I don’t understand chess, I never learned it, but I do get that there are Queens and Kings and pawns, and I understand the concept of a stalemate. I think all my past relationships ended that way. “I can’t make any moves, seems like a dead-end here, you copy?” “Over and out I read you, no moves to be made, all possible moves cancelled out.” It’s like being on a two-way radio playing chess. How the hell did this happen? Fuck my life as they say. I’ve never had luck with women and I never had a real desire to learn chess. To me it seems like something old people do, like golf, golf, chess, and ballroom dancing. If I ever get that stale mate, check me off the board. I’d rather not continue, I’d rather find myself at the end with no more moves left to make and a pocket full of memories of how things used to be fun, and I’ll take those and sit in the sun with a drink and a book, and stare at hot young Greek girl’s asses by the beach in Mykonos, no wait that’s something my ex girlfriend did when I was with her in the sun on a Greek island. She told me quite frankly, as we watched a young woman walking on the beach. “she has a nice ass,” and I thought this girl sure doesn’t hold back her thoughts, but she was right, I suppose, only those things never much mattered to me, maybe when I’m really old I’ll miss being young enough to imagine waking up in a spoon position with some Greek girl’s tight ass against my pelvis, but if she’s one of those carefree bitches, I’ll feel worse rather than better, and if she’s got too much of a tortured mind to have fun, then I’ll be equally tormented, so who cares about her ass, it’s only good to look at and imagine something better. But I got her back later at the café that evening, a lovely waitress came out to serve our coffee, and as she walked away I declared “wow, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman so hot in my whole damn life, what a Goddess!” And my ex just looked at me and said “thanks a lot.” I aim to please I guess, but then you know, we hit that place of no going forward and no going back, and as I reflect, there was never anything for us to go forward to together, and never a reason for me to go back, except maybe to sit in the sun, on a gorgeous Greek island, and enjoy the view.
Category Archives: Prose
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.
Can the lizard crawling out from the wall, refuged in coolness be a transformation of the stone, from which it emerges? Is it possible my heart surges with the voltage to ignite a storm, but not the velocity required to light up a city? With enough electricity it could black out the entirety of our world. Lightning crash of black over vision of future. Apocalypse of heart under glare of sun flare. Or is it merely stillness through a crack, where the perception of feeling jolts us back to the presence of this power, thunderclaps through scorched synapses, fusing where the heart clenches, heavy like the fist of Poseidon? Take the heart out of the equation and there is only the still and cool observation of things that emerge and return, seeking asylum from the vagaries of these moods, the inhale and exhale of cyclic energy repressed in the psyche. What does it mean to miss me? What transformation occurs between head and heart when I hear the succour of your voice in child-like tones, asking if I miss you? What does it mean to miss someone who has curled in the alcove of your most ardent organ? What of the restless reptilian that molted through the heart’s eruption and shapeshifted into the skin of a cold blooded amphibian crawling out from the wall on the balcony, overlooking Eden? Would you know to avoid the temptation, else would all the world turn black again? Would the obsidian shores of Santorini crystalize under the sun, whose bright rays lay buried beneath the blistered basalt of a solidified flow? We might never know more than what draws tide to shore, what causes spark to ignite, what kills the light of our universe, yet the mystery of that most vital organ, remains as arcane as the flint of our gaze through a crack in the wall of eternity.