Category Archives: Past

I am America

All the honest ones on the bottom rung,
hunger without a green clue about how to grow food.
Yet our ancestors had the heirlooms, which would later
be bought by corporate leaders to make
toxic morsels, without real sustenance.

They would see dollar signs in the leaves of the trees,
ignoring the animal need in the seed we
received when we breathed our first
naked breath here, when we were taught to
respect here, this wilderness,
and the corrupt ones with their
pockets lined with lies,
grew rich off our trustworthiness,
or took it, with force, when we
were powerless to defend against them.

We watched what was once fecund,
become what is now a wasteland.
An ashy womb of indifference,
too poisonous to bear fruit.
We said mother earth must have
closed her legs and refused,
and yet they pried and forced
a millennia of greed a thousand feet deep,
so that the scope of it,
could be seen to permeate
every sector, from produce,
to health care, to political
sway, still she lay there
unresponsive to their touch.

It’s like I am America
and you are Europe,
like you rush towards me
with bloody hands,
fresh from raping your
own land, and you come here
hungry, looking to build a
new empire, from the ruinous
resin of your burned down world.
Like I have only an arrow to defend myself
against your lead battalion.

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Before the Abyss

Somewhere on a mountain in India, you were learning about the particles of sand in the rocks that expanded from the boulder of your aspirations. Speak nothing of the weight of it, small unrelated sibling of brown skin. Don’t carry the weight of the world, crossing continents, shifting from what we spoke of as a caste system which broke open and slowly became something of a mineralized memory, chiseled sharp as a surgeon’s instrument.

When I was ten years old I felt God enter my bed and lift me toward the sky. I may have at one time cried over the death of birds. Never once would I imagine an unborn soul’s karma would meet with mine to rise up into the white of discarded feathers, else pull those makeshift wings over her own small body and fly.

Truth drizzles from the tongue in crowded corridors, where from behind the girl without a circle flocks towards my side in tacit approval, smiling back lost decades, where among you all I would have been unrecognizable. Her and I are the nuclei of free radicals, I laugh at the open door for rebels to pass through, gaining entrance freely. I hear your own laughter echo back to me.

We all started with a dream. Today that dream dies. Today the scope of practice is spoken of, and the post trauma of seeing small children, like smashed eggs on the sidewalk, where the yolk of what we become gets burned beneath the sun. My heart, my heart lies lateral to my body. My soul, my soul, lies proximal to the sky. Skip a beat…

listen for the atrial flutter of a butterfly, inflating beyond measure, auscultating systolic pressure.

120 over 80 mercury, retro to distal, the parietal of my hand reaches through the ventral of the darkness, separating the opposing sides of a funnel cloud in utero, tapping on a stethoscope.

The eyes open as light floods the pupils, dilating variance, ascertaining vision, a flash of recognition, the first stranger we meet,

our first lover, the keeper of our primary impressions. When acceptance or rejection tattoos the future on our small dangling feet.

The first spanking or christening, followed by the first kiss,

Before the abyss, and after the abyss.

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Filed under Butterfly, Canada, Canadian, Distance, Medical, Memory, Past, Poem, poetry, Science, Time, Trauma, 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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S’agapo

Dear Mrs. L, I do and she does too, but we are careful not to let ourselves slip in front of you. Your face is kind, somewhat shy, demure, and pure. Your hands hold the wheel as though you’ve always known which turn to take, in the mad rush of seasons in a city full of malakes, recession, and malaise, your kindness is a palpable presence that one can not articulate. The many lives you guided and led into this world, a rehearsal for your own girl, who would for a time be my girl, my cat, my kitten, my angel, my baby, my sweetheart, my joy, my madness, my agony, my pleasure, my ecstacy, my hurt, my love, agape mou. Thank- you for all your quiet and generous suffering. For the kisses on the cheek, for the Christmas sweets. For the sun and the absence of it. Dear Mrs L thank you for my heaven, and thank-you for my hell. S’agapo.

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Filed under Break Ups, Broken, Conversation, creative, Dedication, Greek, Loss, Love, Malakes, Pain, Past, Poem, poetry, Rhyme, travel

The Sorrow

Your hands, your fingers, the bones in your forearm, the anatomy of which I’ll soon come to know precisely, the scars, the glassy glare of strangers cutting them fresh, peeling them back like mica memories preserved in an age so distant, the one who lives there seems a foreigner to me, unable to adapt, she mapped out her emotions with a razor, giving you directions to her heart, there in the dark, where you scorned her sadness, the deeper your scorn, the deeper her cut, until there was no more depth, only hollow, fine slivers of silver memory, a corded line, the horror in her grandmother’s eyes when she saw the long- distance bill. The pills scattered along the floor, while her blood ran thin and lost sugar. She ate chocolate, candy, the sweetest things she could gather, even in your bitterness you were insulin rushing into all four chambers, you knew every room in that organ of fire, a fine stricken sulphur you were. The moan of you, the sorrow, your hands your fingers, parting Babylon, your kisses, deep as Euphrates.

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Filed under Past, Poem, poetry, Sorrow

Synesthesia

On a red Wednesday far away.
How far must one feel before it is real? The smell of vanilla reminds me of the creamy sky when the shape of a dinosaur floats by, reminding me then of old caves deeply unearthed, vapour clouds and the reach of Everest the cataclysm of continents drifting and shifting. I think of you who existed in the same world where eggs were fertilized. The time when our species made the great leap, structurally adapting our homologous bodies, from wings, to fins, to the epic void of these empty arms that never held you. We breathed the same air during the same era and yet it’s as if you are a character in a book that existed in a time I can only imagine. So it is that blue is synonymous with the mountain crest where the roaring Pacific faultline pulls like two magnetic forces, an entire separate continent into the arms of another, that time when cultures collide and adapt into common ancestors of different origins, and you smile that orbital smile as the ozone of your affections protects me from the radiation that threatens complete eradication of our species. I love you duplicitous flower, love you black tar highway whose deceit makes the sky appear deep.

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