Category Archives: travel

The Visit

I visit my old apartment, which is like a museum, a memorial shrine to the love we shared. The walls breathe in and out, a pleural exhalation and inhalation. The ceiling holds the shadow of your pupils, once dilated under the light of the moon. On the floor, there are petals from the orchids I gave you during our summer sanctuary, they wilt and carry the memory of two souls into one body, transcending time. Here is where we danced, we held eachother as a palpable sentiment of desire burned between us. There is where we lay naked chest to chest, an urgent throb palpitating between us. This is where you sat on my lap and wrapped your small body around me, kissing me so deeply, the lines of self and other merged. That is where we laughed from our stomachs and cried from our souls, it’s where we gave as much as possible in a limited lifespan, knowing it would never be enough, feeling as the days drew us closer, the hours slowly tore us apart, your hand from my hand, your thigh from my side, your lips from mine, the one into two again. I hold my ticket, it’s time to depart, I want to stay and live in those moments as in a deathless dream, but I must awaken and face these solitary hours alone. I must leave behind what is written so immortally in this temporary space.

October 7, 2016

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Smudging the Heart (Zaagidwin)

Anishinaabe elder, Spotted White Horse, spoke to us of the seven traditional teachings today.

When he began with the teaching of the eagle, a symbol for love,
he asked us to define it.
Each person described it differently.
” Giving without expectations,” was my answer.
” Ah yes, that’s the unconditional love. ”
While this is only one sort,
for myself it seems the most altruistic one, the type I most aspire to.
The Anishinaabe teach that to know peace is to know love. ”View your inner-self from the perspective of all teachings. This is to know love and to love yourself truly. Then you will be at peace with yourself, the balance of life, all things and also with the creator.”

Spotted White Horse then asked if any of us had experienced love.
Nearly all of us in the circle answered yes,
but one lady answered ‘no.’
White horse leaned into her and said ” I love you” The lady had a bitter look on her face as she rejected his offering.
”I am giving love he spoke simply, if you choose to accept it or not it’s your free will.” The bitterness never left her face.

As white horse laid out his medicines, her disdain for this was evident, he passed these sacred medicines around the circle so we could each smell them touch them, and experience them with all of our senses. The lady quickly passed them on carelessly from her hands without acknowledgement as though the medicines were a poison.

An epiphany occurred to me.. a sort of vision…
The night before I was speaking to the creator when I stated aloud ” Freedom is within.”
To hear the elder speak of the importance of our own personal paths and individual journeys within, struck a synchronistic chord in me.

When I made that statement, I was alone at night in the darkness of my apartment. I was praying to the creator to help me heal from a broken heart and a dreadful sense of loneliness.

Having White Horse appear on my path was like hearing the voice of the creator speaking back to me. It’s as though the great spirit said ”yes my child, you are on the right path, the source of peace is within you.”

I thought of the bitter woman. It almost hurt me to look at her. I fought back tears as the vision slowly came through to me.

” You did not do wrong. You only gave love as best as you knew how. The source of your suffering may seem to be within, but if you focus your vision to be sharp as the eagle, sharp enough to polish a stone, you will see the path to freedom from your suffering, the path to peace is also within you .”

I envisioned myself caught in a web of ego, throwing stones into a pond, watching them ripple out and return their karmic echoes back to me.

“We are either in a place of love or a place of fear, spoke Spotted Horse, we act on either one of these and this is what determines our fate. We come from love, love is spirit. We learn fear, fear is a human construct of the material world. Those who come from a place of fear are vibrating on a low frequency, one of selfishness.”

The elder invited us to join him in a smudging ceremony. He burned sage and fanned the eagle feather gently over the shell, creating a white cloud of healing energy.” you will smudge your head to have pure thoughts, smudge your eyes to have clear vision, your ears to hear with clarity, your mouth to taste and speak pure, your heart, the place of spirit… if you come to a point where you feel you need healing, touch this place, and if you want me to pray for you I will send a prayer to the creator, when you are done with the cleansing, say Miigwetch.

I looked around for Bitter Lady…she wasn’t in the circle.

I smudged my heart and held my hand there.
“Miigwetch White Horse…”

and the eagle feather flew on to the next person in the circle.

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Filed under Aboriginal, Ancestors, Ancestral, Anishinaabe, Love, Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Memory

You dress your naked body in leaves

to cover your vulnerability.

The cold season approaches,

stripping the trees,

replacing their vivid colour

with a cold white palor.

Early in the morning you arrive

at my door shivering.

I take you in my lonely arms.

I am not angry,

all these temporary

moods have scattered with

the gusts of Autumn.

One night when the city

lay covered in ice,

I dreamt you to life,

you stayed by my side

for four seasons,

invisible to me,

existing only

as a memory

each day I awaken

the sun fades further

the nights grow longer

and the days shorter

I have no recollection

when I awake,

it seems it was all just

a dream

One day all my memories

will fade before the light of day,

before the great awakening

brings you back to me.

