Exit Strategy

Your existence is painful to me
The sadness to it all is that even
If you were to move somewhere else
You would still exist
You would still
Be
Here

Somewhere

In order for there to be happiness
There needs to be an exit strategy
Not an exist strategy
The fruit of the labour is one that no one should bare
Leave it be
Be it
Leave

The Same Outlook

Where the wild things grow
Is where big shots lay on small pocks
There is nothing but ski hills of cocaine

Everyone is wiped out

The ocean dreads to crash against the shore
A computer removing the oxygen from his lungs
He lays on the beach of broken glass with the water still
He suffocates with a whore in each arm

Lots and lots of downhill skiing
In the nighttime when it was the right time
A purple waxy coloured sky destroys us all
So that survival doesn't work any more

I can see the horizen through the whole thing

For those who are over the hill
You never had a chance anyway
But for those of us who have found our place on top of the hill
Here's to you
And the morbid death that lay beyond
One that looks gorgeous to us all
Yet one that takes decades to finally find

The Outskirts

He drove his car north-west towards Lake Huron. The grey behind him seemed to drift further away, ever so slowly. His blue eyes glanced at the rear view mirror, which reminded him that everything that just happened did in fact just happen. That's why he was driving towards Lake Huron.

For some reason.
Water.
Was.
The answer.

Blame Her, He Mentioned Quickly

I replied quickly to the God "Get going" He got up and left with his partner, the Elf The slide of honey that had coated his throat Finally dried up The police officer had God arrested I laughed because now the Pope is out of a job Far too many molestations Our promised land is our heart Remember the promise On getting to the promise land Remember the promise On getting to the promise land I could repeat history Yet there is so much disorder I could shout out And let it all out

Get in Line

It would have been one year to the day since the moment his life changed. Before that one single moment he was living as a hermit. Wearing the same clothes day in and day out, he didn't have much care for personal hygiene. It was the lake that he used to keep clean.

He certainly had become a good swimmer over the years.

On this day he would walk to the exact spot it happened at. Three hundred and sixty five days after, he stood in the same spot from which he sat when he observed what had happened. It was daylight now, which would be the only difference in the characteristics of what would play out in his mind. He was watching from the forest towards the sandy beaches that lined the shore of the lake.

There was a struggle. A strugge between some young camp counsellor. A young camp counsellor and an older woman. The woman was on top of this young lady and repeatedly pushing her face into the sand. There were a few more jerks, and the young lady ended up across three meters with the older woman getting up. As the younger woman used her hands to get up, she noticed the piece of a wooden canoe paddle. She grabbed it and, lunging towards the older woman, connected the paddle with her neck, severing the head quite easily.

Blood everywhere, squirting out of the stump of the woman's neck. Her head landing on the sand, staining it like wine spilled on a rug. The remaining body of the woman still alive, slowly falling towards the ground.

Hands reaching up towards the sky, speaking in their own voice. "Why? Why? Why?"

From the forest across the beach, he sat watching this with his own eyes. A curiousity overtook him. As the young woman began to drift out in the lake in a small boat, he made his way towards the beach. Towards the body that lay lifeless on the sand. Towards the head that sat facing the lake; a look of terror sitting on it.

From the boat, the horror and macabre drifted away from the young woman. As she passed out, movement from the corner of her eye stirred her for just a moment. Had she not just fought for her life, the woman would have looked towards the beach from whence she came to see a figure standing.

Watching her.

He turned around and grabbed the headless body by the feet and started dragging it away from the beach, and onto the grass. He looked back and made his way towards the head. With both hands he grabbed it, a wave just finished lightly crashing against the heads face. He looked into the eyes of the head.

He recognized the look of the face.

It was the look of death.

"Ma ma ma"

...and so it began.

The Lost and the Needy

Harry stood at the top of the mountain, looking down on the small villiage of Kuunu. The wind blew through his shoulder length hair, and his body stood strong at the edge. Triumphant. A killer. His arms were bloody. His face had a long cut going down the right side of his face. This was from his knife fight with Guiero Martez. It was this fight that ended the current assignment. The villiage was finally free. And it was all thanks to Harry.

