The devil clock is ticking.

Sad music and aussie accents. I’m glad I’m leaving. T’hayla’s gotten ahold of me. She lives across the river, vaguely in the beaches, but closer. I called Joseph last night and listened to him wake panicking. I wonder how jealous the girlfriend must be. It’s wet out now, but warm. I’m hoping for lightning tonight, but the light is wrong, the taste of the sky is wrong. It’s like I could lick it and taste baking bread, there’s no spark, only comfort. I’m not on-line long enough to properly reply to letters, but know Michel, I got your comment and I’ve written your number down. Maybe I’ll come out on Monday. I miss Montreal too and it would be a delight to finally pull your hair.

walk without rhythm, you won’t attract the worm.

I’m lucking out a little, but not too much. The hostel I was counting on still existing, surprise, does. Globalbackpackers, though I can’t afford more than this one night. The harsh colours aren’t much better than a park bench, but there’s apparently showers. The lounge is full of pretty people being jovial and I feel a bit out of place, but as it’s only one in the morning, I’m going to stalk out into the Friday night streets and see what I can do about getting picked up by some pleasantly drunk buzzed locals. I used to walk here until dawn. This place isn’t as acidly etched into my copper head as Vancouver, but I remember my way around. I’m trusting that people I run into tomorrow will keep me occupied nicely for the weekend. I’ll call those I can in the morning and I’ll hope for letters in the meantime.

Somebody tell Nicole thank you for me. I think if she hadn’t come to the airport with me, I wouldn’t be coming back.

Silk scarves and harsh edges, tongued stories into sympathy and little pieces of vengeance. Somebody up and for once it wasn’t my turn. There’s doubt about a month, there’s doubt but premonition. I clap my hands because I don’t believe in fairs nor cage matches. Dominque and Andrew have decided that for my birthday there’s to be a Cage Match To Be Jhayne’s Next Boyfriend. She wants them all in Speedos. I’m rooting for Alan Rickman. Someone behind me is singing about the moonlight on your skin, desert wind and your aching head. These days you can’t buy. I can’t place the words but I’m singing along as I type, sending letters out in term with the chords. I still don’t know what I’m doing here. Why you even try? I’m glad that you, sharp one, am writing poetry to me out here. I understand, but I don’t think I burn with any flame. There was someone on the street a moment ago, sitting in the doorway and they had your hair. I had a momentary urge to go pet them better, but then remembered. Wrong place. Treacherous road, desolated. The next room over has the Fugees, it’s comforting somehow, like music doesn’t die if you know it well enough. Like you and I, my taken man, like we can manage still in spite of whatever it is you’re not telling me. In spite of silence and leaving me to fend for nothing. Make you want me. There’s so many stupid words I can think of, silly phrases and none of them mean much right now. The anger is fading, which is nice, but it may be that I’m overwhelmed with being back, with grinning like a loon at everyone who says hello to me on the street. You fucked up.

You should be with me here.

Can you believe I still dress funny for this place?

Tomorrow I’ll start really being here, tomorrow I’ll find friends.

No place to stay. Flying in, I watched outside my window as the plane crossed the line from day into darkness and it made me smile to myself, knowing that just seeing that puts me on the cusp of history. At first there are only mountains, if you’re going east. Endless white capped rocks as far unto the horizon and then abruptly, the cloud parts and everything below you is plains. I felt a pang akin to crying when I first caught sight of the city three hours later, the rosy glow seemed like home. I’m in the basement of a hotel now, across the street from the airport. A kind clerk named Manny opened the business room for me to use the internet and attempt to find a place to stay. My paid 15 minutes was up five minutes ago yet now I’ve some hostels and some hope. Downtown will be interesting, the five year gap will be glaringly apparent and as invisible as air, already I know some things have changed.

Dear friends, I miss you. You’re loved as now as ever. I’ll be back when my time on this ticket allloted runs out.

bring on the angst brigade, the I’m upset and want to hurt people

I’m to be at the airport tomorrow by one. This is manageable. I’ve so far no destination planned for when I arrive at ten, but I will hopefully have more solid plans later tonight. Company to the planefields would be appreciated muchly, as would company in the morning. There’s no ride arranged as of yet and I don’t know if anyone’s staying over tonight. I’m going to try and do my best but one person’s not returning phonecalls and everyone else is secondary. This is partially why I think I’m draining my bank account to bone dollar and fifty cents dry to escape this place. Spontaneity or death.

no place to stay yet

This wondering if I’m going to make it tastes like fear. There’s no logic here, not really. It’s a little bit crazy, spur of the moment, and that’s why I like it. That’s why I want it to work. I’m not getting what I need here, or at least not from sources I can drink from without tainting them with lead chip lips. The reasons people are ascribing to my sudden departure are the wrong ones, it’s almost as simple as somebody asked me to leave. This is skinned knees waiting to be kissed better and finding instead an airport. It’s not even like someone has replaced me, it’s only clumsiness and a total lack of understanding. I need the right words now spoken at the exact precise right time and it’s not about to happen. There should be a protest or at least a little bit of I’m going to miss you. I need to matter again. I need to remember that I can, that there are possibilities all the time and everywhere that I would never think of.

if there’s anyone in toronto or if you even know of a place to stay, please drop me a line. my flight leaves tomorrow afternoon

inevitable parcheezi

I just need to breathe through another day. I have the hours and day and weeks all lined ahead of me to knock over one by one by two and three. Another day won’t be too many. I miss you.