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Trying to Fly

Life is a detestable mess, where you are forced to dress, show up and give what’s left of your best, what the world has not yet taken, what has not yet been forsaken in the name of all this false freedom, and they fuck you for trying to fly.

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The Cracked Canoe

Your bird heart beat
with rapidity and depth
against my solemn chest,
your swan’s farewell,
rang like a bell
at the swell
of the sea,
inside of me,
that broke irrevocably.

I set you free,
while my soul’s entirety
wept for what
was not to be.

I became like a cracked canoe,
incapable of holding you.

“and thou too…

and the heart that beat against mine like a bird
That is fluttering, wounded sore,
With it’s nest all broken, deserted, torn,
Will beat there forevermore.”

C. Barthelette, et de Cleyre

 

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Things More Grand Than Money

When they think they can just say sorry and make up for centuries of red hands then someone has to take a stand so sorry man,, sorry for the ones who are not here today to have their say, it is we who remain who must be the voice for their pain and triumph, fuck Trump and Mein Kampf, and all the years of human oppression, fuck the recession and the epidemic levels of depression leading to no other way out. When you tie your tie and button your collar higher, don’t forget there’s still a raging fire, a towering inferno too high to survive the jump from. You take pride in your flags because it shows another conquered nation defeated, but don’t get too conceited and forget the air on which your own blood relies, it comes from the trees and skies, H20 is more royal than any CEO or sovereignty and don’t forget spirituality and having the responsibility that comes with all that power, or the right to silence when those who are met with violence have no choice but to raise their voices in protest, and hail the civil disobedience, and civil unrest of the slaves of your great nation of corporations, but don’t doubt we won’t take a stand as a people against your plan, because there are things more grand than money on this land worth dying for.

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Filed under Earth, Enslaved, Environment, Freedom, Human Rights, Idle No More, Indigenous, Modern Slavery, Poem, poetry, Society, travel, writing

Obsidian

The light of the moon is a reflection of the sun. Though we perceive phases, she is never in truth illuminated, partial or full, she is always completely whole. The sun goes on burning, while she compliments him. We respect them for the light they lend, but why do we not laud the darkness? Why don’t we dance for the shadows? Here on our self-centered planet, we think we own the world, when truly we are at the mercy of our vision. Without cones or rods, how could we perceive light? The planets don’t rely on our sight. Mercury is still mercury without our feeble map of the stars. Navigate the self, and one discovers therin a fine ash as black as obsidian.

I sat at the foot of mount Vesuvius and heard a conversation between the sun and moon:

Sun: you are my mirror.
Moon: what do you see?
Sun: me.

Just then the earth shot up in flames of jealousy, whose aftermath resulted in a sea of hard black stones, which shone like silver, but you’d never know, if it weren’t for the darkness.

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The Girl Without A Tongue

If I could go back and bite my tongue for every word I ever said to hurt you, I’d be the girl without a tongue
Love would lose its voice, become mute.
If I could revisit each moment I longed to be closer and fell a thousand miles down, I’d be caught by that one perfect shot, aimed towards the sky.
If I could rewind time I’d erase all truth, and live with the bliss of lies. Watching you leave the first time, I’d have buried my life in a box made of velvet, where a thousand screams lie silenced.

Come back! Don’t leave…go away, don’t stay!
(the things that I don’t say.)

You wanted me to be still.
You wanted that I was water under a bridge in a Zen garden, instead I was a random wave in a sea swell.

My heart is the sea swell.
You hold the seashell
close to your ear,
can’t you hear..

the things that I don’t say?

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The Unknown

If there was a self to return to in this ever-shifting existence, a familiar center, like a bonfire that I could create in the wilderness, I’d gather sticks from the forest and set them aflame, then I’d chant my own name as I walked in a semi-circle clockwise, opening the channels to that realm of altruism that I romanticized as a growing girl. I’d remove the glasses from my failing eyes and focus my gaze upon the center of the flames, where they burn most intensely blue, and I’d cleanse myself of you, I’d travel in reverse to in -utero realms before my virgin skin was ever touched. I wouldn’t yet belong to anyone, and my lungs would breathe in liquid. At this moment I’d emerge in ethereal form, and float upwards to a different planet, one that I could consciously inhabit without any knowledge of anything on earth, I’d experience a rebirth more profound than any human mystic could fathom. I’d have no reason to be heard or seen, it would be serene and cosmic, the stars would be beacons leading me to my real home, a place where the word “alone” was not part of the language, where there was only thought without words, because communication didn’t require a vocabulary to be understood. I’d meet the true soul at the center of this raging fire, then I’d cease searching for comfort to eradicate the agony of my ego which burned through this mortal being with a death desire. I would not have to worry about hurting anyone by leaving, because there is no such thing as grieving the unknown.

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Goodbye

White are the untruths-like the clouds I touch
when I fall through the sky as I get rejected from heaven.

Hades is too full to accept new arrivals,
so I stand at the departure gate
and kiss the cold lips of an unknown fate,
goodbye.

