Winnipeg Yearbook

iTired

2010-06-19T21:50:00.000-07:00

i keep riding the bike
with the slow steady leak

simple math

2010-06-03T19:15:00.000-07:00

+

= 2+ [2-1]

the door explodes
with a crunch of
bone hitting wood

impatient knob twists
jerk my nerves;
basic human need insists
i unlock myself
and rejoin
my single cup
of cooling coffee

("are you using this chair?")

bangbangbangbangbang
bangbangbangbangbang

stupid lonely girl
won't leave the bathroom

i think i just need
a place where I can to retreat to

and not to hide

this is why i got baked today

2010-05-27T20:16:00.000-07:00

she looks out from behind the venetian blinds

of her Corydon Avenue Scotiabank cubicle

in a saggy yellow cardigan which

smears like margarine over her white button-up shirt

with shapeless inhibition

and i feel her sigh through the pane

wafting scents of peanut butter sandwich-ghosts

in vinyl lunchbags forgotten in formica desk drawers

mingle with Febreeze & coconut verbana body spray,

growing stale behind the slightly reflective glass

wherein i review my anxious reflection

it could be the rain

but i am instantly depressed

(brooding image)

i think i may give up drinking for the Summer

2010-05-25T07:03:00.000-07:00

driving away from Winnipeg
with a packed car and dreams of unfurling
packed dreams

two hearts pumping love songs
with surging silent violence in front row seats
to a show of rolling wind, cauliflower clouds, blowing birds
and a thousand shades of grass-covered memories

leaving Winnipeg
entering the tick-tock time of the outside world
feeling as old as we are
two hours out from
leaving Winnipeg

drive drive driving
memories into the future
of tiny sandy feet crunching in wet sandals
rain storms that shake the tent and darken the seams
lego blocks rattling in a bin in the back of a sweaty hatchback
and melting purple popsicle trails down milk-fed forearms

acrobat dreams
had to grow up
when i left

they froze
like a memory popsicle
on the Prairies

you think Winter never ends in Winnipeg

it never ends when you leave Winnipeg

the part that stays behind is
the part that lives beyond
the past and the future
the part that waits for birth
the part that never dies

the part that never wants to die

even when it is too old and achey

rocking on the front porch
in a wooden chair
overlooking a ghost-farm
which once fed the town
which now feeds the ground
the bug-detritous of its former self

it never dies

you grow old with the World
and your skin sags from the effort of living

old souls dwell in the Prairie winds

drink in the Winter
to pass the time and forget

drink in the Summer
to fill the time and make a memory

you may just as soon forget

premeditated

2010-03-29T07:15:00.000-07:00

winnipeg is an aging grand piano with a bum key
who may never achieve her magnum opus

we've been waiting 80 years for Chicago North
but as our suburbs slug across the prairies,
the core cries for change, cries quickly swallowed by
decaying brick, whipping winds, eight month Winters

...and something else...

(the clang of change jangles in our chests with growing alarm and we get nervous)

the old are padding our streets with contented familiar trails
to the droopy apothecary that will never shut down,
the dusty grocer who always stocks kitty food next to the air-fresheners,
to the bakery where they still call them Matrimonial cakes,
and the coffee is always scalding and watery,
just the way they like it

they know something

they know their Winnipeg
they know it just as they knew it
80 years ago, and how it will be

80 years from now

and they know that we will never change it,
that we will maintain it
just the way they like it

(as another brick hits the pavement)

we innvotate

we plot our escape

summer invincibility
catapults us from
wintery incubation
and we colour the streets
with sound and art

and the old nod and smile

we drink to celebrate
then drink more to quell our fears
then even more to forget

then we wake up, dried out and older
the earth turns over one more time

another notch on the wall

and winter blows in

and we lie in bed
and we lie and we lie and we lie

until we believe we are fine

until the sun ceases assaulting our senses
and we rise and fall into a slumbery walk
drawn only to artificial lights and beer
and the warmth of whoever will hold us tonight

sleep to get to tomorrow.
sleep to ignore our dreams.

jangle jangle jangle

snooze

across the city
a congregation steeps in candles and incense
within the butressed dome of a stainglassed sanctuary

songs stirring within
songs being written and sung
to attack the blackness of despair

if you are willing
Lord,

you can set me free

Freeing One,
Freeing One

set me free,
set me free

and I shall be free indeed
and I shall be free indeed

and they exit into the night
refreshed

and they exit into the night
and get into their cars and they drive

and they drive through the night
to their homes

and they climb into bed and lie
and they lie and they lie
until they believe that they will be free
tomorrow

tomorrow,
i shall be free indeed
i shall be free indeed
i shall be free indeed
i shall be free indeed
i shall be . . .

jangsnooze!

scrambled dregs on wry

2010-03-22T06:33:00.000-07:00

toward the end of things,
he was a cold iron pan

and she
a hollow egg

aftermath

2010-03-14T15:19:00.000-07:00

it is morning.

banging my head on the sunlight
i said,
"___k."

another weekend ends in a foggy SKYY haze
of dispondancy

and i wake up to reel-ality
stomach lurching over piles of unwritten essays
and unsent resumes,
caught up in an existential inner monologue
about trees falling and the absence of honey bees

we brew y/our coffee
we write our CD reviews
we attend our art shows
we pay our cover charge

we pay your interest fees
and overdue fines
we design your posters
we pierce your skin with dragons
and 'mothers'

we powder your crepes
we fetch your movie rentals
we usher you through aisles
to find your seat or organic fruit
we clear your tables
sew your clothes
fashion your jewelery

paint your walls
adorn your mantles
trim your bonsais
DJ your socials

we mould your image
with hair cuts,
artwork,
new food,
travel stories,
VIP lists
and music selections,

and boost your water-cooler cred
with anecdotes
about a world you don't actually believe exists
(but desperately want to be part of)

for some reason
i am a failure at mathematics
and cannot grasp the formula
which was laid out for me in public school:

be born +
go to school+
graduate+
go to school+
graduate+
get a job+
pay taxes+
get married+
reproduce+
reproduce+
retire+
go on a cruise+
die

