11/05/13

iv.
i am still ruled by compulsions of odds. as i near the end of my first round, i know that if i keep going, i have to complete a circuit of three. the uncorked wine in my living room pops into my mind, a fully-formed landscape of comfort and warmth, and i compel my ipod to make the decision for me: if the next song that comes up on shuffle is appropriate for stalking the streets at night, i will continue. it isn't. i reflexively hit next, and this one is. i keep walking. there was a time when i made these decisions myself and walked in silence, but i can't remember it.

iii.
tiny pieces of stone shine like remnants of car crashes and vandalism, and i know that i was once fearless in the sight of them. my soles have gone soft. it used to be that at the first hint of spring, i would set myself to Toughing Up My Feet, but i have become lax in my old age. even the discarded buds of trees glinting in the post-storm moonlight make me wary. there was a time that my fingers wouldn't have clenched around my house keys like they do now.

i.
the wet dirt on the front lawn gives quarter to my bare feet. this is the first rainstorm; there is no squelching between toes or sinking into the ground. something inside of me rings with every squeak of grass: this is all you are surrounded by.

v.
my gravel driveway makes me dance and stumble in a way that something deep inside of me finds embarrassing. surely, it says, surely, we are still adventurers-- we fly out of the house when the need arises, when the call comes, when the air beckons, and we pause for nothing. we are accustomed to roughness and we have shaped our body in its image. we do not worry about such flimsy and coddling things as shoes. i'm sorry, i weep to it as i find mercy on the softened planks of wood behind my door. i'm sorry. i'm sorry.

ii.
poorly installed gutters drip steadily onto what another version of myself would have wikipediaed mid-poem to identify as metatarsus.

2009

maybe i am just a rorschach test

abstract eyes
an inkblot of a mouth
something distorted and vague

a mess
you saw yourself in

the ugliest parts of me are not something you can kiss away.

i do not want you
to lower your head
and flutter your eyelashes across my scars.
i do not want you to brush your lips over them
while whispering "pretty, pretty, pretty"
or apologising
like you are a mouthpiece for the world--
like the world did this to me.
i do not want you to cover them in compliments
so that you don't have to look straight at them.

there are monsters inside of me.
i do not want you to love them.

there was a hurricane this february

my muscles ache from holding myself
upright. every step is a flat foot on ice
and the radio above the cafe dish station says
spring is coming, but i will not believe it
until the streets become clean
like i am, right now: their blank shells cracked to reveal potential life
under months of old grime.
snowflakes become drops of water which splatter against the wall near the front door
, spelling out the same words i whisper
from behind a wet dog shake motion blur: "this city is a death trap." my bones sting from holding myself
up to the light. this bodies, like most bodies, is a new one
and i haven't memorised its shadow yet. melted precipitation drips over my ears
to say, "there is always fresh darkness to explore."
is it safer to walk down the middle of the road
where engine heat and friction have melted the seasonal threats
or to slide on the sidewalk? cars can stop;
gravity cannot. my ankle is so weak already.
every step is a tiptoe on frosty cement
and my body is so sore from holding myself
because you won't.

mind like an oil slick

a product of

mistakes

of the modern world

&

beautiful

in a way

that poisons

everything

it touches

FULLSCREEN RECOMMENDED TO SIMULATE MOST REALISTIC FEELING OF ISOLATION

seasonal lingering

it was late on canada day and i was very drunk and very happy and the jeep was very open and so i took the sweater and that was that. guilt and sobriety arrived one after the other and i suspect them of having discreetly left the same room at a carefully timed interval so that no-one would think they were together. the sweater is well-lined and thick and must have been expensive.
at nearly seven am more than two months later, i pulled it on over my bachelor loungewear. it reaches for the floor more ambitiously than the ends of my tattered boxers. with a mug of tea nestled between garter belts of scars, i sat on the deck, the slatted wood burning prison bars onto my vision. eventually, it began to rain. i was trying to sort out the chronology of everything that's happened without you, but time has never been much more than a confused muddle to me, even without the blur of agony and fear that is grief.

your old e-mails might stop conjuring your voice in my head. your laughter might stop echoing in my ears. there is so much that i'm scared of losing-- my memory is so poor, and there is so much to remember. jam slid off of toast and landed on my sleeve. i put it to my mouth and wondered how many wrists this cuff has been pressed up against.

everything reduced to areas of light

i was thinking if you die before i do, i'd lay my things out on the lawn

with a sign i scrawled out front that says "free to a good home; take it 'til it's gone"

i think all those things would be no use, and i was thinking if i die before you do

all i would ask is don't get mad.

i threw away my cigarettes-- no, that's a lie, but i won't buy another pack

sometimes i get anxious being here, checking lists and putting things in gear

and i'm aware that papercuts cut clean, but one wound closes, there's another

and my fingers bleed and drip recurring themes

depluralise our casualties

no-one ever blames a wick for "giving in" to the wind. no-one calls a flame weak for needing a hand to defend it from the forces of nature.

when one of the candles starts to drown from the force of its own heat, i tip it to the side gently and watch the wax pour through the cracks of the deck.

cinnamon boutonniere

sometimes i run my hands over the quilts of your writing and find tiny swatches of sweatshirts i lost and blankets i was told i'd outgrown. the stitching can be alien but it's strong and only scratches my face when i'm itchy. i wrap myself up in them in the dark, making sure to put them back in the closet before sunrise because it feels too deep and dramatic to let you see me sleeping under one, so i just hope you notice slight differences in the folds and smile to yourself. i don't know how my ragged clothing ends up in your sewing cabinet, but i'm thankful that it does. tear stains i left on t-shirts are easier to deal with when you cut them out and put them in context.