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Equator of Empty-Rien part I

At least I held onto the dream,
held carbon poison
in my tar-filled lungs,
held like a fish in the gills,
hungry for steel hooks
held lonely eyes
gaze of possibility
before the decades
danced up behind
my back and shouted surrender!

Nobody can hold you.
They never tell you,
But they should.
The doctor should
whisper it in the ear of your
mother when she
enters the Luteal Phase,

Say “hey, this one is
going to be defective,
an endless series of
impossible starts & stops,
that never come to anything
meaningful.
I advise
you to let it go.”
At least then
You’d know.

Wouldn’t have wasted 39
years attempting the impossible.
would have been successful
on the first go,
as much as you’d always been,
Yes, It came to this,
now release these dead
parts of me.
I tried to tell you
when I was very
small,
I never meant to
be here.

It was a dream,
now let me wake up.
I don’t want to keep
walking into
walls.
hitting my head,
gnashing
my teeth
to be seen.
Laugh at me.
Laugh at me.
I can’t walk
straight..
I never could.
this world is dizzy.
I don’t want to
spin…
Don’t want
applause for success,
want instead a way
to step off the edge
of the equator.

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Dark Matter

Sulphur butterflies
let go,
be sulphuric,
trust in the elements,
in the minerals:
let lithium in
to dissolve your inertia.
Embrace your own dark matter.
Black powder beauties,
fly free.

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Rien

Nothing can hold you.
They never tell you,
But they should.
The doctor should
whisper it in the ear of your
mother when she
enters the Luteal Phase.
Just before
the big bang
of nothing.

“let go…”

Nothing can hold.

This should come
as a warning label
On a box of
contraceptives.

“Nothing can hold you.”

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Smile When I’m Gone

Tonight you send a bird
you send a dead bird
it falls from your hands
your mouth
those dusty edges of fettered
time,
and I smile at it,
because it is nothing.
Tonight I consider ways
to be that bird.
I know they will wonder why I
say sorry to those who cared,
because
I was not one of them.
I couldn’t be any,
but this featherless
joy,
decimated.

the-bird-may-die.jpg

 

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How To Love A Flower

Many a manner of flowers, bewildering in their beauty were passed through your hands, encoding zeros.
At such time, I was the one.
perfect beauty
no other flower could emulate.
A stunning blossom, grown from your desire.
The moment you reached for me, the darkness ceased.

You picked me from the womb of earth, and
I was given this new birth.
In that fatal moment your eye flickered,
and the sun screamed for me.

narcissi….

Your appreciation
is the weight of the rock
Sisyphus knows…
constantly pushed uphill,
until it rolls down
too heavy to bear
Itself.

Your eyes were immortal orbs of power, which melted molten into ash…

Tell me we can have them back…
!!!
Take the obsidian,
make it shine again..
make you mine again.

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Filed under Loneliness, Longing, Loss, Love, Poem, poetry, travel, writing

Dancing on Line 2

“Your version of happiness makes me sad.”
sad the ballerina
as she pirouetted
through the gap
of the metro,
into the oncoming train.

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A House in My Arm

They built a basement in my olecranon fossa,
took out a mortgage on my elbow..
these osteocytes are working overtime
for the corporations,
blasting bones to keep the banks full.
This needle is where my entire
foundation was built.
I got engaged that day you wrapped your
warm soft body around mine,
couldn’t imagine a better feeling than this.
I bought you a ring made of pure gold and shimmering
with diamonds, grown
in a dark cave,
which a slave picked
in your name.
I became so big,
watched the neon skyline
fade,
while my name
lit every billboard in the city.
This all came
from a 30 gauge
shooting straight
into my arm,
it all went into my arm.
I carry my house, my wife,
all my dreams in this syringe,
it shoots freely through
the blue network
of misfired circuits,
and abandoned
commitments.
I would have sold my only child.
I never held her,
she lives in my bicep,
the only untouched
wilderness on my body,
which I left clean for her.

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Filed under Addiction, Heroin, Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Graduation Day

Maybe in your world, to graduate meant that you would obtain a degree, this means you succeeded at mastering something.
Maybe in my cosmic twist, graduating looked something like this;

9 years old and drunk on tequila we stole, watching the world spin…
Waking up in in a hospital, a mix of faces, both stern & concerned. Later, my mom said she would not nurse us back to health, if we were thirsty, we had to get our own glass of water, take them beats hard, take them spirits heavy.

11 years old, 2 joints of marijuana, they left out on the table.
I left for school and smoked them both on my way there.
Later my mom defended me to the death when the principal told her I was high. The obvious signs were there, the missing drugs, the red eyes, the way I suddenly became so social when I was always the loner in class, the outsider, the one they spoke of in hushed tones.

That feeling of alone which cut like glass through my soul.
Later I would do lines on the strip..We called it the strip,                                                                   it was seedy, dark and defeated.
I succeeded in learning the ways of being enslaved to the white crystal,                                       the powdered kick, the fast morning hit….                                                                                               my own fists against my own unrecognizable face,                                                                          the hatred which wanted me to be wasted.