Bring Out the Dead Volume 3

I kicked the basketball across the field in complete dispair. It was a gloomy afternoon. The sun was behind an infinite brushing of grey clouds. This was a typical sky in late winter south western Ontario. The basketball bounced and rolled along the wet, brown grass until it came to a complete stop against the back of some hedges. I knew this would be the end. I looked around me. Just to be acquainted with this scene. The final scene. I was in a school yard, but the part of the yard I was in was in fact a soccer field. There were goal posts on either side. The soccer season hadn't started yet, so there were no boundary lines made with that awful chalk/paint that they use once the season begins. Parts of the school yard field opened up onto people's backyards. Other sections were divided by either fence or hedgerows. To my right side would be mostly pavement. On the pavement was the basketball court, a hopscotch game, and a long steel railing that would be used to lock up any bikes a student might ride to school. There was a large jungle gym too. No children were outside today. Recess either just ended, or it was just about to begin. The air felt dead. I could breath, and the air felt fresh going through my nostrils. But when I held it in for a moment, like, really keeping it in so that I felt truly alive and embracing the moment, the air went dead. It was a sore accumulation of poisonous gas that sat in my lungs. I almost couldn't keep it in me, and felt like coughing after exhaling each and every breath of air. Why was I still here, and how could I be surviving? A wind blew. I felt the shiver of a late March winter/spring breeze cut through my jacket. The wind reached my skin, going into the pores. My face immediately went tense, and my teeth closed shut inside my mouth. Either spontenaeouty or an urge to engage my body heat caused me to move my feet. I ran towards the ball. The basketball. The basketball was the end of it all. I ran towards the ball, and for some reason I ran through a mud puddle that was in the very heartland of the soccer field. Normally the water of a puddle would break up and seperate once the pressure of a foot pressed onto the ground below. This puddle, on the other hand, was seven feet deep. My foot went right in, and my body followed. I smashed my jaw against the other side of the puddle, as my whole entire body sunk below the surface. I was knocked out cold, but only for a moment. In that moment I had a flashback to a family toboggon party in 1989. I would have been seven years old, and it was at Prospect Elementary School. The school was in the north end of the city, and the north end of the city was build on many hills. Hills that were high. Hills that overlooked the South side of the city. I was from the south side of the city. We would get together and toboggon the first day of the year. The whole family. Cousins, aunts, uncles, moms, dads, and grandparents. It was always so much fun. It was the special time in a family with a third generation growing up. The grandchildren, nieces, nephews were all still young enough that the get togethers felt genuine. All of the parents were younger than fifty, and the grandparents were younger than 75. A great time indeed, and every family has them. I wonder why I had a flashback to that time. It doesn't matter though, because that's exactly what happened. I woke up almost immediately once I was immersed in the mud puddle for probably all of 1.5 seconds. I sank to the bottom and pushed myself up towards the surface. I could have lept out of that puddle, the amount of energy, so thankfully it did not take me so long to get out. Once I got out it was some heavy walking, and cold to boot, but I made it to the basketball. I centered myself behind the ball, in perfect distance to give it another good kick. I ran, I approached, I kicked. The ball flew across the wet, brown field until it bounced its way to a complete stop. On the pavement, no doubt. I started to run. Getting to the ball was easy this time. No mud puddles. No flashbacks. Just shooting across the wet soccer field like a star. I made it to the basketball and picked it up. I would have been only just a couple of feet from the basketball court. I decided to make my way towards the net in a half-assed layup. I jumped in the air with the ball, ripping apart Larry Bird's reputation as talent in the NBA, and slam dunk the ball. My fingers tightly grip the rim as the ball is already through the hoop, bouncing on the ground. Everything is in slow motion. The school that looms over this entire scene makes a noise. The bell that sits at the very top of the school is rung by a long rope that goes into the close-nit music room. The rope slackens and tightens with each ding-dong. Within just a few seconds two hundred and fifty children under the age of twelve run outside. I swing while holding onto the rim, celebrating my make-believe victory with this slam dunk. As I swing, there is an even louder noise. This noise surpasses that of the school recess bell. This noise grabs the attention of every student and supervisor that is out for recess. Everyone outside brings their hands to their ears, as the noise becomes far too powerful. The ground shakes, as the noise gets louder. I am still swinging. This made up state of glory. Such a farce. The children outside begin to fall to the ground, and the supervisors collapse. I move with the momentum of my swing, letting go, and move throught the air. I land on my feet, and for some reason yell, "Yes!" I look to see the a group of small figures make their way towards me. They are naked, yet have no sexual reproductive organs showing. They have three eyes, and eight fingers on each hand. They have two legs and two feet, but no toes. They have hair just like humans, and a nose and a mouth. I can't tell if they have teeth. The one figure in the front opens his mouth to display what seems to be a hundred sharp little teeth. He spoke in English. He said, "This is the end."

On Being Alone

I enjoy my solitude. Being alone gives me time to look at the world on my own terms. I can look out of the window in my apartment and see hundreds of people walking around on the ground. The people of the world! Lovely specimens they are. So predictable, yet with open hearts. I enjoy watching them all.
Sometimes when I'm alone I might call my girlfriend, but only if it's Friday or Saturday. It's best for the two of us to be seperated for the remainder of the week. If I don't call her every Friday or every Saturday then no doubt I will receive a call from her, and she will lay into me. By the time our conversation ends, words like "bitch", "cocksucker", and "fuckstick" would most likely be used. Putting all of that aside, we have a great relationship.

