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Apr 21, 2014

The Inexplicables

my eyes

are clouded by the crowded hallways of your conscience

residents of your mind, too many faces extinct.

way too many.

it hits my heart like a Richter scale

it drives splintering cracks down my aorta like roaring roots in dry soil 

planted in this garden,

you are adam and eve

and your children try to kill themselves instead of each other.

In my eyes 

you are canvasses of white

you are boulders of goodness

smiles, flexed like muscles

it is natural for you to have joy.

and I can’t wrap my mind around it

I strangle it

I squeeze it between my fingers

i feel it pulse between my knuckles

i scream

I heave it as far as I can throw

this joy

makes me angry.

it makes me uncomfortable.

how can two people with such mangled pasts possibly

conceivably

live lives of such freedom

brows unfurrowed

shoulders 

at ease

eyes

sparks

happiness 

does not deserve you.

The grace you have shown to us

broken kids

when we lunged at you

hands for your throats with cutting words

ignored you

were ashamed of you

disgusted with you

we have turned up our noses at your gifts and refused your closeness

you have offered love

at every opportunity 

and we didn’t know

we didn’t care

that your stories were more scalding than our own

that misery had grabbed at your feet

that death

had washed off your hands in the sink 

that psychosis ambled amidst your loved ones

disability 

drunkenness

addiction 

murder

death

were all debris in the whirlwind that surrounded your past

you had been surrounded by pain inflicted by those you loved long before us 

and it makes me feel like this joy of yours is slanderous

a downright impossibility

that you drop crumbs of your past only when asked

mentioning catastrophe in passing 

crisis in a beat

letting it slip from your lips

as if each shock had been extirpated of its electricity,

and still kiss 

doing ordinary things like

going on walks in the valley and

watching Jeopardy

as if you are not champions of a disease

this world is scratching its skin raw over

sadness

has no hand on you,

even though you are two who have truly earned it

 I don’t deserve to be your child.

to be the summation of your love

the bearer of every gift you could muster

the recipient of your affectionate gaze

If I started now

i could not give you enough

safety 

hope

adventure 

wisdom

or unadulterated love to repay you

not ever.

If I started now

i couldn’t explain to you the gravity of your presence

together

 a rarity overlooked 

that your rings are like tree trunks that simply count your years together 

I couldn’t adequately articulate the value of your patience

of your steadfastness

If I started now

I would end up

chewing you out.   

because I can’t, in the humanity of my heart,  rationalize your hope any other way.

Mom and Dad, 

 the fact

that you are scarred

but not marred

by the tumult of these tidal waves,

the fact

that you bite your lip and go out of your way to see good

the fact

that there is not an inch of anger in you 

the fact 

that you are still standing today 

with hands clasped and eyes to heaven

makes me believe in God. 

Feb 9, 2014

PUBLICAN

He stands behind the bar

blank stare

white knuckles

he waits for someone to walk in

rush in

like they’re in a hurry

raindrops streaming down the window pane

he can’t see his breath

is he real?

Some things are unsure

he wishes he could see his breath.

the door is silent

no jingle or crash as the door swings shut behind a dubious seeker of liquid truth

journeyers who wish to find some sort of answers

he is the top of the mountain

he is the last resort

but today he stands behind the bar

with no one to keep him company

dark mahogany

a dripping tap

Will he ever belong?

A rag polishing the bar

his face like kerosene

burns in his eyes

am I here?

He will not spill his sorrows

not without someone to clean them up.

he is the one who cleans them up.

his heart is like a well

his heart beat the echo of pennies falling from the hands of hopelessness

his brows are dark

he is tired

and he waits

he waits for something to happen to him

and it does

little by little

then all at once

with a footstep through a door

a pale face

a sorry gesture

a strange moment

where he cannot bear to sour her with poison

hands expectant on the bar

scratched off nailpolish

streetlights flicker

few words

green eyes

he wants to tell her she is beautiful

but his voice is lost

like a man stuck in a well somewhere

yells for help muffled on the journey out of the dampness

bouncing and fading

sounding like whispers

from a copper tongue

but a whisper would be odd

he cannot whisper or yell at scratched off nailpolish

hands expectant

pale face

green eyes

he turns his back

hoping this moment hasn’t smudged into ignorance

or disdain

polishing glasses

ducking slightly to his right in hopes of getting a reflection of her delicate frame

scratched nailpolish fingers playing a ghost piano

downcast and shy

glued to the glassy sight of herself

she is waiting

after walking for too long in the near darkness

feeling herself become enveloped in the day’s heavy eyelids

drawn into a place with a door

fogged up windows with strict lines of raintracks

more sympathetic than ominous

the room felt like fog

and this figure was taking his time

and she was not too worried about cadence

not anymore

and this scuffmark of a man could do nothing to surprise her

but as this thought scuttled across her mind

he turned and inched a glass of water

in her direction.

