So I wrote you a letter

I gave you my number

I asked you, "How are you?"

And you would hardly mutter

You're too busy with your life

And I'd try to stop mine for you

But I'm just too complicated

Not simple, not pure, not true

Or too.

I hid under my blankets, pulled over my head even though the sun was shining outside, and it was bright where I lay on my bed. But I felt so dark and scared. I just want someone to find me.

So, I walked through town on the day that you died, but you didn't. You were still alive. My breath made puffs of smoke in the air, and I didn't care. I didn't know. But I thought of you and wondered when you'd come find me.

The sun set much earlier and the time did change. Maybe we're the same when you don't talk to me. I don't know what you want, and I don't say what I mean, and I'm still waiting for you to find me.

I think this winter will last far too long even if it's starting later than usual. I'm just right here, under the blankets on my bed, and I'd call for you if I knew you wanted to find me. If I could be found.

Canada Post
You told me it was the post man
And you knew because of the colours
And the symbol

You know I think you're smart
And I'm not just saying that
Because you're mine. You are.

And when you get older you better use it for good.

Fields of flowers, yellow and green
Blue skies and
The smile on your face

That matches your hair
It blows in the wind
Through the golden air

The stars are in the sky
And you've closed your eyes
Goodnight.


First Day of Summer
I only had one day of Summer this year. The rest of the season was spent inside under blankets watching rain through the window.

That one day, it was fine, and we drank a lot of wine, you and I. The sun was still shining even though it was pouring outside.

We stumbled through the city, the sky bright. We were drunk before 5. Sobered up with coffee so we could get in the car, out of the city and drive.

On the outskirts of town we stopped on the side of the road and we sat. The things that you told me, the things that I told you, can't take it back.

Now I walk down the street with my hands by my sides. I have nothing to hold on to, and maybe I don't try. So, my shoes make a solitary sound as I walk down the block wishing I had the summer back.

I was just looking through my Blackberry, and then I felt like posting all the things I've written in there. Most of them were while I was driving to or from work, although the last one is from this afternoon while I was laying on the couch.



You told me it was the postal man and you knew because of the colours and the symbol. You know I think you're smart, and I'm not just saying that because you're mine. You are. And when you get older you better use it for good.



I guess I should have said more or done more cause you looked at me expectantly, but I was too shy. Then maybe things would have been different, and we could have had a future. Is that so impossible to think I could have made you happy? I think so, but we'll never know.

Each time you said you'd come for a visit, but you didn't, and everytime I've been there I didn't tell you in advance. So maybe it's both of us to blame, and not one of us is right. It's easier to be disappointed anyway. I think I expected too much.

You didn't kiss me goodbye, and I didn't kiss you. It wasn't long before you met someone else, so yeah, I wonder if I'd been outgoing where it would have gone, and maybe you'd be leaving me messages and writing little notes. Poems and excerpts of our life together or apart.





Fields of yellow flowers turned green and further off they're golden and covered with snow. There's a season for everything. But I like this one.
I stumble les when I talk and there's less of a chill in my bones. So I'll take in the heat while complaints of sufferings are made. But I don't care. I'm comfortable.

On a Spring day I can put on my striped turtle neck, a cardigan and my lightweight jacket and take in the outdoors. Sniff the air suspiciously, hoping not to catch that smell of snow and ice still in the air, but it's early and a blanket of white could settle down at anytime. Just keep the mittens on the stairs and the thick jacket at the front of the closet even though I can't believe I'll ever need them again with the sun shining and warming me up.




I'd write my messages of disappointment and frustration in hding places, secret places, all the things I couldn't say. And I couldnt' say a lot. So if you ever paint or redecorate you'll be in for some shock and maybe you'll cover my words with mud when you remove the picture frames and see the indentations in the wall behind. You'll paint over, cover it up and forget. If you ask I'll say they don't mean anything, and I did it so long ago, but no matter the year it's still fresh and clear in my mind and my heart, and I still feel all those things.