I tasted the seas of strangers as they entered me, incapable of erasing my need.
Suns were enemies which burned our morning faces.
We danced like we meant it, but then we’d lose balance, forget who we were holding, watching the shape-shift of lovers enclose us, eyes flickering in multicolored brilliance, only to fade to silence and blank stares, or inexplicable rage.

They could not love you, when you were a stranger, but you always felt the hero was somewhere out there on the next big trip, you kept taking it, and he never came, or he always came, but he never arrived, maybe he was too high, somewhere in an alley on Hastings, maybe he was wasting away, the black tar laughter in your DNA, waiting for that proud day you graduated.

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Filed under Addiction, Poem, poetry, travel, writing

Out of Their Minds

Yesterday you told me you graduated from pink pills to purple pills, they upped your dose of antidepressants. You chase after men like some hormone crazed teenager and I wonder is it a side effect or just loneliness? How much of what people do is done out of loneliness? A mother having a child, a couple getting married, a new friendship blossoming, and how much of this skin is really worth the abrasion? The scrape of crowds or the disinfectant of this silence, is a choice that comes down to how comfortable you truly are in your own naked flesh, and how long you can go on tolerating the insult brought on by the energy spent from your own blood spilled out for others, indifferent to your type; A negative, AB positive , type O, some rare genetic defect where the minerals we smell in the air draw us to eachother. This one is deficient, this one lacks the calcium to allow for a solid spine, she will define herself by the power she gains from your calcified spirit. That one is toxic, avoid her at all costs, she is not authentic, she is a chemical spill on the roadside, where your car breaks down at night and you find yourself alone. Be careful who you hand the syringe to, not all want to heal you, most are just looking for a way out of their own bodies, a way out of their minds.

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Genocide in the Forecast

You quit smoking, but not the SSRIs,
and now you’re taking sleeping pills & Xanax,
you went into hibernation mode,
and I did the same,
we are mirror souls,
without the chemicals,

Since that first day
you struck up a
conversation,
a match was
lit within me.

and now the long
frost finally
shows
signs
of thawing.

So, here’s my friendship
here’s my honour,
go on keep these,
you might want
something
to look back on during
our next deep freeze.

This means yes,
I anticipate
a holocaust
of white ash.
This means
a genocide is
in the forecast.

…no socializing
while winter lasts

(For D)

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Stars

I was not created in the image of any God. If I could create myself in anyone’s image, it would not be a Western deity, nor Eastern divinity, nor any entity from Greek mythology, it would be carnal and perfectly imperfect. It is said that we reflect our desires, and that each person is like a mirror manifested by our psyches. If I could, I would create myself in your image, because in you the most merciful Goddess exists, and also the cruelest devil. I could have salvation and damnation in the same breath. My deepest erotic longings  are realized and contained in this one divine being. Your body knows no flaws, even in your scars there is a profound grandeur to surpass any sense of heaven or hell. I want to attend a funeral everyday for the entirety of my existence, just to mourn your mortality. It is the most wicked lie I ever heard, that you will die. I want to go back to the day my first ancestor was born, and drown them in the river, eradicate my entire bloodline, just to erase the moment I learned you were made of decomposing stars.
.

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Dyade

Peering in the mirror, I see your reflection in me. It’s always the one who is closest who leaves her imprint on my soul. The name that was given to me at birth was apropos, clarity and light, reflecting through dark, the image of that which is cast upon her. Deep under earth where thirsty roots, like small beings , conscious of their need for the tree, hold deep this vein which replenishes jugular affection. I want your black hair with blue undertones, want the blue haze surrounding you in me, like a cloud of vapor, inhaled and exhaled. When you say I should be things, like the orgasmic thrust you feel in your ilium, this is what I embody. I want your skin as it deteriorates from lack of nutrients, to be my own canvas splotched red, and for my pulse to be your pulse as it leaves your wrists where the indents of my sharpest desire are worn as a bracelet, swollen on the surface, where the ancient ache escapes, to become rain for the desert between your thighs.

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Annihilation’s Bird

Each bird in its place, caged.
One is set free daily.
Extended arm like a runway for aviators.
The broken one sits there envious of the sky,
It will never abide by suicide.
Buddhist principles of non-violence
forbid it forgiveness.
Instead it commits a thousand
silent murders within,
homicide,
genocide,
any form of annihilation
afforded by the imagination,
to spurn the body.

