iTired

i keep riding the bike
with the slow steady leak

simple math

+



= 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

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

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

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

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

and she
a hollow egg

aftermath

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