The machine is true but made of silk and strands of story. True moments of You have Just Explained Me. It doesn’t mean love when somebody understands you, but I don’t think it matters here. I have a shirt that carries you on it. That protects it from the laundry bin as if it were a pile of flaming fire spikes.

Dee, Where are my socks?

I’m still looking for airfare. Today I’ve a meeting at work, then for Three I’m meeting with Silva. It’s Passover, so I don’t know what’s happening with that. Dinner may not be happening. I should have spent a moment last night to research, but instead I walked from having Alicia over to trying to catch the fire-spinners with Chris. We’d only just missed them, but apparently so had Adrian and A.J. At ten I’m meeting with Bill for coffee. I think after that is when I’m free again to scour flights. This is getting freeing and irritating all at once. I need to get out of here.

Claw me to you, keep me dry in this little piece of solid rain.

There’s something in me which still needs figuring out, the sums don’t add up completely. I know too many things without reason why. I know that I like the fierceness of belief, that I want to burn with something hotter than the space between stars. The rotation of the earth is secondary. Tell me stories, my loves, my lovers, my people who hold me and fall into step when I dream. Breath out of your hearts a song for me, something to remember you by when I’m leaving. I don’t need to think in braille to see you in spite of my eyes, because I can see you. Your eyes are lined in silver and your hands dipped in gold.

The time of year is marked down again, the sky blue and heat rolling off the street in ocean waves. My birthday’s coming up, my personal time of reckoning. This will be interesting as it never meant anything before. Grace is ending, grace and one more shot to find in myself the patience to come second. Right this minute, I’m in the middle of a petal burst like a storm of pink broke right where I’m sitting. They flooded down from his fingers to bury my eyes in wonder. I expect this, I expect this for always like old easy listening rock on scratchy old radios on every single stretch of highway in middle american movies late at night, flat tones and single star rising, early career and never gave a thought to past history. You always wanted to be James Dean moments aren’t the ones that I know how to connect with. These are, these disappearing I can close my eyes and taste you on my tongue without thinking. I know what you look like on the inside of my soul’s skin. You feel integral. You talk to me in poetry, with meaning. You hold me to you as if I am air and you are drowning. I feel calm in the face of the fear, in the face of you and your needs and this moment, this makes it right. Metaphor as teeth, metaphor as chromed pieces of bone from your fingertips to make myself a necklace. There is no way to repay this debt.

Once upon a time, there
were fairytales
princes and
strange iron shoes
what meant honour
Once upon a time, there
were childhoods
we believed
in gold and
thought being good
was winning

Tell me a story, they said
explain to us why we crave
why we crave pastel dresses and
happy endings

Tell me what matters
when everything is beautiful


World help me, Katie has me almost convinced to drop my life for a weekend and fly to Toronto. I am not entirely sure how she is accomplishing this, but sexy girl pictures are certainly involved. Also, the promise of strawberries and vanilla. Somebody tell me why this is a bad idea?

edit: and a good place to get cheap air-fare.

suicide doesn’t fit my style

I’m confused as to what you make of me, you the reader, you who watch my words scroll past your screen. People have been writing about me lately, people have been accusing me of fire and I sit here in sunlight with the scent of faux coconut drifting off my sunscreened skin and I think, “You’re all crazy. I love you and you’re crazy.” My words accumulate, it’s true, they build upon what comes before until the most recent spill might look like something, might seem to have meaning, but to me they’re just letters. I don’t understand.

He coughs and I die a little inside. There’s tension across his chest and suddenly he can’t breathe. I know what this means.

I wore the soles of me feet through with walking today. Skin thinning to nothing in particular, blood flecked with little white shreds. My feet left me to catch the bus. Too much wearing thin lately, too many days between here and now and then today, too many hours that I don’t get to have. I’m beginning to remember the barest hints of being angry. If I horde it, I can use it. Build up unleash and no apologies, he’ll leave. It’s not so much about the beginning of remembering to choose, it’s preparing for the war inside me. I’m going to lose this one, I’m going to lose it and there’s no gracefully. My eyes will want to leak from my head, there will be vessels broken, fractaled heartbeats sending me back to being broken, back to opposition and being too afraid silent to leave the house. It’s not even that I’m always walking in thinking silence, there are people who love me, who want to see me cry some day. My past reminds me that five years is reaching for me, that I want to leave this blasted place and remember how to live with culture. Walking myself to ruin is just what I’m used to. Red souled footsteps are simply the mean.

gee honey, how was your day at work?

I’m thinking of opening my skin for you. Starting at the back of my neck, under my hair, taking my fingers to the one hundred little buttons that run down my spine. Held together by childhood fears, they only look like shadow.

Morning broke with shattered glass, a thousand shards humming happily into my skin. It’s a gift to not wake with the familiar cold solace of not feeling. There’s something comforting in sharp edges. We’re making pancakes, or rather, Chris is making pancakes while I type and he talks on the phone to his brother. From the conversation it sounds like his brother lives in Calgary, it’s all bull riding and hitting police officers.

Continuity began yesterday, people coming over one by one until I had my own Sunday tea begun. Chris brought groceries, then Tyler, and Mike came home. He left, soon to be replaced by Andrew. I have a hat now, a top-hat, on permanent loan. (I look like Death, the whimsical female death of the Sandman mythos. Something in me likes it. It’s the first time I’ve accepted that maybe I can be cute). We brought the ferret outside after work and hacky-sacked until it became too dark to see. We were waiting for Mike to come back, I have keys for him, but we had to leave before he returned. I wonder how he and James got along, but not really. I’m sure that no matter the how, things worked out. Andrew needed home, we could not have waited longer than we did.