To The Reader by Charles Baudelair

I bought a book of his poems awhile back, but I finally opened it the other day. This was the first one, and I sort of can't get enough of it. It doesn't exactly evoke appealing images, but I think it's how I feel right now. Not that I want to suck on anyone's withered breast.


To the Reader

Stupidity and meanness, error, vice,
Inhabit and obsess us every one.
As for remorse, we find it rather fun:
We nourish it, as beggars feed their lice.

Repentance gets us nowhere: our sins cling.
Confession seems a handsome gesture - then
We find we're on the muddy path again.
A few cheap tears can't pay for everything.

Evil is like a pillow. Lay your head
On its echantments: Satan Trismegist
Rocks you alseep, that subtle alchemist,
Turning your golden penance into lead.

The Devil holds the strings, and moves them well.
Nothing's too ugly for us: we don't flinch
From stink or darkness. Inch by reeking inch.
One step per day, we're on our way to Hell.

To kiss and chew an old tart's withered breast
Is all we can afford. Debauchery,
Our only pleasure,we take furtively,
Squeezing it like an orange to the last.

A million devils guzzle in our brain,
Chewing like worms. Each time we take a breath
It bubbles through our flooded lungs, and Death
Gives a choked cry; we drown, then breathe again.

On the drag canvas of our destiny
The lovely patterns made by hate, disgrace,
Rape, dagger, poison, sward, have left no trace.
The reason is, we are too cowardly.

Our vices are a zoo. They hiss and crawl,
They bark and yell: dogs, crocodiles and apes,
Clawing and grunting: writhing and sliding shapes,
Jackals and vultures. But amoungst them all

The very worst, consumed with quiet scorn
Makes no grand gestures, never screams, but can
Turn towns to rubble, make a mock of man,
Swallow the world in one enourmous yawn.

His name is Boredom. He sniffs, wipes his eye,
Puffs on his pipe, and dreams of hangings. You
Know this dear monster, reader. Yes you do,
Admit it. We are brothers, you and I.

Apparently I wrote things this November

I imagine I could see for miles over vast expanse of pavement, grids and powerlines; Electricity running through each strand hanging from the sky, and a soft hazy mist escapes from your mouth and your nose when you breathe, resembling the exhaust emitted from the tail pipes of the cars. It's green so we'll walk following the lines, and I think about when I was young and unable to color exclusively within. But I am older now though still struggling to write between the lines and breathe life into the page. These trees are bare and thin that line the walk. Their knobby limbs extend and sway, just a skeleton, but I still think they're beautiful. City buses roar over the pavement, or what pavement still remains peaking out from under snow that fell last night and is still. I've never caught a snow flake on my tongue. Maybe I'm too impatient, I guess, so I don't try as we've crossed the street and stopped again at the next corner. But you do until you say your tongue is cold, and so am I. The traffic causes whirl winds, and my hair whips around my face obscuring my view of the painted white lines and yellow grids below my feet. The man glows, and we walk. 1-2-3-4 -- 1-2-3-4 -- I count my steps, and you avoid the cracks. What if we could be this way forever? What if we did? Horns blare in our ears. The bicycle on the road despite the season, the red car and the pedestrian in the crosswalk. It could have been fatal, but thank you modern vehicles for your antilock breaks. If only life came so equipped, you say, I'd never make mistakes. Black ice, was my reply, and you nod because you know I'm right, and we'd still be full of regrets.


Nov 5:
That kind of cold that sinks into your bones
So I know it's November again
And I can't help thinking about the
White rabbit without a burrow to call home
So he made one under planks of wood,
Nailed together to form our picnic table
In the backyard only a week
Exactly a week after Grandpa died.
And you wished you believed in reincarnation.

Grandma didn't know what happened.
She was asleep that night he held her hand and died
So she smiles as they lower the casket into the ground
Because everyone is here. All of her kids
And her kid's kids, and her kid's kid's kids
But I don't know if a white rabbit visits her
From the window

None of the babies cried, but aunts and uncles did
And there was still laughter despite tragedy
And joyous exclaimations all around. He lived a
Long life, and everyone was here to say farewell.
And so did the babies wave and say "goodbye"
They'll run to the kitchen window to look outside
And gaze at the white rabbit who calls
The backyard home.


