The Student Light in a Car is the Low Gas Light.
A whole day in a seat.
Without a cigarette.
Sober/a warm bar downtown and me outside in the rain/so alone/feeling nothing except the rain/aftermath of sleep/concrete digging into the weak spots of my neck/ sleeping off too much.
Ferry ride/a Beautiful November day/lots of thoughts/lots of things on my mind/ aimless and apathetic sometimes/just plain tired of others/but it was good to see friends/stayed sober too/Hey! Let’s travel/only 13 hours to go/looking gaunt/feeling trashed.
How to go broke: Drink foreign and domestic.
Thank god someone wanted to go for a cup of coffee, because there’s been no human interaction for a while. As always, I have been very inside my own thoughts. Old thoughts though? Or new?
I’ll have to ask my coffee date.
10,000 years from now, will our tweets be seen in the same light as meditations? As goals to strive for? Strange that he speaks of man being ash, and nothing standing the test of time, when I read his book in 2016, and he wrote it in 180 BC.
There is a severe lack of knowing the day/ I’m lost in time/lost in thought/lost in the days/lost in the lists/lost in the waiting/lost at night/lost.
Listening to Elvis at 2 am. The sound cuts out. I tune into a radio station in Reykjavik. Elvis. Worlds away and yet still right here.
The Buddha of dissonance waiting at the door/cold in Victoria/razors for guts/eind bites lips like a wronged lover’s last kiss/lip chap/scarf/extra gloves/feeling comes back to the fingers/a meet and greet of worries: forgotten names, forgotten moves.
1 cigarette/ 2 cigarettes
Social anxiety front lines/a worry of fucking everything up/dust off those customer service skills.
A God Kneels For Once.
All of the beeps in this store sound like the heart rate monitor of a coma patient.
Nicotine head rush.
Bus ride/all full/ No lights/More leg room than on flights/transit.
Limping home/fresh slate/new goals/and my tail between my legs for Christmas Eve. A house as childproof as Dachau.
Burning servers of personal information/list of executions/a detailed list.
If the state is collapsing, then it wouldn’t be the state police doing it/military police/ ration cards/political lingo/a breeze/forceful/envelopes your body like a hug from a wolverine/pain/cold bites with jaws forged by Mother Nature’s viciousness/Mother Nature bites me/hard/cold and ethereal/her jaws of ice/her teeth javelins of hard packed snow.
Piano key notes on the high end.
An artist’s gathering discussing the new regime.
A cocktail party, people with fancy titles and degrees and trades that they don’t build factories for.
Marble steps warmed in the sun.
Allow me to sleep/a great day/barbershop eyes/floor sex diversions/a target of 20 poems/ historic week/a circle jerk with too many hands.
It seems everywhere I go these days, Desire by Dylan follows me around. One of those records that really chews its way into your timeline.
At a philosophers café in hell, those around the table laugh and laugh/the two black straws of a double gin cocktail/looking like barrels of a shotgun you stuff in your own mouth/the unfurling of banners upon the buildings of the old state/a list of the dead/a fresh group of corpses/creepy and weird, like brother and sister engagement photos.
Overheard: The soft-core algorithm.
Snow on the Palms
I thought I had left this all behind me provinces ago/that bite on my cheeks/that scalding on my fingers/my frail ankles/those of an octogenarian forced to lindy hop/ every cigarette an endurance test/every trip to the grocery store a miserable forced march.
Yet among the problems and the miseries there is a joy returned that I thought I packed up along with my prairie memories: that of snowflakes in my hair.
A cup of tea by the window/as I watch snow fall on palm trees and blanket downtown/a visual out of a 50’s movie where lovers cling tight while waiting for the bus.
Eating Light Bulbs For The Illumination
Interesting conversations with a French Canadian cab driver:
The Nostalgia of Quebec City
I’m trying to write positive poems. But something about air travel really fucks all that up.
Bought a fresh start for $7.09/ if only it was always that easy or that cheap to wipe the slate clean and get going all over again/an airport smoothie renewal/the kind that does nothing for your soul/nothing for the inner being/just fattens you up and gives you claims to a healthy minded falsehood/I should have stuck with a burger/full blown fatigue/cycling thoughts:
Up late. Too late. Panic and anger for breakfast. No way out discovered.
