Don’t

Don’t try to tell me that you love me

Because I hope that it’s not true.

If you tell me that you love me

Then I won’t be able to love you

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I

Picture this: The arrogant breeze

on the combine rolling through a wide field of canola.

Before dawn.

Before the light breaks over the mountaintops

and the farmer grinds his teeth,

lights a dart

and wraps his dry withered mouth around

the billowing fumes of toxic aggression

the snake oil prescription of a new morning.

Fighting tide against time;

Hope swinging in on the carcass of a new beginning,

and this is us.

Foul and fair,

idle against the breeze

and now turned against the wheels

of quiet contemplation.

 

 

Like the devil’s stare

screeching, into the midday air,

we look on beyond the hills on high

above and beyond the breathy wilderness.

We flayed the bark off of trees

carefully selected from the sizeable woods behind the yellow hills

and broke them down to build what we though

looked like our best impression of a home.

 

 

Age upon age,

tore and tilled the fields

and the woods

bent under the weight of the dying air.

Can he rebuild

the world he once made whole?

Tide and time

persist

always bringing with them

hope of a new sun rising

and the fields now grown tall

fit to be reaped.

 

 

But the light still fades

and pulls back the curtain of the stubborn hope.

An optimism once sturdy

as the wild prairie winds send the house

sideways; flying through the boundless badlands

and still sitting by my side.

Like a shadow

resting softly on the dirt.

And here we are,

still here

fading,

sinking into the barren soil.

 

I can’t believe we couldn’t make this work.

 

 

 

 

The Long Road Vol. 4: The Matchbox Ignites

Jennifer was a firecracker, and Paul was a steely, wiry box of matches. They drove from show to show, screeching hell’s fury, flanking rockets at each other as they did it. It was a war zone of hate and intimacy; but that’s how they lived their lives. Never resting for the pleasures of a warm marriage. Everything they did was hot and fast. There was no time for love, and no room for it in their beaten hearts.

Paul was a latchkey kid who watched his father beat his mother every night before bed. Jenny was a tied up bag of broken bones and bruised memories. Her parents were cold shadows in her thoughts, distant, blurred out figures in the shape of adult humans who carried no traits of parenthood. She came and went as she pleased, and they never questioned where she went. They hardly noticed her when she was around, anyway. Their teenage lives were violent retching, grabbing, snatching, riptides that pulled them under to the floor and pulled them around until they gasped for air. Until they met each other.

They met after she dropped out of high school and he left his broken home to collapse in on itself with no possessions but a few hundred dollars swiped from his drunken fathers’ wallet and an old guitar. She was working at a liquor store, and he was her best customer. He had nowhere to go and she had nothing to lose, so she snuck him into her parents’ attic to spend the night sharing a bottle of Alberta Premium, and that’s where it began. They talked all night about their hopes and fears, and he played Hallelujah in a mournful key, when she sang along in near whispers. Their flashlight lit faces swung back and forth in the shadowy attic, and in a moment of connection- the first of its kind for either of them- their eyes floated through the bruised and battered facades of their tough hides, and swept them together as they made love; or, at least, a brutal manifestation of all their lives toils and torments built up into what they imagined making love – truly making love rather than simply fucking- was meant to look like.

They left the next morning, hitchhiked to some small towns, played their music for dimes and quarters. They made barely enough to eat, but they were their best impression of happy. They made some friends along the way. And by that I mean Jen made some friends while her husband was too drunk to function. As a result of her natural talent and ability to influence, those friends joined them. They became a band. Something like a family – a foreign concept to both of them. a gruff, burly motorcycle gang looking family. But the old men looked out for the young couple like fathers or uncles, and they were happy. The band was a cast of road dogs, loners, losers. The people that life forgot. They performed and traveled together in an old beat up van that the bassist stole from his ex-girlfriend. Soon, the bassist gifted the van to young couple and took up their own vehicles to travel more comfortably. For the first time in their lives, Jennifer and Paul had a home.

Neither had ever felt the warmth of a loving heart in their lives. but they’d seen love on TV. So they produced the best version of that that they could. It was a rough and sharp-edged excuse for affection, the rage they had built up in their youths often frothed forth in explosions of volcanic ash; but the heat tempered the riptide, and they loved the contempt their bouts stirred up. They loved their reckless intimate circle-jerk of pseudo-affection that they shared with one another. They loved that they could each direct their anger with laser-precision and neither harm nor damage the integrity of their marriage. Most of all, they loved how much they hated their love.