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The Reaper

​You were beautiful when you took my hand in your hand, when you held that black cape open, enticing me. You were 6 drinks in 60. You were a pile of white powder that I inhaled, in the hopes of feeling, the tissue soaked red from my efforts. You were lonely bridges at 2 am, bent over rivers, deep as whores. You were strange men who drove by and offered young girls a ride out on the wide open highway. You were razor blades stolen from hardware stores, when I was let out from the ward on a smoke break. You were sutures, charcoal, and the threat of stomach pumps. You were 20 meter jumps into nothing in the hopes of hitting something hard. You were there in infancy laughing, you were there on my first day of school, when I learned what it meant to be different. You are that look in my supervisor’s eyes as she gives me the once over, questioning whether it was really the right thing to hire me, then excusing my weirdness in place of the quality of my work and the level of my seeming dedication. You were the mark on a card indicating my identity, where the line was left blank. You are that thin tipped syringe that hits the vein perfect every time, the one I sometimes romanticize. You are the failed attempts I made, and all my partners who live/d too far, who are incapable of intimacy. You are that mystery man who comes cloaked in high fashion ready to take me on a date, but you never tell me the time. I will never know until I meet you, and then what if we are incompatible? You are always there, waiting in the shadows. You are there when I catch my reflection in a mirror. You were there today when I failed to be perfect, you will be there tomorrow, and tomorrow and tomorrow. I can’t starve you out, love you out, buy you out, or drink you out. I can’t write you away or procreate you away. You’re here to stay, ever the immortal victor to my corporeal existence.

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Rebel Rhetoric

Living is radical
when they prefer what is
predictable;
carefully calculated
algorithms adhere
to interpolated
parameters.
To live is to
extrapolate,
expel yourself
from the radar
refuse
rules,
rebel in
response
to
repulsion,
revolt,
rise up,
redefine yourself,
reawaken
the
revolution
register
as an earth refugee
apply to go
to heaven
apply for hell,
anything
is possible
outside the
realm
of this
robotic
reality.

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Battle Scars

America never belonged to their forefathers
It belonged to your fathers
and your father’s fathers.
Never forget that.
They drove a strong, proud, red nation
up into Canada,
where they cut off our tongues
and surgically removed our souls.
Red, white & blue
are part of you.
The blood which rushes
through your heart,
which they buried at wounded knee
could not be
without France, without Britain,
without the great red nation.
The enemy is in you,
and the warrior too.
Smearing paint over her cheeks,
she walks free
into the wild country,
bearing their battle
scars within her.

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Candidate 45

The day that Clinton bitch lost
and that idiot won,
my friend in all things strong and femme
held up her arm in a “we can do it” pose.
Tears soaked her cheeks,
while around her bicep
black fabric tied
like a tourniquet
hung
loose
over a tragi-comic,
self-grandiose
nation.

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Feline to a Fault

The pitter patter of morning kittens running down the hall,
enter your bed where you lay in lioness sprawl.
Each eats a secret from your mouth
in the cemetery of animal thoughts.
Their razor tongues
attempt to wash your conscience clean
I am naked and 16,
A lithe leopard enters me.
Her dark ennui
transfigures my feminine soul.

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Repent

On a clear day,
they say you can see the mountains from Bucharest,
ice capped wonder of my heart
deliquescing,
but whether clear or cloudy
your soul
peering into mine
at the hour
of immortality
makes demons
repent.

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Dream II

I dreamt that we were not in this world.
Your mother, your father, and your grandmother
welcomed me like family;
recognized me
for the swell
in the organ
where
the
aortic arch
rose high
as the Carpathians.

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Bullet Time

Everyone walks around like they’re in real time.

I walk in the bullet induced haze of a rabbit maze.

My mind is projected on the wall of a cave.

And nothing stays. Nothing penetrates.

I hear the grinding crack of bones when I hit the outside world,

light burns my eyes until I’m blind.

I think I broke something substantial, but I can’t feel the pain.

Others stand encircling me with their mouths agape.

I don’t know if I am supposed to react a certain way.

I have a complete absence of feeling,

even numb pales in comparison to this snuffed out candle of an anesthetized body.

Your smile is a shadow on the wall. Clap your hands and applaud.

I see the wings of an absurd albatross bird.

I think this is meant to be a signal of some kind.

I don’t know why, but people seem to think this all means something.

Maybe I missed mythology class, maybe I should be reading symbols & codes beyond my comprehension.

I turn to Jung again, maybe he can provide a clue as to what this nonsense means.

At least the deaf & blind have Braille and interpreters.

What about those who can’t feel?

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Failed Attempt

If I’d have succeeded
in meeting my heart’s desire
there would be no fire,
no spark of excitement
at the laughing, living,
breathing failure contained
within me.

Then you say I would never see
my mother past forty,
never see the grey
in otherwise sunny
skies.

Never have to sign my life away.
I would have made it
to that legal age
where too young gives way
to knowing better,
and simple as that the curtain
would have been drawn shut
for good on these dark,
floater strewn debris,
cataclysmic, catatonic
soul gazing pupils.

I would have had the soul sick
sense of dread at living
and the fearless contempt
that welcomes death.

I would be the same then as now
and now as then,
save the perils of
depleted oxygen.

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Filed under Poem, poetry, travel, writing

Dead Dream

So I dreamt I woke up
I had died and woken up
on the Golden Gate bridge
In San Francisco
And you carried a doll
to a shore
And shot it
in the heart.
It had cotton
guts,
they exploded
In a fury of feathers.
I wasn’t sure then
if I saw a bird
die
or fly,
though I know for certain
that doll kept her smile.