Journeys upriver/new directions/new values/yet, too much cold, dead, new wave music on the radio/Love vigilantes and Zen lunatics crowding the streets/banners of the new faith/the day after the revolution/words like a pilgrimage/travel/exploration/a decadent indulgence of the soul and the self.
The death inside flickers and glows again/like coming out of post-break-up misery/like seeing the end of your 20’s/putting the book on the shelf/and then making a cup of coffee and waiting for the sun to come up.
Please wait behind the blue line.
Observations of escape/follow the seasons/inhale/exhale/rebirth/life/rebirth/slow down/repeat/spring/summer/fall/winter/flip the record to Side 2/it is here that the difference emerges/different grooves/different songs/same format/same subjects/ within the same realm.
Left to Mentally Rot Among the Hissing of Espresso Machines
The baggage carousel/listening to New Order/perfect music for finally being off anti-depressants/cold and clean/sub-levels of emotion restored/yet, isolation is still present/isolated in the sound/within the headphones a drum machine for a heartbeat/ feelings muted and electronic/not lifeless though/as if everything has been turned back on and rebooted/a fresh slate to things/the murk and the fog pushed aside/drowning sound and a haze of noise replaced by a cold clear beat.
Changing of the Guards
Rock N’ Roll
Love Vigilantes and a Guest
A Journey Upriver
A poem on antiquated love
Strike your name from lips that no longer speak couplets or sonnets.
Reading helps/touching pages/letting the music someone else chooses soothe me/for I can’t seem to choose the music myself/cloudy days/cloudy thoughts/grey/deadened/ with a slight chill/Where is spring? Where is spring? Where is warmth? Bloom?
To dead poets
To my 3 AM existential crisis.
People. Look, people/try not to freak out, or rage out/or whatever it is you do when there’s people around/you’re already teetering/all it took was one racist cab driver who after 30 years of driving had no fucking ability to talk to passengers.
Empire Burlesque/troops in an overrun sector/pissed off that they were stuck in a sector with such a shit record/in combat.
I’m not able to write here/staring down a host of blank word documents like I’m in a Mexican standoff/but I’ve spent all my bullets in gunfights back in Victoria/hands hovering over the keys/but dipped in stone/the piano player trying to hammer out a sonata with broken fingers/for my safety I go outside and close my eyes and listen to the birds and the cars and all the other things that are just sound and image and not material/I’m not sure yet if I like this/If this is safety or stagnation/if I’m out of the woods or lost within them and sitting on a comfortable patch of grass/I like the sound of the birds though.
Ocean/Dried up Sewage run-off ditch.
Being a Writer is Like Being Punched in the Cock By God:
Phantom limb/airport longue/whole body and soul rumpled and in need of a good ironing/feeling my phone twitch/a text from you/someone reaching out to this drowning man who flails in a sea of boarding announcements and baggage checks/but the phone screen is blank/a phantom text/a felt sensation from something removed.
I put my head in my hands/ Stevie Nicks comes around like she always does/all howling scarves and robes and puts her hands on my shoulder and says what she always says: “Did she makes you cry? Make you break down? Shatter your illusions of love?”
And I have to answer in the affirmative/as I toss out the waters of my heart like someone emptying out those black plastic flowerpots at the drug store.
Sparrows drink from a water bowl for dogs/at the airport arrivals exterior smoke pit/ making of the best of being in the wrong place/I know how they feel/but I cannot fly without going back through security.
Landing in this hangnail of a province/one I keep picking at/causing pink blood to dot my cuticles/like hangnails, I can’t seem to ignore this province/like hangnails, it seems like a necessary evil/part of being human/part of the condition/part of the scheme/I haven’t found a way to band aid them, or it, or this yet.
Sonic Youth Washing machine/red carpet rain outside/a pack of crushed Lucky Strikes/courage to brave the outside/“He’s so vintage!” says someone at a Noodle Bar downtown/and I have no idea what that means.