Feb 9, 2014 / 3 notes

LANCET

I’m not feeling very sharp

My eyesight is blurry

blunt like my granny’s sense of humour

I wish I was more like a surgeon and less like a patient

waiting for something to happen

finding little scratches on my skin I can’t find the origin for

I wish

from the bottom of my heart

that I didn’t feel like a basement.

like the lowest rung

like a place I don’t belong

like my lungs don’t ache enough

like in another lifetime, I’d be sticking my head out the window of a roaring train blazing through the countryside with colours so bright my corneas burned and everywhere I looked for the next few days would be coloured by tie-dyed-lens-flares of adventures I’m glad I’d had the guts and the cash to go on

Every time I consider the hills I wonder if there are people who look forward to the climb

I want to learn to find content in the scale

in the uptake

in the parts people fast forward, gloss over or romanticize

I think it is hard to say

if it really is good to live with glitter in your veins

to be so metallic and golden it hurts

to flash smiles everywhere you go.

I wonder if there is such thing as backalley-on-purpose

like throwing yourself into monotony to save it

or to relish it

to soak it in and smile.

I think that the only way to live is to be brilliantly amazed by everything.

The simple things have a way of hiding their secrets and the search is what makes anything interesting

The older I grow the more I learn that my imagination is more fancifully mundane than years ago and that I find more joy imagining things that already exist,

but the deeper I fall the more that makes sense.

I guess I’m just happy to be here

in a snowglobe of swamp water

in a web of subway trains, street lights and a lot of amazing stories

orchestrated like the music in the hearty laugh of a tired Father who waters us like weeds that spurt out of the concrete

colouring the ground in sidewalk chalk and apologies

He doesn’t mind the spelling mistakes

each step we miss he replaces with a friend or a feeling,

the artist with rough hands

creating like I could never imagine.

so Father, invade my thoughts

like highway robbery

Clean me out of the dirty thoughts and false teaching

set off bombs of blessing and beauty in their place

spray paint in my mind so I don’t ever forget it

"baby girl, I’d die for you again"

Jan 17, 2014
Dec 25, 2013 / 1 note

(again)

and I think in your life you not only consider the good things you hope will come to pass but also kind of expect certain trials or losses to plague, ones that match you, almost fit you- ones that almost make sense in a way. It’s as if our problems are visitors, and there are some you simply expect.

It is this almost expectant familiarity that helps us process and deal with the hardships we are dealt, and I think that is why the most crippling pains are not the most severe, but the ones which come to us strangers unannounced.

Dec 18, 2013 / 2 notes

STOP distracting yourself

stop looking for short-cuts through suffering

healing doesn’t happen ‘til you look it in the face

and say, “I’m broken”.

Dec 18, 2013 / 194,893 notes
Nov 18, 2013 / 1 note
Nov 13, 2013

Incredibly Lonley

a one man band.

The stuffed rabbit asked - What is real? And the Horse said, ‘Real isn’t how you’re made. It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long long time not just to play with, but really loves then you become real … And the rabbit asked, ‘Does it hurt? And the horse said, ‘Sometimes.’ ‘Does it happen all at once like being wound up, or bit by bit?’ … ‘It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen to people who break easily … Generally, by the time you are real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints. But these things don’t matter at all because you are real and you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.
The Velveteen Rabbit (via annersbananers)
Nov 10, 2013 / 143 notes
hintalogalopp:

 historical consciousness
Nov 10, 2013 / 104 notes

hintalogalopp:

 historical consciousness

jacksonisaacson:

“Here. Here is simple and happy. That’s what I meant to give you.” -Oliver (Ewan McGregor)
Nov 10, 2013 / 232 notes

jacksonisaacson:

“Here. Here is simple and happy. That’s what I meant to give you.” -Oliver (Ewan McGregor)

Nov 10, 2013 / 4,556 notes

just-around-midnight:

Beginners, Mike Mills (2010)

Oct 22, 2013

weird and confusing and difficult and lonely? and restless and Lord, where am I? What am I doing here? Is this where I should be? What is this leading up to? What am I leading up to? Comparisons are the worst. I feel like my life right now is a one dimensional thing. It’s a linear sidewalk chalk play by play that is take it or leave it simplistic “is what it is”. It is spacious and simple and boring and flimsy and short and solitary and messy and other people can’t really make anything of it without getting caught amidst the string that webs across the threshold of my everyday, bringing tension that brings a tightness in my chest, 

you’re too close

you’re too close

you’re too close.

and I think in your life you not only consider the good things you hope will come to pass but also kind of expect certain trials or losses to plague, ones that match you, almost fit you- ones that almost make sense in a way. It’s as if our problems are visitors, and there are some you simply expect.

It is this almost expectant familiarity that helps us process and deal with the hardships we are dealt, and I think that is why the most crippling pains are not the most severe, but the ones which come to us strangers unannounced.

Oct 21, 2013

She writes best in the dark

unhindered by the sight of what she’s done.