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Filed under Poem, poetry, travel, writing

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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Filed under Ancestors, Ancestral, Anishinaabe, Broken, Buffalo, Canada, Canadian, Earth, Enslaved, Environment, First Nations, Freedom, Hypocrisy, Idle No More, Indigenous, Modern Slavery, Past, Pipe Lines, Political, Pollution, Rape, Traditions, Tragedy, Trauma, travel, Truth, Uncategorized, writing

Seeing Through the Dark

Your eyes; two crystal balls bright as stars
burning through the dark.
How could you see where others blindly dance?
Opium in place of lithium.
Decimal points on a chart,
indicating deficient blood.
What he did in the dark,
you could see in the dawn of
a new existence.
Segments of double helix strands
bent on self-destructing,
whilst the bang of moonlight,
shot white fluid
replicating self-perpetuation.
Years later, she would liken
this to being mangled.
Others would call it birth.
Hum drum of planets,
ringing euphoric,
while I wake up mute
to this strange discord
they call music.

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Filed under Bipolar, Borderline, Depression, Illusion, Memory, Pain, Poem, poetry, Suicide, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Vertical Over Apical

Memories travel in reverse, like spilled fluid up the cup before it was broken. Irony is I am awake at 2am reviewing chapters on the subject of sleep. REM decreases. As we progress closer to our death we spend less time dreaming, is this because we are closer to finally waking up? She sits in a white chair with a red glare projecting from her eyes. I envision her scalpel as she slices each neck, void of any emotion, this is purely professional, harvest the brain to study the cycles causing disease, be present at the hour of decay, sit at a temporary table and drink something permanent. Drink in sunsets, red dots on white flags, dotted lines: vertical over apical, swim out among a metaphoric sea of trees, hang myself there, like an ornament out of season.

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Filed under Poem, poetry, Suicide, travel, writing

Superficial Images of Harmony

In line for photo day, mother smothers

Covergirl and others to conceal what is real.

On each face there is a veil of joy, disguising true emotion.

A family of 5, but only 4 legitimates in the picture,

the other is the ghost of a girl, appearing as a halo of light,

which gives the finished image, a burned appearance,

where truth singes.

 

In front of others, this feigned affection & attention

is heaped like toxic sugar into the cups of company.

When the guests depart, the smile turns to tight lips

and searing eyes, “you are the reason we fight,

you are the cause of our misery, your very

existence was an accident.”

 

I think of how beautiful an accident can be,

crushed bones on concrete, from a 10 story fall,

but I decide instead on living and smiling just to spite them.

Smile, no one cares how you feel, smile to conceal what is real.

Keeping up appearances is what garners true admiration,

look at her, so together, meanwhile the thread on her sweater

tied to truth, is so easily unraveled, like a wound,

they hoped to keep hidden by a tattoo symbolizing

harmony.

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Filed under Abuse, Past, Poem, poetry, Suicide, travel, Uncategorized, writing

The Call To Serve

Eccentric hoarder in dilapidated mansion

RN,

gives me advice on survival.

Says I stand at a new plateau,

in her time what was known as controversial

was abortion.

In my time, assisted suicide.

holds up her hands in the shape of a triangle,

epic symbol,

for the fundamentals

encapsulating our scope of practice,

like an exoskeletal prism.

You think naively thus?

No.

The doctor only writes the

script,

the nurse follows it.

Thus, the needle,

through the administered I.V,

of a prescribed O.D.

 

Sudden flashback, lacking LSD,

I see myself in recovery,

my first gold pendant, symbolizing one year

of sobriety, with the ever familiar

polygon, encased in a circle

representing wholeness,

teaching us to give back in service,

but my question has always been

this:

who am I serving?

In this case the vulture

in the syringe.

As I turn to leave, she looks

me firmly in the eye,

through the blur

of her cataract,

says she admires my calmness,

something she never had,

instead she screeched her way out of

service.

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Filed under Nursing, poetry, Suicide, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Anaphylaxis

When the bird of voice breaks a wing, the words we wish to speak fail to take flight, dissolving in the larynx and pharynx of a hemorrhaging heart. Then you say little girl who resides out of utero should at certain time, when seasons pass, find her wings mended, for when we reach the age of cleavage, only then is our plumage ever seen, and our song ever heard. Then beyond altered colour, should the woman stand erect, tearing the guise of her girlhood into fine pieces, like a costume that was never in vogue. Then what was known of her fertile heart, should become a shortcoming rather than an asset, like when you are told you feel too deeply what others prefer to numb, so you tear at the root where decay sets in, where silence takes precedence over imagination, and stoicism and formality become the wrinkled suit and necktie noose of professional proportions.

Here in the breaking, let me feel the bone, let blood erupt, and silence like a hammer shatter me, into speechless pieces, like my love, like my hurt where all joy is born, in the silencing of a heart that breaks irrevocably. Whether you give too much or you take too much, it’s one in the same, it’s a flooding, before emergence, before the natural progression of true intention, which paves way for regret. Better to be silent, to withhold feeling, movement, sound, and being. To become the earth around two tectonic plates, that lies still before the break. For we know the aftershock is inevitable.