Fuck this/I want something better/a hotel room with the girl three rows back and better destinations than the asshole of the world/there’s that word.
I seem to exclude me from any kind of action/exonerations from progress/never working on things until it’s too fucking late and you’re locked onto a path that you didn’t want.
To reiterate: fuck this.
Get me gone/get me off of this treadmill.
There I go: excusing myself from action all over again.
He calls out his demands/even though he could reach/there’s a Dylan lyric about that.
This is me/extend your fucking grip/reach out/grab something for yourself/stop wanting/Stop hollering, “Get me!”
And start fucking getting.
“You Just Sit Around and Ask for Ashtrays, Why Can’t You Reach?”
To write a symphony on an airsickness bag.
This romance was doomed from the start/the crows circled before the carcass even hit the desert floor/I am in the ashes in the garden you keep on your balcony/snarling/my teeth gnash/both speakers blown/letters to still write/but no words/stalled on the mental turnpike with horns honking from behind/so I gnash my teeth to stubs/because my fingers won’t move/as my words die off in a traffic jam.
How? How do you write letters to someone you don’t know how to explain something to? Tough thoughts/all so very self serving/all admitting to faults that have a direct effect on their life/coming through like a tornado/wrecking things/and now I’m trying to write a check to pay for the damages/easier to write these thoughts to myself than to write that particular dispatch.
Ordering pizza again.
I have lost control again/lost/very lost/well, not really, but it feels that way/and if it feels that way, then it is that way.
Surviving Halifax/When Jesus Comes Back He Saves Everybody But You/
A Statement in Blood
The whole city twitching/like an overheated dog in the sun/panting oil slicks/drooling radiator steam/I’ve turned away from the typewriter/too concrete in its vision/too final for this discarded series of thoughts/soggy and discarded/like a cigarette butt in the urinal/the fire knocked out/the use over, and dropped into the wrong place no less/ Sunday/the streets rolled up early/everything and everyone taking the night off and leaving the roadways as deserted as my mind/sure, I am writing this, but it’s like trying to get a full glass of water out of a leaky faucet with a broken tap.
Foreplay With a Blank Ream of Paper
Once more/back at it/back to it/into the fray/plunging back into the darkness/a new voice/yes, that should be easy/weaponized middle class/weaponized thought/thinking/ a weaponized utterance/intent to destroy/a preferred target locked in/watching a 1- 0 baseball game for nine hours/checking supplies/seeking ways forward/again/this personal best hitting another roadblock/another setback/that I try desperately to meld into victory/victory/a poisonous word dangled in front of me/a poison/a prison of the unfinished/the path not taken/the path of the chosen covered in thorns that claw and bite/lost in this wilderness/familiar, yes, but still lost/like a back alley/an offset avenue filled with prowling junkies and dead ends/doors boarded up and stores tossed open/a vacancy of thought/this empty lot of feeling with the exit not obvious.
So I wander/I wonder/reflect/feel the walls and stand on the tops of the overflowing dumpster looking for cell service.
Somebody score a goddamn run.
Absolute Bottom and Despair in the Boarding Area of Flight 213
Nobody here is fuckable/but the coffee isn’t bad dad jokes overhead in euro accents and nasal spray clouds dusting the sitting area/white pants/everyone in fucking white/this goddamn city/this goddamn existence/this fucking red-light parade of misery/
Stop. Start. Stop. Start.
I am clenched with a rage. A location based rage.
Fucked among the un-fuckable/but, “try to relax” or some such bullshit/I am trying to not end it all/and right now that’s a full time fucking job/Fuck, it’s hot/Fuck, it’s a loser prospect being here/Like a cell dead zone of a town.
Christ I want a cigarette.
Oh look/a proximity sexist, on top of everything/I now want to put this pen through my fucking eye/then bleed out all over him/while calmly explaining the negative connotations of his position.
Wrap your head around this.
I want to wrap my head around nothing.
Love by proxy
Sex by proxy
Food by proxy
Music by proxy
Sensation by proxy
What’s the point in living for yourself?