NYC

The streets are busy
and impatient.
Polished crimson nails
click against a 
cellphone jammed uncomfortably 
against an ear.


People jostle across 
the intersection.
fighting to get to the still-red light 
on the other side,
anxious to get there
before the glaring walk-sign
shows its ugly face.


It's loud. 
Conversations on all sides,
no thought of privacy.
No one conversation 
in distinguishable through
the all-consuming babble.
Heads butt against each other.
They might argue the same side,
maybe opposite.
Nobody really cares,
as long as they have 
somebody to tango with.


Everywhere smells
like urine and
expectations. 


Tall buildings glitter among the stars
at night, against
the blacker-than-black sky.


It is song and dance.
The whole city has its
own kind of music.
This is my city.


I fucking love New York. 

Kangaroo Jack

It was another mother-daughter shopping expedition. He materialized, as if by magic, out of some darkened crevice in the city's underbelly.


"Hi. I'm Kangaroo Jack," he says in a poor imitation of an Australian accent. A scathing remark comes to my tongue (telling him not to put on a terrible fake accent when talking to real Australians, said in my own flawless Aussie tongue), but I swallow it. It tastes like bile. We turn into a shop. Maybe he'll leave. He doesn't. He follows us, telling us about the kangaroos he keeps hidden in cages underneath the sidewalk.


And suddenly, I want to laugh. I want to laugh for pity, for the ludicrous situation, for my own anxiety. The laughter bubbles up like yesterday's sour milk, unwelcome and inappropriate. I bite my lip and tuck my face into a rack of clothes to hide it. When he asks my name, I tell him it's Candy Cane. I can hardly restrain my giggles. The situation seems beyond hilarious-almost hysterical. 


Finally, he asks if we want him to leave. After what feels like an eternity of emphatic encouragement, he finally does. We are left to peruse. Bright colours and frills soon replace anxiety. 


He is all but forgotten, a lurking shadow in the cob-webbed recesses of my subconscious, nothing more than the fragile wisps of a barely remembered nightmare.

Storyteller

He sits,
spinning golden
stories into the 
air.
Warm, like
a blanket in 
front of a 
blazing fire, and
just as comforting.


Stories of magic
and delight
and love and
every other 
fantastical,
spectacular thing.


His spinning wheel
is well-loved,
his loom waits patiently,
to weave 
his golden stories
into fabric
to cling to
on a cold
winter's night. 

Still

The sun will still
rise
and shine.
The flowers,
lilies, roses, tulips, orchids, daffodils,
will still bloom, 
opening wide their
trusting arms.
The birds will still
sing,
heralding in springtime,
serenading the dancing,
breathing world.


Life goes on.


It will go on,
and we will go on.
After the darkness,
so obsidian it is
tangible,
it fights back,
like water,
there will be a glimmer.
The darkness will be
thinned by a 
fragile ray of
hope.
We will draw in 
a breath


and the sun will still
rise.

Breathe

I'm surrounded by
space, but
I can hardly draw 
a breath.
I'm confined into
my miniscule,
restrictive body.
It's holding me 
down.
I don't need
roses or
valentines
(which I don't think is anything more 
than a hallmark subculture)
or balloons or
jewelry.
That's not real.
I don't even 
need commitment.
I think you'd call that
strings?
Well no strings attached.


I just want you.

the Tides

I am the tides.

Not the ocean, no.
I am not pristine,

and beautiful even

during storms.

There are times

when I make myself

hideous.

Like the tides

bearing their abrasive

face onto the shore

to spoil a walk.

So, I am not the ocean.

But I am the tides.

And at night,

and by day,

you shine.

Though perhaps when the sun glares,

only I still watch you glow.

Surrounded by stars.

As you should be.

Just as the tides,

I feel you magnetic

pull.

You tug on my heart,

my soul,

my body.

And I cannot resist.
I am the tides.

I will follow you on

your path and mine,

littering the way we take

with stardust , and moonlight,

and a hint of salty freshness.

