telephone traveller

there is only so much of my smile that i can throw across to you, like an anchor, hoping to catch your sleeve and bridge the gap between decent and despair. sometimes my smile isn't enough for me. when words die quickly, collapsed shells littering my lap like pathetic efforts to live a better life, there are only so many questions i can ask. but i wish i could travel through this telephone cord to you, spin through wires and electrocute my cells. i would watch blue currents travel up and down my body, flashing lights flickering over my eyes, speeding through those black strings that hang through the skies connecting voices to each other. emerging into your yellow lighted room, shadowed and underground, through your receiver and in front of your face. my lips, numb from the cold flashing speed of travel through telephone wire, know ten ways that they can make it better for you, for me. a corsing heat spread through your body, violent and unrelenting from the leftover electrolites running through my veins. i wonder why it is that we cannot relate to each other's voices alone. your hands trace my white wrists, tiny blue veins criss cross and show through translucent skin. you say you forget who i am when you cannot see me, you need to see my wrists because they hold all of my secrets, all of my weakness. you need to hold this close to your eyes so you can remember that we are both flawed and lost because that is the only way you and i are supposed to be together. our voices are too much like our minds talking, our bodies are extensions of our hearts, blood-filled and responsive to touch, to smiles, to wrists.

i feel as though the water has finished boiling, big sloppy bubbles bursting at the surface, satisfying sizzles when the spray hits the hot element. like the sky has blushed in dark blue, with gathering speed the clouds are running away and the wind is setting in. like i need to wash the sheets on my bed, spread them clean over my matress and sleep feeling fresh between them. i feel like i need to rearrange the furniture in my room, live a symmetrical existence and see things from the other side of the mirror. cut my hair shorter or throw out all my things that don't mean anything to me. throw away everything that begins with a consonant. only eat fruits that are in season, only talk to people i like. learn something new. stop learning altogether, stop laughing when i am alone. stop with every day life, make life unnecessarily difficult for myself just to stop routine from stalking me. cook for people who appreciate me. stop asking for things. try to deal with something, stop avoidance. avoid everything altogether. get straight a's in school. pretend more. lie more, i think i need to lie more.

she will ask you

i like the way she will ask you any question. without any regard to social conventions she will ask what your prescription is for, why you were crying, what that fight was about. and she isn't rude and she is not obtuse. i think that she is honest. she will come into your house for the first time, meet your mother and run her hands over your things. she is perfect posture and confidence without a trace of arrogance. she strings together these words so easily, i cannot imagine her feeling shame or petty embarassment. she is a geniune question, an authentic dislike for indirect communication. her words fly like paper airplanes into the walls, over your head, onto the floor but it doesn't matter. there is no urgency, no desperation, no anxiety about her.

flake

that slice of dried out cucumber that you chop off and throw out. the puddle of milk that collects in the bottom of the plastic bag that gets disposed of with the bag. that second pair of gloves that you bought when you thought you lost your left glove of your previous pair, but then you found the left glove. those plastic grocery bags that get holes in them so they cannot be reused. that sweater you bought and then shrunk in the dryer and is now unwearable. that five dollar bill you lost, that picnic you made before it rained, that movie you rented to watch with your friend who cancelled. wastes, wastes, wastes. but theres nothing worse than wasting your time.

905-528-4200.

i will wait here until i die, frozen to the sidewalk. tomorrow morning the world will wake, and people will get into their cars and drive to work and only then will they find me, icy and still, adhered to the cement where i've spent so many days waiting. i have been here twenty two minutes, in freezing rain, in the dark. i have been here seventeen minutes, watching my breath make forms in the air. i have stood here waiting for a bus that never comes countless days.





but now it is winter. now it is shattering weather that sinks in through my enormous puffy coat, inbetween between the down feathers, seeping through my sweater and tee-shirt and jeans and long-johns, splaying its icy hands on my skin, only trying to get to through my bones. it is winter and it gets dark early, and here while i stand, waiting for a bus that left early, for the next bus which is late, my feet have become hard lumps in my boots, which have fused to the ice-covered sidewalk. i cannot move for my legs are stiff with cold, no longer shaking but static and stuck together. my arms have been permanently bent in odd shapes, shoulders hunched and hands shoved in my pockets, the only parts of me that can move - my lukewarm hands. my neck, oh what was once my neck, is now but a white piece of flesh between my head and chest, for my shoulders have absorbed any neck that i once had, windbitten and raw. my ears have all but fallen off of my body, in fact i think one has fallen off. it is lying beside me, like a piece of frozen food from my freezer at home. my hair has frozen into hard long pieces, some of which have snapped off from the ferocious wind. my nose is nothing but a beacon of cold, spreading further across my face, growing colder and colder by the minute.
it is winter, a time of dread for bus-commuters everywhere. we stand all over the ciy, alone and cold, angry and aggravated,
because it's fucking cold outside and no one will come and pick us up.

the wormdiggers.

