Thursday, October 30, 2008

crossing bridges

i follow bread crumbs i don't remember
leaving along the way - collect my
scattered thoughts and return them
to the broken container where they belong.
Then, i sift through my sordid secrets,
seal them in a mason jar, and throw
it from the high level with the idea
that one day i will follow them and
be swept away by the North Saskatchewan.
Dejected, i sit at the back of the bus,
riding alone to avoid the vicious whispers
of the elite dreamers at the front. i
watch the pigeons fly as i cross the
low level. The snow is white, but
the flying mud taints its natural
beauty. The quiet sound i imagine
that is the wings of the dirty
birds reminds me that there isn't
anything about you that i don't love.

Wednesday, October 29, 2008

The city is a dirty place.

i saw a black-haired city worker speeding and smoking. And i, the black-haired student was reclining and smoking while she worked. My park bench was warm from many hours of waiting. The wind blew furious through the sky scrapers; it blew the dust into my squinty eyes. She could have been a confused apparition. The phones were knocked from my head, and left my ears vulnerable to the sounds of the city. The bells tolled the hour - for whom do they cry? Certainly not for an ordinary rambler like me, nor for anybody with an ordinary existence. May that speeding red truck allow her to be loved always by a pure heart. Her years of innocence squandered by those that surrounded her once, took what they could and fled in the night; sauntered away in the daylight.
i am marked with a dancer, though my bones bear no rhythm. A pseudo-revolutionary caught my attention. His protest pieces placed perfectly. One might think that he was in it, solely for the fashion and the fucking, and that he lent nothing concrete to his cause. My park bench warm from many hours of waiting. My eyes closed, waiting not for money; my mind open, waiting only for change.
My thoughts that day were heavy. How much i'd love to use her body: FOR INSPIRATION. i'd seen the creatures peeking out from underneath her hair. i'd heard the secret stories that they whisper in her ears. If i lay still enough for long enough i can hear them clearly. i will remember their tales as i wait for her to sleep. Surely she won't recognize the words i write when she wakes and i am gone. The only evidence that i was there will be the copies i leave for her to read.
How i love the geography of her skin beneath my fingertips: the boundless countryside, the valleys and mountains, meandering rivers, tattooed monuments; the soft middles and the rough edges; her thundering laughter and her devastating tears. Should her happiness rest in my absence, i'd take that leave, that exit without hesitation - though my happiness resides in her alone.
The city is a dirty place, and i'll never fall in love again. My place among the buildings and the business people is unspectacular. My park bench warm from many hours of waiting; my thoughts heavy with smoky visions of women; my heart chasing cars, like a dog.