But before that day I found her waiting on the shoulder of the highway, he had never abandoned her. He had never left her to fend for herself in the rock-hard, cold, uncaring world. As much as they threw up torrents of abuse at one another, they saw themselves as the same team. One would never leave the other behind. Her heart had never broken before; it was a calloused, grey withered thing. When he shoved her out of the passenger seat of the van, and tossed her bags out the window onto the brown grass, her heart broke. For the first time in her life, she felt true pain. She wouldn’t tell me what they fought over, but she was sure we would meet up with him in Pincher Creek.

We pulled into Pincher Creek, an old beat up agriculture town. There are only three bars – as we were told by a middle-aged man upon asking him for directions – Excuses, Leo’s, and if you’re looking for something fancy, Boston Pizza. So the venue wasn’t hard to find. By the time we got there, the show would be an hour away from starting. We walked through the door to rows of cheap looking tables and a checkerboard dance floor. There was no band. Jen walked ruggedly to the bartender as I stood by the entrance noticing the unusual arrangement of a dartboard hanging on the wall directly beside the dance floor. She came back, eyes shining with tears held back against them, trying to keep her face in its natural shape as not to let this stranger she barely knew see her cry.

“He’s not here,” She said. “The whole band isn’t here. They never showed. Called the bar and said they weren’t coming.”

She marched through me and beyond the door, sat herself on the hood of my car, and stared off into nothing. I can say with confidence that this was the second time she had ever felt her heart break.

After several minutes of silence, I finally spoke up. “What now?”

She looked up into the cloudy evening sky, “Where were you headed anyway?”

The old man in the motel found his way into my mind. Have you ever been to the Yukon? was all I could think of. Somewhere he had always wanted to go, but a place that faded away into his dreams. I doubted if he ever would

I sat down on the pavement beside the car.

“Everything looks better in the light of day,” I said softly.

“What?” she turned slightly in my direction.

“Just something my dad used to tell me,” as I drifted into a distant memory, “But I haven’t seen or heard from him in years.”

“Why not?”

“My parents stopped being a part of my life as soon as I was old enough to move out,” I said.

She pounced up off the vehicle, “Do you want to see him?”

The lonely hills become buried in the size of the mountains as you go further and yet further west. The road to Vancouver is long, and it doesn’t sing like the hills of Alberta 2; but it carries with it a sense of hope as the sun sets, turning the mountains into an unnatural shade of some unknown colour while the sky darken its hue of blue until it washes out into grey. But we drove that direction anyway.

 

A Silent Assassination

Cut my throat

Snuck up behind

In a dark corner of the world

Left me to fall alone in the shadows.

 

It’s a silent assassination

Of my beating heart,

as the blood in my veins

Spills into the air

and spirals around

Me.

 

A silent assassination

of my boiling mind

And now I hear the footsteps

Of your stilettosĀ  grinding into the past;

The unfinished words,

the unknown thoughts

Pitched forth in a mess of calamity

as they come down

breaking my skull.

It’s a silent assassination

of the suppressed set of words

That I never could say

But here I go anyway:

 

A Drawing of Summer

I saw a picture being drawn.

Thick charcoal lines

Dark, harsh

enveloped wiry blue gems

as the artist scratched away.

The rough outlines of hair

crumbling away at the edges

so that when the light delicately lands on the canvas

the rigid black blends into a smooth hue,

and the blue dampens;

becomes deeper,

fuller,

altogether more soft.

At first it all twirls and winds across empty space,

chaotically throwing itself and twisting as the artist takes a step back to admire the dangerous work,

this picture though wild

when set in the sun

with the soft glow of the sweet summer air

and seeing what a beautiful landscape has unfolded before it,

the picture smiles,

pulls back the frizzled black lines,

and the blue gems dazzled by the hills on the horizon,

dampen, wash out, like cobalt spitefully shining under morning’s temperance

become one and the same with the sky above;

And I-

my heart began to flutter watching the transformation from such daring rigidness

into the soft, delicate facade

of beauty;

And it has never stopped.

 

 

 

 

 

 

There is a Demon Inside Me

There is a demon inside me

that bites, scratches and tears at my insides.

Forceful, hateful, angry;

And the beast within you

glares fiery daggers at the one within me.

They scratch and claw at us

pushing

pushing

fighting to emerge

so that they can rush out and challenge

one another.

Once outside they would stare down

snarl

bark

howl

and charge.

Their claws outstretched slice and rip at the other’s fur.