The painting dissolves; figure of a woman, her hands seem foreign, her mouth lacks warmth, her arms lacerate your skin with every embrace. What was love becomes more like a bee sting to one who is hypersensitive.

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Filed under poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Something so Bright

The sun cycles through the seasons upward & bright to the zenith, akin to a phoenix before it is swallowed by the dark abyss of night. The moon reminds us there is always a light, even during the ebb & flow of less than luminous times, and the stars are like distant beacons, reminding us to keep dreaming until we see that radiant day again, but where have you disappeared to during these liminal moments connecting each rise & fall? Your soul is like a breath of wind or a whisper on the heart, soft & sharp, tearing the trees apart one leaf at a time. I watch the colours fade, yet the memory of you remains vivid. Which eclipse or unusual twist will bring you back to life again, immortal muse? Where does fire go when it stops burning? You are more than a brave bird risen from ash, you are the soul that transcends every first breath & last gasp, a candle dying, a star colliding.

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Filed under poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

In vivo veritas

[In vitro:]

Crystal violet sky where the sun sometimes rises,

shining light on these molecular emotions,

magnified objectively in a laboratory.

[In vivo:]

The microscope shatters,

obliterating field of view,

blurring my subjective vision of you.

In life, there is truth,

in glass, distortion.

In wine,

both.

Drink the sky, shatter the glass,

stare opaquely

into

these negative particles,

dissolving

in Methylene blue;

these warm drops

of humoral immunity

& emotional sterility

fall blankly,

 

singeing the stitches,

which hold the

child together

inside me,

a severed

suture,

bleeding

into the future.

 

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Filed under poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Confession

I got the results of my x-ray back today,

there are roses growing in me,

and it seems they can never die,

they found butterflies on the thorns

where they made cocoons,

only our lovemaking can heal these wounds.

[~C]

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There are roses growing in you;

I will always remember that August morning when you told me that there were roses growing in you.

Since that day, when they need light, I give them the sparkle of my eyes transformed into sunlight.

When they are thirsty, I empty my body of blood and I become their dew.

When they feel lonely, I serenade them under the full moon

When they are hungry, I offer them my tenderness,

and I cut my arms so they can keep my caresses.

Today, I have a secret to reveal to you; there are roses growing in me too.

Only my roses can live in your garden and yours are always welcome in mine,

but never offer roses to a stranger and never accept roses from someone else’s garden,

because the pain in my soul will provoke thorns to tear my skin off

and a rain of petals will cover my empty & naked body

that lies lost on a pyramid of thorns amid a sea of blood.

[~M]

Written by Crystal Kinistino & Mada Rose

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Filed under Beauty, Bleed, Bondage, Confessional, Dark Romanticism, Dedication, Love, Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Hemlock (Truth#1)

I found in you, ephemeral but indelible, this bruise
purple as a twilight sky before the thunder,
where black around the eyes, as charcoal,
accompanying a crimson smear,
your cheek was stained by the memory of my presence.

Each day I arrived to see you sleeping,
bandaged, scarred, and profane, the words
never came, the sentences were anesthetized.

Your disdain grew like a tumour.
Inside needless cells,
carrying comets towards
hell.

The first truth was as bitter
as hemlock in the trial of Socrates.

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Filed under Poem, poetry, travel, Truth, Uncategorized, writing

Brave

​Brave we are:

when the father is a ghost

when the head of a beloved doll rolls 

across the wooden floor 

of a vacant house

when the mother cuts her finger 

across her swollen lip,

when teeth fall

before their time is up.

Brave are the children

of the aging woman

whose reality forehadows the

dream.

When the child, so worshipped

falls sick, 

when there is a blackness 

darker than when they

put out the forest fires

in his head.

When bringing your child to the doctor

for mental malaise is as healing

as bringing him to the undertaker

on the street corner,

of an overpopulated city,

which gets glorified by how high

its towers rise,

and how far its people fall.

When I told my hero

of her braveness

she cried

and said she was nothing.

She was nothing,

dressed in denim on a hot

summer day,

to stop the U.V rays,

from making thymine dimers 

in her RNA.

Sodium channels

flood her face, submerging 

the pain in her smile.

A fist full of forgiveness

for the man who did this,

her hero of nothing,

paternal wolf, 

whose eyes eat the children,

whose lust burns the forests

into clay, which the rain,

makes maleable again-

shaping out this brave image

where we fit into nothing.

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Filed under Abuse, Addiction, Death, Depression, Disenchantment, Displacement, dreams, Loss, Medical, Overdose, Pain, Poem, poetry, Sex, Silence, Sobriety, Society, Sorrow, Soul, Suicide, Tragedy, Trauma, travel, writing

Uprooted

​Moth breath over Phalaenopsis,

the sway & swell of city sounds,

In the clay pot, broken, 

but never penetrated;

fastidious flowers, 

desiring winter on a bed of cedar,

stay this way, in virginal foreboding.

8 Seasons pass..

nothing lasts.

that which I called home,

that which I called love.

