Category Archives: Displacement

Control, Alt, Delete

You are born in ethereal light, funereal flow through vessel of heart, where  room holds caskets, bassinets, tourniquets, places to sleep, to dream, to waken. On the day of your departure from veins, warmth of crimson, rush of celebration, permeates receptor cells, life the mournful fall, death the joyful rise, pulling coins from your eyes, toll for the boatman, an atheist bent on sinking, cargo of karmic, a vessicle of rebirth, bursting forth, dissolving the old self and its former memories, dreams, hopes, and procreation. Reversal of ego, the fluidity of self. They give you a name, a place, a face, a position between two poles, a selective offering of chromosomes, and then they take it all away, leave you as a blank slate, you the great author, illiterate, inarticulate, mouthing desires, forming fears. Before you get here you are complete, experience erases data-
control, alt delete.

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Filed under creative, Death, Disenchantment, Displacement, Evolution, Identity, Illusion, Journey, Life, Loss, Mortality, Poem, poetry, Soul, Spirit, Time, travel, writing

Lost

I awake to my breath in a ghostly cloud above my head.
This white clarity blinds the city.
Unable to rest, unable to dream.
He said our people, the Anishinaabe were possibly the lost citizens of Atlantis, true Atlanteans crossing the Atlantic. Thousands of years ago the Mediterranean was more like a lake and less like an ocean. The land mass of Atlantis formed a bridge from North America to Athens Greece. My kin, the Algonquins migrated to the ancient city and throughout parts of Europe, including Britain and the East. Is it possible the whites were decendants of us? Is it possible an old seed buried deep split open and released a very ancient desire to reclaim itself? He speaks of Sakimay as a place where our people originated. This was the land of my ancestors. He speaks of the seven fires prophecy and the crystal energy our people harnessed, which led to their own downfall, the sinking of our island, the melting of the glaciers, the light that flooded in like razors on our skin and stained us with the red ink of Indians. The turtle island that sank and swam down again, lost in the reaches of time. Oh Turtle, teach us of the truth sewn in hand with the ilk of our ancient medicine, until then we are lost like a city under the sea.

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Filed under Aboriginal, Ancestors, Ancestral, Anishinaabe, Athens, Atlantis, Beauty, Birth, Canada, Canadian, Cree, Displacement, Earth, First Nations, Folklore, Greece, Identity, Idle No More, Indigenous, inspirational, North, Ojibwe, Past, Poem, poetry, Prose, Saulteaux, Sea, Self, Shadow, Soul, Spirit, Time, Traditions, travel, Truth, writing

Kintsukuroi

I have a cracked soul that no amount of gold can fill.
Swell of childhood,
wave, water, reflection.
Propensity pouring into probable personality traits;
narcissism, histrionics, scars stricken against sulphuric self, flare in sea of black, no return from darkness.
Ears ring out like cathedral bells at the gavel fall of postured people, straight upstanding citizen I’m not.
Chaos’ child curtailing comets.
Mulch of weeds where flowers chance to bloom outward from mossy memories, in places the sun neglected. Damaged seed, uprooted,
convoluted scream shooting agony into pillow of down.
Muted madness on the surface, appearing calm, floating along like an unruptured swan.
Dusk descends like a ceramic sun on the verge of shattering.

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Filed under Abuse, Borderline, Broken, Chaos, creative, Depression, Displacement, Enslaved, Flowers, Grief, introspective, Loss, Malady, Memory, Mental Health, Poem, poetry, Repressed, Self, Shadow, Sobriety, Sorrow, Soul, Sun, Swan, Swan Song, Tragedy, Trauma, Unwanted, Upheaval, writing

The man holding a swan

He arrives at dawn when the others are gone, soaked in their debauchery, seen as a stain on the city, red speckled sea on the horizon , something we avoid on the morning walk to where we have to be, not where we want to be.

If I had my way I’d marry music, swan songs and oblong stories of our less than genteel history. Here in the North we are sorry, that’s our story, forced manners , like blisters on the fingers of the erhu player, but his country has communism, a cracked schism in the pavement, where I step to behold his wordless poems.