Sharp ebony teeth gnaw and gnash

and their bloody mouths full of flesh would wring out a deadly howl

to the full moon,

ever watchful mistress of the tides

and the cycles of our rage.

She sings reflections of what was once daylight

and the hills return her silver song,

mournful;

lamenting.

The devils cry as they both tear each other’s bellies out;

but they fight on

blindly, raging

raging forever.

They cannot rest until they have been left

empty, with deep red swirling stains on the grass

painted by our own hands.

But they remain within us,

and still they scratch and claw.

There is a demon inside of me.

And it tears me to shreds.

 

 

The Empty Room

There’s an empty room on that floor.

It’s been, oh, probably decades

since anyone has set foot

through that door,

and walked on the hardwood

along the wide window

where the sun penetrates deep between

the fibres of the curtains, gently blowing

in the cool summer breeze.

 

Decades since anyone sat in the soft leather chair

and put their feet up,

slept away the afternoon

with a newspaper draped delicately on their lap.

It’s been decades, I’d say,

since anyone heard the pitter-patter of the mice

running along the beams overhead,

and the barn owl resting on the peak of the roof,

surveying the landscape in the moonlight.

 

 

Decades passed,

and still it sits,

that old now empty room,

waiting for someone

to smell the musty air,

pull back the curtains,

watch the world outside the window run away

as it cycles through each day.

 

Yes, decades, I’d say.

And yet it still waits.

 

Children of God: 1984 – Church of the Wanderer

Excerpt from Modern History of the United States (1992, Ed Harris)

Everyone remembers the infamous FREDDIE trial. Around this time, the world began to stir heavily around the new religion taking shape in Colorado. Michael Davidson’s Church of The Wanderer built tremendous traction around what was at the time known as the “Colorado Incident”. He reportedly received 3 more messages from the entity whom claimed to be God.

The first, instructing Davidson to construct a Church in his honor, aptly named The Church of the Wanderer. The church was established in 1979, and quickly gained followers throughout Kiowa County, where the famous Radio Telescope was located. Davidson named himself the high priest of the church and would often take to the streets proclaiming the Gospel of the Wanderer. The main points being that humankind should throw away its wars and conflicts and prepare for the coming; after all, he believed that the Wanderer would arrive in only 1000 years.

The second transmission was instructions to build a new type of radio telescope. One which Davidson believed would help him contact other forms of life throughout the universe. He claimed that The Wanderer had informed him that humans were using primordial, outdated technology to search for extra-terrestrial life, and that in order to contact other civilizations, humans would need to advance to the new forms of communication that advanced civilizations were searching for.

The third and final message from the Wanderer, as Michael Davidson preached, was for each world power to construct several large, concrete spheres called Heliospheres inside which could be placed important artifacts of Human History and contemporary history. So far, no government has ever constructed such spheres.

Once, Just Once

I am touching the air.

And everything around it.

The wistful breeze of the world’s untamed breath chills me,

chills my bones through and through.

I can feel the gaze of those things

crawling and brawling with untamed ferocity

as though their razor sharp thoughts tethered to mine

pull me down the canyon

into the unknown below.

 

Here we find the untapped skeleton,

the unseen ghosts of the primordial mind;

and the air that I breathe,

the air that I touch,

caresses my fingertips and flays the remaining scraps from those forgotten bones.

 

Once,

Once I stood atop a tall mountain

peacefully,

I touched the wind, and the wind only touched me back,

and nothing more.

But now I,

skinless, fleshless,

sitting here in the gulch

as the tethers pull away at my senses,

and the brawling things scratch at my bones,

and stab at the purity I brought with me.

They know where I have been.

They know, and so they relent

but only for now.

 

Soon the air again will blow me yet further than ever before;

as it is well-known that a delicate breeze will topple mountains

after dynamite has been set off.

And I am a stick of dynamite .

It is no matter of whether it will blow,

but when the fuse will reach the powder,

and crack away at the great rock wall above.

Then as I grasp at the air around me.

Choking,

choking for breath,

it will then topple over me.

 

The brawling things

will dig my fragmented bones out from the rubble.

And if they can reassemble the pieces properly,

they will set me up atop the hills again,

and hope that their violent urge to decimate one another

will leave me untouched.

Once,

just once,

we pray and hope together that the tethers will be broken.

And the fight will leave me in peace

to look down at the valley below

and see only its beauty,

the form of the ravine as it flows into the horizon,

and I will breathe.

And when I touch the air.

it will touch me back,

and once, just once,

do nothing more.