the wormdiggers only ever came out at night. we'd watch them from the family room window in the summer after the sun went down. the silouettes outside would be as dark as black acrylic paint, the trees and outlines of the barn, the swing set, the tractors. the sky behind these familiar objects would be a deep blue with scattered stars that you could actually see because there weren't a ton of lights around. it was strange looking out at a landscape that was so familiar to us during the day, the pond surrounded by green reeds that we once stumbled across a turtle's egg in, the dried mud paths we'd run on and the great mass of dirty hay beside the barn we played around in. but at night when we were kept inside we'd stare out from behind the panes of glass, so cold when you put your face close up to them and smelling vaguely of paint. and we'd squint our eyes and wait for the wormdiggers.
and finally they came in the quiet night and crawled in the fields across the road that belonged to julia's dad. they'd crouch over the newly plowed earth and tiny crops sprouting between the soil, their hands ever working the earth searching for worms. they wore lights strapped to their heads so they could see the earth which they dug through. our space had become theirs and we were confined to the yellow lighted den, faces pressed to the freezing windows to catch glimpses of the wormdiggers. i always imagined that they would look like some sort of mole person, with quivering whiskers and clammy pink hands. but i could never see them in the light so i never got to find out. later after we bored of them we would stare at the television, taking the time to check on the wormdiggers every now and then. and then they'd be gone, vanished from the earth and i'd always feel so disappointed that they'd gone.

she was my nicotine.

she was black boots and reading shawls. she was wispy tied back hairs and thick black eyelashes and too much sugar in her tea. she was a beautiful singer. she was a high, tinkling laugh smashing into tiny pieces. that slinky violet dress, that soft green coat. that dinner she made that was burnt but she tried and it was my favourite meal that i never got to eat. she was blue skies and klondike picnics in the park. punk shows and poetry slams and coming in late but never missing the best part. the clean flannel sheets we stretched between when we were tired, her cold feet pressed up against my calves. she was good nature, money for the boy scouts and their apples and charity. always daffodils for the cancer society every spring in tiny bouquets all over her room for hope. she bought so many that she thought she might prolong the season by freezing bouquets, but they just became freezer burned and soggy when she took them out. she was good conversation and slight manipulation. she was a good time on saturdays with her fine wine and hand in mine until she became a nightmare on sunday. she was a gossip after we left, dissecting the boys after the party. she was a pain in the vein, the blots and bruises mostly invisible. she was a good dancer until the other boys asked her. she was loyal until she grew bored. she was running in the dark high on sugary life, smiling with teeth showing in the wind until you got so cold that you had to shut your mouth, shut her mouth because it's too cold for teeth outside. she was beautiful in that dress while she kissed him for that joke. she was beautiful even if she was obsessed with beauty. mascara streaked anger and sudden storming. seven layers of dishes cocooning the sink. that cake she made and then stuffed out her cigarettes in when she heard the news. that vindictive laughter she used for show. she was fantastic but she was bad for the lungs

dear sarah jessica parker,

the newspaper it said,
it said that sarah jessica parker
has been voted
the least sexiest woman alive.
actually it said
"unsexiest woman"
which goes without saying
is stupid.
now what i want to know is
what the people
(what the men)
over at maxim look like
and can they please send their photographs
over to the rest of the world
so we can judge how wrinkled
their cheeks are and how bulging
their bellies hang over
the tops of their pants and
everything else that is
ugly about them. and then
we can all post their pictures
in newspapers and discuss their flaws
and assign them each a number,
like "number one unsexiest moron"
or "number one fat idiot"
or "just plain mean."
because who the fuck has the time
they already judge who is sexy
and its already destructive.
and sarah, she's sexy
and she shouldn't have to say
"i don't think i am, either"
she shouldn't have to say that.

century old storefront

he's addicted to this ink, these pencil lines and the rough surface of paper. those clean contours and messy colours blurting in and out of lines, making him feel all sorts of things. he joined this world when he first felt his heart beat in and out of graphic novels and silk screen workshops and recycled paper projects and after a few years of practice and various forms of training he felt somewhat like he belonged. black and white photography and abstract angles and paper mache for grown ups he found out all kinds of new stuff about himself. the world blossoming and opening up to him, like a flower (fashioned from felt) or a tree (made out of newspaper folded and folded). everything is accessible and fashionable when he takes it to his room and with paste and thread and cut up collage he coaxes the beauty out of the ugly, he draws out the meaning from behind the folds in the curtains. it's so cool to meet friends with the same interests as yours. and he meets marla who uses mixed media to try to save the world and ned who has paper cuts all over his hands from his cutting and his pasting, threads of glue stuck to his wrists and eyelashes.
but he is starting to see the world in materials; that women's bag could be reconstructed with newspaper or that man's hat could be redesigned with paper mache and string. that building could be cardboard and blue paint, flannel pajama curtains in the little tiny windows and strawberry carton balconies for the little tiny people to sit and smoke on.
there are always new people to see, people to see, the work of so many people to see and what does he think? he must be honest, always honest. projects and producing, the constant creative cycle to produce, to be productive. marla comes in with her work in a frame and he says 'marla why are your arms made out of wood? why is your hair wool? marla what are you?' he runs onto the street and the sky is cellophane, wrinkling and writhing over cotton ball clouds, swaying above the metalwork trees with their sculpted faces twisted still and screaming. the people run by in their glass and copper clothes over the fiberglass streets. bewildered he looks down at his body that is acrylic on canvas and thus he understands that in his search for artistic inspiration he constructed the whole goddamn world as a mixed media on the universe. sadly he turned back inside and remembered the world when it was already beautiful.

conspiracy query.