You cry out in the morning, no memory of the night before, no purpose, when your legs are sore from running against the current, can’t keep your head above the water long enough to see the shore.

Each morning you stumble down Portage on your way to nowhere, because that’s all we’ve got sister, that and the man with the blister, whose music makes us forget the pain, makes the suffering more tolerable, but what have we to compete with that?

A man holding a swan, caressing it’s long neck of eternity, you and I are lucky if we last ’til tomorrow but that beautiful sorrow can be heard like an ancient cry to the soul, and his case is full of potential coins for the demon that eats loons and moons from our past dreams. They float up merrily and coo at his fingers, see how he wraps them there, wings soft as straw, another corner conquered by something other than a drunken squaw.

What started as awe quickly turns to indifference and downright bitterness for birds. You start cawing and spitting venomous vitriol at anything that jingles. Where did they put my moon eh? Where’s that crescent thing they promised my people, no one remembers the buffalo, they killed him with the red skins, somewhere near wounded knee, but we got this Eastern melody flooding our streets with beauty.

I’m too ugly and my spirit is a deaf traveler. I’ll strangle that white-necked whore! Be nice to the hand that feeds you, it’s the hand that holds you down. They talk like indigenous means religious, it’s not a political stance, it’s birds in the hands of a dying democracy.

I’m the white and you’re the black on the chess board. They are counting on you poor pawn, they are singing for you sweet swan, together we can make a symphony that rises up towards the parliament in full plumed brilliance and lands on Harper’s lawn. Tell him to quit selling what doesn’t belong to him. Take off that Isis mask borrowed from the president and fuck terrorism when we’ve got heroism in our own hands..

dawn over oil spilled feathers, washing these sorrows pure again.

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Filed under Buffalo, Displacement, Enslaved, Environment, Erhu, First Nations, Freedom, Genocide, Global Warming is a warning, Harper, Human Rights, Hypocrisy, Identity, Idle No More, Indigenous, inspirational, Music makes people come together, Narrative, Oil Fields, Pipe Lines, Poem, Political, Pollution, Rape, Revolution is our Evolution, Rhyme, Sorrow, Soul, Swan, Swan Song, writing

Silver Lining

Birth is that crystallized moment when form emerging from dark is grown mistakenly into slavery, the brutality where we are hopelessly adopted into a pulsing world without love, delivered into the possessive hands of a stranger, encompassing us in liquid mercury, dissolving as we strive to gather cohesively, the quicksilver self that eludes us our entire lives into the fluid freedom of death’s sterling soul.

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Filed under Adoption, Birth, Bondage, creative, Death, Displacement, Enslaved, Freedom, Identity, Journey, Life, Loss, poetry, Self, Silver, Soul, Unwanted, writing

My true colours

I’m reminded of the opacity of the river at night, under moonlight.
The silver glow of the undertow and the mystery of what lies below.
I would skate out far, under the brightest stars and never reach beyond the depth and darkness.

Skating in circles, with sudden leaps into the air, then falling effortlessly down on solid water. “We skate around the truth of who we are,” out here in the dark, but more will be revealed they tell us.

I hadn’t yet known you, couldn’t conceive of things a world away, blinded by the glare of those serrated tips, carving dreams out of ice, sculpting our future one gliding moment at a time, cutting through layer upon layer of falsity to the divine mystery of who you are.

Visions of self reflected on the sparkling surface, emerging complete, defined, loved into the translucency of truth and beauty.

Your army green eyes camouflage our inner war, never to lose each other in love’s battle. I am your gypsy child forgiving the gaps and the distance, forging our world anew each day.

You are my grand spy master, averting me from disaster, reshaping my love for you always.

You must be a chameleon, the one that so fascinated me in science books as a child, able to blend into the scene at will, emerging with hand outstretched, ready to take in my true colours.