Nov 6:
There's a church just off main street
Where my family lived and died
My Grandpa said "this church will be"
It was and then it thrived
People lived and came and went
And others stayed and died
They kicked out my uncle
And drove off my aunt
My mom she stayed, she tried, then she left
So they pretend we don't exist
The breaking of the soil
The bricks that were layed
Tears shed and prayers prayed
Are now nothing, vague somethings
Or someones. It's old history.
But I grew up within it's walls
I know all the tales
The man who went into the celler
And came out with his finger severed.
I know it's true, no fabrication
My brother told me the information
The way the lights would switch on
When no one was around
The breath on your neck
And you can't turn around
There's a shadow moving
From the corner of your eye
I know where they come from
And where they hide
The celler in the closets
That create a secret passageway
And the old roof still visible
Through the door
On the 3rd floor
Through the nursery where the babies lay
Asleep in the beds so soft
While the service went on below
And in the dead dark of night
(the alarm would go)
The red exit signs glow


Nov 13:
You can change the arrangements
Push them back to Fall
Disregard my plans
Because apparently my schedule is always open


Dec 13:
A month passed me by full of lonliness and poetry
It feels like a lifetime under lock and key
Just stay at home when it's cold, it's November
And everything's blanketed deeper in snow now that it's December
Ink stains my fingers, leaves finger prints on pages
I'm so empty and tried, I could sleep for ages

The paper is smooth with straight lines
Drawn horizontally across this that is mine
Flowers and green design, corners rounded
To contain all I think and I wish I had said

But I didn't say any of them. It's all in my head.


I could write a poem about snowflakes falling and start it from the 3rd line down. The way you can only see them in streetlamps at night, or if you're driving, a headlight. So I always hope for snowstorms at night, strong enough for an excuse to stay home from work, but I'm very rarely obliged.

Jan 8:
(Nicht Da)
I wonder how much is lazy and what is in store
All I know is I don't get bored anymore
No matter that I'm not doing anything
Everything feels like a chore

So I know
But I don't know.

I'm stuck in my mind where it's hard to wake
I want to move and get up. Be me for my sake
And I long to sleep early and to get up late
Look at me, where have I gone, what will I make?

What can I be from my bed
Where I scribble my words
Trading ink for lead
When I can't hold up my head
And all appears dead
Or lifeless at least
No reason, no meaning, just empty things.


A composotion of words to make the page flow. I'm not really writing this for show - for people to see. It wouldn't make me become anything. Nope, it's all for me. And maybe for the future. When I will not be. And someone will read this. I don't know, maybe they'll see. They'll find something that I never did, and they'll get bright like sunshine and wake up the dead. From their graves they'll arise. But who am I kidding? It's just words. My words specifically can't win any prize.

Life Outside My Window

The thing about breathing is sometimes it's hard
There's a bad ache in my chest that pulsates in my heart
But I am still breathing, and I'm still alive
If this flutter in my ribs quits, I think it wouldn't be so hard
To breath deeply and slowly and relax until I'm warm

I think I'm looking too hard
I miss what needs to be seen
Take a minute and start to breathe.

On my birthday it was snowing, blowing hard and streaking the sky white
I made an angel that sparkled, it glittered in dull light
But by morning it had vanished, covered completely overnight
I still knelt down beside it - maybe this represented me
How I fade into my surroundings and become invisible so no one sees.

Standard

Follow the line to the greatest extent
If you can pass it you're better than I am
If you see colours like rainbows
(Blues, greens, violets, reds)
You've long since passed me
I can't proceed past gray
I'm stuck dead
You've exceeded expectations
Yay! A marathon of life
If I'm lucky, I'll catch wind of your dust
Inhale some hint of idea
But it's probably too late
Because I've given up