer have power at the time of this writing and if those responsible were part of a sect of Al-Queda, they, along with others that share their creed, culture, religion or nationality have suffered as well. We've past the point of no return, nothing will have changed once the truth is revealed, except Bush or Bin Laden will be hated more than they already were.

September 7th

Today I have done nothing
A day unremarkable, uneventful
Punch IN Punch OUT
I follow the track of every other day
of my life
Today a plane crashed and killed
everyone on board

Untiltled #1

I am Jack's soft hairless face
I am Jill's purity and innocence
I am Jack's ignorant bliss
I am Jill's soft loving voice
And I am Jack's addiction, his stinking corpse
Black bloated liver
And Jill's decaying bloodied arm, collapsing
veins clogged with black tar
I am the Duality of Man
I am everything and nothing
I am God who does not exist
I am Death and Rebirth
And you will know be by my name
I am you and everyone else