Tonight is Sunday, so I won't be calling her. I didn't call her last weekend either, so Denny would end up ripping me a new one anyway.

Denny is her name.

If I'm alone, I'll sometimes remember when my parents were both alive. I have always lived the way I do. Somewhat of a minimalist. My parents, on the other hand, had money. They had land, they had toys. A huge house, pool. Vehicles of different kinds, and they would use different cars whenever they went out to a fancy restaurant.

I loved my bastard parents.

We were quite close. My dad and I would play sports in the yard. Sometimes my dad would show me how to do a curve ball, and sometimes my dad would show me a guarentee football play to use if my team was ever down six points. My mother relaxed most of the time, but made sure the house was always clean. It was a very typical rich family.
Once I turned nineteen I left the house. I graduated highschool, and decided to move into the city. I didn't need and I didn't want a big apartment. Just something that would make life easy. I also wanted to be close to the action. The sounds, screams, and celebrations of downtown made for daily entertainment. I didn't care much about television, because I was living in a world where something was happening all the time. I loved the place I found to live in so much that I am still here.
My parents died when I was twenty two. It was a car accident. My mom and dad took their 1950s Jaguar out for the evening. It was about 9:30pm, they were just leaving the Gladstone restaurant. Little did they know that ten minutes later they would be fatally struck by a drunk driver. The size of the car they were in didn't give my parents a chance. Thankfully the drunk driver was also killed instantly. This saved me from eventually serving a life sentence in jail.

I still haven't forgiven her.

So if I am alone, and there is nothing going on, I think about my parents. It doesn't make me sad much anymore knowing they are gone. I don't have any bad memories, so I usually smile when I think of them.

Bring Out The Living

The rain was falling hard. I could hear each drop hit the roof above me, and then, that drop ricocheting off of the roof and hitting the roof again. They could have been pellets from a gun, but the rain created no fools. When it came down you knew. I got up from my pleasant spot to look through the basement window. It was a difficult angle, but amidst the rain there was an orange-red sky. Quite beautiful.
If an orange-red sky could make a sound, it would be the sound of rain falling. Thick globules of moisture sent from Jesus to give life to the dead He created. There is a purity in creation that only He knows about. It destroys my ability to think, really. I appreciate all of it. The sound is an orchestra that no brass instrument could create. I stood in my basement, peering up through the shades of the window.
If one outside could see me, they would see the face of a curious child. A twenty eight year old child. I could imagine that if a person saw the expression on my face it would turn them into a curious child as well, and cause them to knock on my door. Or perhaps my door would be open and the stranger might walk in. They would shake the wet from their hair and clothing, like a dog. Perhaps it would be a dog, in fact.
Indeed. A dog. Man's best friend joining me to enjoy the creation of God's beauty. The rain. The sky. Visions and audios both illuminating the scene.
"Well boy. We sure got it made, don't we?"
The dog would probably just stay silent, knowing the goodness of what we were witnessing.

Rain, rain, stay right here. Never go away. Anyone who says otherwise is an asshole.

I shook my head. I was still alone. The way it has been for a while. At least up until I realized where I was. In the middle of a bar, with people. I was never in the basement at all. I was on the second floor of The Mosquito. It was a free cover night, and I am almost positive someone spiked my drink. What else would cause this hallucination? I jetted up immediately, leaving my drink where it was, and ran outside.

It was dark. Buildings all around. Quiet. Nothing.

This had to be the dream. This couldn't be real. It couldn't be my reality. So I ran back inside the Mosquito, and caught a scantily dressed woman picking up my beverage.

"Hey now. You could ask me to buy you a drink." I say as I approach the woman. Probably a whore.

"Woof", she says.

Woof.
What the hell is going on...

A Few Moments

A few moments means a lifetime
Because a lifetime is short
and a moment is destructive
So we minimize everything

Left is left and over
Delivering door to door
Parcels of pain, joy, regularity

Don't you feel lucky

Simplicity is perfection
Because it happens in waves
A crest of ivory fitted over a chest

What not to wear
What not to think
Not to think on your own
Not to own what you disown

Don't we feel lucky

Breathing in the Broth

I was sitting up in bed, and felt tired. It had been a long day, as if God added four minutes to every second. That long. I couldn't even remember waking up. Yet I must have, because here I am now at the end of the day.
My son Eli sleeps. My wife Nicole lays with him. She occassionally takes my hand, and I am grateful.

Our contact with one another does not have to be constant to be real. I don't trust a married couple that needs one another.

I only trust the purity of marriage. The purity is one of carnage, madness, complete chaos. Love is real, and I love reality.

The reality is I am tired.
I also love my family.