=

Life, so suck it

this is the American dream
and the American dream is alive
& it's dulling my spirit

i.
am.
an.
artist.

you steal my art.
you're stealing it right now.

the more you steal
the harder i work
to fulfill your vapid life

i.
am.
fucked.

i didn't choose this

freeze-frame stop on the number 1 HWY

2010-03-05T06:48:00.000-08:00

morning shuffles across the osborne street bridge
like the lone can collector across an empty vendor parking lot

smoke signals from my cigarette call across the street and are met with a nod

gravel trucks groan and spray dust over the bridge
mixing with the gurgling, burping assiniboine
like Nestle chocolate powder, a churning, frothy brown slough

i pause mid-bridge, step up onto the lower rung of the guardrail
and look down, lean over, lift one foot and let go
of my cigarette and watch it plummet to its extinction

it hits the river and for a moment seems to get stuck in the surface
and makes more of a dent then a 'sploosh'
before the water picks it up and takes it to the refuse graveyard
or wherever it is the river takes beer cans, rogue hubcaps, homeless mitts,
fallen sparrows, tattered hats, take-out boxes

if a broken soul, tired and dreamless, falls into the river
does anybody hear?

i pull myself back onto the sidwalk and continue toward the Leg
no real destination in mind; the vague notion that time might be moving
on the other side of the bridge draws left foot over right over left over right...
below me, i hear the water sigh, then stop.

breakfast smells hang down Broadway like forgotten street garland
tacky bears tilt their goofy heads and salute as i walk by
then snigger softly at my back

i am trapped in a concrete body
placed on the cold streets of Winnipeg with the winds and ice
chipping my paint, fading grey into the concrete hue

they laugh, perhaps, because i chose to be here
they laugh, maybe bitterly, because they did not.
and we walk by as time greys us, ignorning them
and they, once painted and seen, dissolve
just like us, and they are resentful at our reckless
misuse of time

a story begins to form in my head
and i stop my mindless stepping to pause
and follow the gaze of the bears into the clear blue sky
clouds shift to the south, and birds like planes and planes like birds
traveling to destinations assured, places where life happens
or so i imagine

in my head i am booking a flight
maybe to Paris, where art isn't an accent,
it's oxygen;
maybe to New York, where self-indulgent wandering
leaves you in the gutter;
maybe to the Middle East, where death is what happens
while you fight for your life,

or to Mexico where life is a party, a celebration of a hard day's work
with streets splashed with children, fruit, and spicey cocoa mole,
with reds, ochres, azures and silver, where agave plants grow with a promise
of tequila-infused celebration in the Zucolo tonight, just because...

a nail gun barrage of snow freezes my thoughts
and my eyes snap shut as i draw the collar up over my ears
with red hands, wet cheeks, suspended breath still too terrified
to venture another taste of the chilly air beyond my clamped teeth and lips

as i enter the Fyxx i imagine a bell dinging overhead
announcing my arrival to be met by cheery 'hellos'
but instead i await my coffee as diners silently sip and snack on cookies
as surely sleepy servers, backs turned, move rags over that same stain
hypnotized, until i cough and they see me, dripping
by the till with racoon eyes.

we are all about the same age.
we stare briefly at one another
as though registering our present states
after a deep and dreamy sleep
and seeing reflections of our reality
in one another.

our resumes are written
but unprinted;
our music is recorded
but unmastered;

our poems are composed
but unpublished;
our photos have been snapped
and trapped in Facebook purgatory;

our paintings are hung
but remain unsold;
our degrees have been issued
but unclaimed;
the trees have been planted
but we will return next year;
we've moved in together
but grow tired of each other;

our ideas burst with the Spring
but by Winter they have lost their steam;

the drinks have been poured then drunk,
the venues filled then emptied,

and time skips over the assiniboine
because it has to. there's nothing here for it to do
but steal our youth and fuel its journey onward

tomorrow i will join time
just like i said i would yesterday

in touch with my solecism

2010-02-26T06:58:00.000-08:00

metallic buds rage through the cold
of a delayed wintery gust
as my open teeth radiate with chilly sensitivity

this is my winter song:

Winnipeg
with a ferociously lulling deliciousness
keeps us one more day, for one more year...

a hangover weighs on the morning sky:
the artists skulk about the stony Exchange with steamy mugs
the hipsters prance and preen in AA-dappled Starbucks
the Old plough like wisened fuzzy clydesdales across parking lots
the bedbugs skitter to wake the Woleslians and die in granola-bowl caskets
the espresso steam screams streams of Italian caramel cafeine for the morning Mafioso at BarI
a lonely suburb diner bounces bacon-crackle echoes over misfit breakfasters

my skating pond floor vibrates with the morning furnace
my mouth tastes of pencil tips
my cobweb head registers that
my belly is an uneasy jelly donut
my limbs are prickly logs
and that i was alone last night
and that i am still alone
and that bottle lays as hollow as my torso
and my heart pumps heavy contra to the pressure on my chest,
my solecism

the church bells once rang earnestly before
charging into angry anthems which now
reverberate meaninglessly through blackened scruples

my Winnipeg
my home
my Stockholm

i feel as though i made some sort of diabolical pact
what lies beneath is an inky cavity
painted with measured optimism
false hopes of summer escape
thinly veiled in wintry grumblings
but in reality

we will never leave.
not really.