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Filed under Beauty, Colours, creative, Displacement, Ice, inspirational, Intimacy, introspective, Love, Moon, Poem, poetry, writing

Barrier

Red tape, white tape, things to break and be bound by. Seal my heart away in a box, in storage where it stays, incapable of remaining any other place, but categorized under things to take out when unpacking, things to decorate this empty space.

There was a turning door that alternated between dark & light, among all the places she led me. I could not follow her in, could not let myself process the shadowy barrier I would never have the chance to cross.

Her mouth was gentle and breakable by invisible kisses, kisses stained black, white, dark, light & beautiful in their pain.

We cannot get beyond the dusty smell of death in all the old places we stay.

I see a flutter of butterflies carrying stars to the river, to drop them deep in the murky silence & the gush of waves.

Some day I will drown in stars.

Some day I’ll rise silver & moonstruck, to hold her in my arms and stay in a place where my heart is still and my body never defies me.

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Filed under Beauty, Death, Displacement, Drowning, Freedom, Longing, Loss, Love, Moon, Poem, poetry, Sorrow, Soul, Stars, writing

Gravity

Can you catch death from an owl, or freedom from a butterfly?

Wisdom & transcendence.

I have walked along the palace walls and witnessed the loneliness of the queen; the things she has seen and been above, and the absence of true love in all the stars we wish upon. Saw princes turn into demons and princesses hide away in dark places, praying to false saviours in the sky.

I have rode trains near ancient remains and felt the sorrow of the broken stone goddesses, who are a testament to the war we wage against all that is different.

I sat with you one winter night and you held my arm tight, trying to catch my pulse. It froze like a piece of glass and lodged into my heart.

Midnight arrives and I skate down the river, to the edge of the city. I stare up at the lights in the sky and wonder if it matters that there’s life on other planets if it’s all the same as this.

When I was twenty I drank a bottle of vodka and disappeared. The truth appeared to be nothing but a blur on the horizon. When I woke up I was sober and nearing forty. I found I had missed nothing. Being awake or asleep, life still carries on in the same way with or without us. We have gravity to blame.

I decided to become an astronaut and float above the world, alone. Out here in the dark no one sees me. I hear the desperate pleas of the lost ones back on earth, crying for something, anything to take it all away. Some pray for little  things; like jobs, children, and marriage. Some pray for bigger things; like freedom, truth and love. Not one of them sees how futile their efforts are. Not one of them cares for the things beyond.

In space you are weightless and mute. You can’t hear the sound of bombs going off in the name of love, because bombs don’t even matter and love is only a word. Nothing can touch you when you are free, not even gravity.

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Filed under Astronaut, creative, Death, Displacement, dreams, Earth, Eternity, Freedom, Gravity, inspirational, introspective, Life, Longing, Loss, Love, Moon, Mortality, poetry, Sorrow, Soul, Space, Stars, Time, Tragedy, travel

Catalysis

This air I breathe under black sky where slivers of light splinter my eyes.
Here in the opaque ether of nothingness, the attempt at snuffing out my own life like a candle.

The things one can handle.

You asked me how I feel about our love, a stagnant, musty room atop an island, pervasive, toxic.

Nothing thrives in places where light and oxygen are stifled.

Take this beautiful rose outside and let it thrive, let it be penetrated by the sun. Let it’s vines wrap the entire city in a thorny embrace of passion, let the pierce of this desire spill my heart like wine.

My life lies in transmission, with the keys in the ignition and the hose in my mouth, a vacuum of molecules make up the constellations between our bodies.

All the smoke fills my lungs, burns my nose and throat, deep chemical romance on tarmac with no soul in sight.

A mother discovered in ice, preserved.
A child’s potential never realised
But I reach for the stars and land on the earth, too fragile for this.

Take the hose attached to the windpipe, exhausted by loving things out of sight, set the sky on fire, no return destination.

Black spores of desolation capture my breath, under an inflammatory sun rise.

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At 21 I tried carbon monoxide. A catalytic converter kept me from dying but not from lack of trying.~C

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Filed under Death, Depression, Displacement, Suicide