Fertilizes 

New hope

New eyes,

New bed.

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Filed under Poem, poetry, travel, writing

Endless Maze

Knowing you is continuing to do pirouettes with two broken legs without feeling the pain and even after the music has stopped; it’s flying in circles with no purpose, with the fall leaves and not feeling nauseous, lost or dizzy; it’s starting a new painting every day, using the same colors, drawing your portrait for the millionth time and still being amazed by this original work of art.

Loving you makes me feel like an innocent, pure, dreaming child, like a cherry blossom bud that already spreads such a deep and unique perfume, like a newborn butterfly that uses its last strength and broken wings to knock on heaven’s door.

You said to me that being with me is like walking through an endless maze every day. I will reply to you that discovering you is like traveling from the sky to earth disguised as a snowflake, falling slowly without being afraid to melt because if I melt you will melt with me and we will be just one, one happy little drop full of desire, peace and love, forever frozen on the stairs of paradise.

written by my love, Mada Rose

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Filed under Dedication, Love, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

The Stone Light

In the dark depths of your irises, and deeper still the pupiled pathways of your soul, I am carried as on a vessel, bound for unknown worlds of great exploration & discovery, out of the microcosm and into the macrocosm of an infinite
universe, all in the span of a moment, only long enough for a kiss, but how
long is a kiss; when time ceases to exist?
Hold me this way, in dark whispers, say my name, with a tremble of
ecstasy, as you tell me “my body is your body,” therefore your tongue which
orchestrates such song, must have been composed from my own longing,
therefore “your body is my body.” I am as much that flicker of fire in the
stone that burns for us, whose amber light releases her soft musk into
the passionate night air. A soft rain falls, tomorrow you will fly back to Paris,
but in this moment I want to engrave you in my mind, the outline of you,
of us, together, in this sensuous season without end, until the wind,
which birds do follow, and the cold, so inevitable, leads us close again.

 

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Filed under Longing, Love, Memory, Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Perpetual

When I say I don’t know how I could have made it through this without you,

its not a declaration of incompetence or weakness,  it’s a feeling of gratitude.

Of course I am capable, a woman can choose to stand alone.

Its not dependency, need, or loneliness.

I don’t require a manual on how to be strong enough to do this on my own.

What this is, is a wolf in woman’s skin, tearing at her throat to let you in.

If you prefer winter,

go on and forsake

the summer.

The sun that rises also drowns,

in grey horizon.

This warmth of breath,

might just as well smother.

Elements in our bodies,

deplete desire,

for fire.

You with blade,

chip away at ice,

to make something

recognizable,

so that others may say,

It bears striking resemblance

to something real,

attend a festival of ice,

In a bid to feel;

The morning arms that reached for you,

The morning smile that greeted you,

The morning lips which sought in you,

something perpetual.

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Filed under Emotions, Poem, poetry, travel, writing

L’enfant des orchidées

The stars go out before the dawn

and spur on a new light,

how sad it is, the time between,

awaking and a dream.

I held my lover’s gentle body near my own,

we danced until the feeling of alone,

passed like a ship, empty of cargo,

that knows not what it misses,

a bare vessel bound for the Pleiades,

those seven sisters arm in arm,

those middle-aged stars, who long

for time eternal.

In the aching of a sea whose depths

know not for reaching,

worlds of beseeching tenderness,

melt the ennui

of empty hours

between one mate

and her soul,

such it is

her body

is

my

own,

blood

rushing,

in streams

over mountains

& continents

past carnage,

and wreckage

of war,

skin,

scarred as mica

on black shore,

drops the basket,

cracks the casket,

open more;

you are the only one

who can

have this

rare bloom

inside me.

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Filed under Poem, poetry, travel, writing

Reflections on Nursing 

 

You are like me, it’s how you’re supposed to be, so smile and be free says the bird in her, to the cage in me, creaking silver rusted memories. Abduct and adduct arms fast like wings, to fly on out of this place. Your mind is without limit, flapping like a fish on earth inside your body, and as such your spirit laughs in the face of this absolute powerlessness, the absurdity of a weakened system, which fails to reflect the stirrings of a child within, who knows eternal strength, uplifting. Infantile and so, deemed useless, without the ability to prove oneself worthy. Yesterday centennial celebrations, in a society who is not keen on decay. “I’m lonely,” lady of Italy, who spits out the soup in distaste as I spoon feed her lies, in an attempt to comfort her, silence her, in the kitchen, where they gather our incompetence’s, small checks in boxes indicating our failure to thrive. She says she is lonely, this is the pathos of the human plight, and I without ability to heal, provide the most basic of human needs, company, and a spoon, where her hand has failed to hold, and her mouth refuses to open save for spitting obscenities, which amuse me. Hot blooded Italian from the old country. Her family come to visit, and her granddaughter gives me the once over, a power dyke, and me in white, all white, as though I were pure.

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Filed under Aging, Alone, Loneliness, Loss, Malady, Medical, Memory, Mortality, Nursing, Pain, Poem, poetry, travel, writing