wasted on the young.

what are we coming to,
when everyone around you
says "environmentalist"
like it's a bad thing.

because it's too much trouble
to grow what you eat.
we forget we are what we eat.

and so what are you, sticking your nose up
at me, but i can see you are
full of unnatural fats, red dye n. 7,
extracts, additives, chemicals
and bleaches.

your insides never match
your outsides,
but it always ends up the same.
bullshit.

so where are we headed,
that we take this life so serious
we can't enjoy a single moment
whether we're washing off dirt
from our nails or scrubbing away
orange dust from your empty dorito bag.

dirty tears.

i know my questions
are not always welcome,
but you will not feel right,
until you let me in.

at every touch
i feel you turn away.
you have no questions
for me.
my eyes can tell you
what the back of your head
looks like,
i can tell you the feel
of your hand pulling away.

but i cannot let you know
the colour of your eyes,
i have not seen them
long enough.

who stole the truth
from your life?
your tears dried up
too young, too early.

i can tell you that
the crease in your hand
and the scar on your hip,
they are perfect,
but you will close
your eyes and turn away.

who stole your life?
you are only waiting
to be used.

stamp that.

stamp out that light
the one left by your burning ashes
dust on the wheel,
my head is slowly being
screwed in with a corkscrew.

"Ow", to say the least.

not even good old sigur ros
can help you cope at this point.
no faith is lost
where there never was any.

but what can you hold on to,
except your fleeting hope
in tomorrow?
maybe the sun will once again be brighter,
the ocean may not be so deep.

but in the meantime,
stamp out the light
of your fire.
the one that burnt
the forest down.

the ocean may never
be deep enough.

corvids.

take matters of the heart
and put them in your hands,
in the end,
his story will remain the same.

it will not matter
that he did not choose you,
that is his loss; his burden.

how do you put a price
on the thoughts in your head-
put it to paper
and scan the barcode
on the jacket.

he once told you how he used
to talk to crows,
and none of them talked back.

but now he talks to no one
but himself.

Trials and Errors.

"What Odysseus does not know
will not hurt him,"
Penelope thinks,
each time she takes
another warrior man
into her bedroom.

By the time the sun
breaks the horizon,
all her knitting
has unraveled once again,
wrinkled in a corner
of the bed.

The next day, the men
will fight over
who will get
to join her.

Years later, on his return,
Odysseus thinks
Penelope is smiling
because she missed him.

But what a man
don't know
won't hurt him.

first rate tragedies.

there is a light
that looks like fire

-but it does not hold heat-

we call it
the Sun
in canada

ferry fare.

forever seems
like it will
stretch (like your mother's stomach did once)
into a time
longer than it really is

this river is too
wide
to cross without a boat.
the story of
a thousand lives.

never:
1.
not ever; at no time

ending:
1.
a bringing or coming to an end; termination; close

forever just means neverending.

west coast blues.

too much rain
is hard on the soul.

it dries us out,
until our insides shrink
and wither.

the winters are long,
arduous, another word for hard.

the rainwaters are dirty,
they carry heavy thoughts,
heavy weights.
pours down until
your head caves inward.

in on you.

your breath comes
shallow, quick, like
the rain dripping
down the hollow of your cheek.

you repeat it in your head,
"It is never too late"
never thinking
that it is.