"why do you always wear the pants" she asked me, flicking her hair over her shoulder.
"why don't you ever wear the kilt?" my mother asked me, frowning at my most adequately covered legs.
"why do you always wear those pants?" he asked me, his smirking mouth laughing at me.
i tell them because they are comfortable.
because they are warm in the winter.
because then i don't have to watch how i sit.
because kilts are stupid.
because pants are what i would wear if we didn't have to wear uniforms.
but it's really because i refuse to cooperate and become a sexual object walking around in the most coveted catholic school girl attire. i'm not even catholic, my mother is. and i'm convinced that this is all a man's idea. it's jesus's idea. it's a priest's idea. when you think about it, the only women involved here are completely fully clothed in black and white from their scalps to their ankles. and what are we supposed to wear? a tiny tarten skirt. the same outfit that is sold as a slutty halloween costume. the same outfit that the degrading labatt blue commercials feature skinny blonde girls wearing while they cater beer to men. the same clothing that is featured in countless perverted anime novels. the same outfit that is fetishized by creepy old men. and we're supposed to wear this ensemble as a tribute to chastity and uniformity, of sexlessness and abstinence? this isn't fooling anyone and i refuse to participate. i'll wear my fucking boys pants for the whole of my four years at this sex crazed patriarchial institution.

i am sitting in the library, writing bitter angsty poetry.
"why do you always wear the pants?" he asked me, eyeing my black polyester clad legs.
he is a dark haired pale boy sitting across a couple rows of study desks.
"it's fucking minus three hundred degrees, what would you do?" i asked him.
he gets up from the desk he is sitting at. he is wearing a kilt.
and i think i have found my new best friend at this school.

suffer cookies.

i've never liked cookies. it's like saying that you don't like puppies or babies or the beatles. but i just don't. and when i tell people that after they've offered me some type of cookie or bar or sugary squares they always protest with the same thing. "oh, but you've never tried my cookies, just trust me, try one." so what can i do? they're standing there, in their christmas sweater, leering at me with their pink lipstick smudge on their teeth, an over exaggerated smile pressing me to the wall behind me, matching turtle neck collecting the skin on their neck and holding it in place. they're standing there, in their perfect cardigan sweaters and martha stewart living tote bag and plaited hair, smiling with their lips closed over their teeth and smugness oozing from behind their smart geek chic framed glasses. they're standing there, in their sensible shoes and kleenex stuffed sleeves and permanently permed white hair curling in puffs over their ears, waiting, watching. what the fuck am i supposed to do? i take the cookie and they watch. because you're a virgin and they want to be your first, the first cookie that makes you experienced, that makes you a devout cookie consumer. or something. so they're watching me and i'm eating the fucking cookie. and it crumbles in my mouth in between my teeth and they're slow motion nodding, the corners of their lips curling with smug anticipation "see i told you" and i'm chewing and i'm tasting and i'm experiencing this cookie in all its glory and the truth is that i still don't like cookies. so i smile a slow motion fake smile with the combination nodding and neck bobbing that accompanies every falsely backed conversation that you've ever had in your life. and this will set the egotistical baker off, into books of recipes and variations that they can provide for you, the new cookie collecter. and i still don't like cookies. my great grandmother was very old and very sweet and i used to spend many hours at her house while my mother went shopping. i would have prefered my grandmother but she lived too far away so i was stuck with the greater version, the much older version. spending time with an old lady was already less than thrilling for an eight year old but make that lady ancient and you have an afternoon that will bore you to tears. and that's okay too, since then you have a tragedy and the great grandmother can't see you cry anyways because her eyes are bad. so she made those cookies that have jelly in the middle, some sort of gelatin or sugared cherries, something very sticky and dry, that felt disgusting in your mouth as your teeth broke through the muggy mess and in doing so shattered the dry crumbly cookie. she couldn't see, she could't see all the other things that went into these cookies. such as stray old lady hairs and spare raisins and the corners of milk bags and twist ties. things that an eight year old knows very well do not belong in cookies. i don't like cookies because i think of these cookies, my first experience with the so-called delectable desserts that serve a double purpose as snacks also. i think of these cookies and i want to gag, but i also want to hug my great grandmother since she only bothered for my sake anyway.

i saved latin. what did you ever do?