The moon and the tides,

will be one.

You are the moon.

I am the tides. 

Thoughts on Fear

Fear happens.
Fear is inside everyone.
Fear pushes us forward
and holds us back.


Now, you can do one of two things.


You can, A,
let the fear win.
Hold back.
Withdraw.
And forget to live.


Or, you can embrace the fear.
Accept it.
Use it.
Take it into you
until your heart pounds
and your lungs explode
and remember
how to live.

Sweet Intoxication

You are a sweet intoxication.

I inhale your perfume,

and it runs

through my body,

straight to my heart,

tickling my veins, my lungs,

my soul as it goes.

Your velvet voice tickles the

lining of my throat

and warms my cheeks

and wraps me in a cacophony

of sweet and subtle

symphonic scents and sounds.

I succumb to your presence,

dissolving myself into

a vibrant hodgepodge of

delicious delight.

You are dizziness

and light-headedness

and loss of balance.

My sweet, succulent

intoxication.

Inception

There’s a seed, a thought,

a glimpse of an idea,

residing somewhere

deep within the darkened

recesses of my mind.

Somewhere beyond the

cob-webbed caverns,

and treacherous traverses,

beneath layers of my self-conscious

it lingers

sitting innocuously

on a pedestal of its own inferiority.

But,

travelling upwards,

through the layers of my subconscious,

it grows, develops,

evolves,

feeding on everything,

an all-consuming parasite

that exists and endures,

making myself its own.

All this.

From one insignificant moment.

Crack Addict

I was shopping with my mom, in Gastown, when I encountered her. We were in an upscale boutique, admiring the elegant, but not particularly eye-catching clothes. A woman came in. We'd seen her earlier, on a street corner, shouting lewd comments at some respectable-looking man. She edges up to us, looking around frantically, and convulsively moving. I'd always imagined crack addicts would twitch. But she didn't. Her sinewy movement might have been eerily beautiful in a ballet. She seemed to have a large joint at her hips, leading her perpetual motion. Her torso rolled and rocked, forwards and back, side to side, her arms flailing strangely, like waves. Her legs seems to be engaged in a disconnected, neverending two-step with nobody.

"Can I have a dollar fifty for pizza?" This question was directed at my mother, who fumbled in her wallet for a toonie. The woman pressed forward towards me. I felt my face freeze in an awkward half smile, every muscle tense. My unease caused me to involuntarily stumble backwards. A toonie appeared and was transferred. I hoped beyond anything she would leave. I felt awful for thinking it. But she didn't go.

"This would look good on you." She pressed a white, frilly blouse into me. I moved away. The would-be calm voice of the solitary shop girl cut her off.

"I think you should leave." The slight waver in her voice gave away her discomfort. "Why do we need to go?" Her voice sounds creaky and old, even though she is probably only 35. "we" is my mother, me and her. "Are you together?" My mother shakes her head almost imperceptibly at the girl. We continue to peruse the shelves, constantly moving away from the crack addict. I try to ignore the dialogue between the girl and the addict, but it trickled deep into my thoughts despite my best efforts.

The girl is threatening to call security, the addict is taking offense at her attitude. The shop girl does call security. My mother whispers to me that she is afraid something will be stolen. I know that already. The addict is speaking now. I open my ears to listen.

"I may be a crack addict, but I'm still a person. I used to drive to work through this place. It took me and hour. I never thought I'd end up here, I'll tell you that."

We finish our browsing, and leave the store. I have my qualms about leaving the girl alone, and I tell my mother. She points out a man from a lingerie store a couple stores down, standing outside his store watching. He is bald, and well-dressed, with a kind and gentle face that looks like he has never hurt a fly. But he is muscular, and looks up to the task of averting a crisis.

My mother and I cross the street to another store. We look around distractedly, but do not linger. When we come out, we see black and red security guards in front of the store. The protector man is opening his shop doors. The girl is crying. The addict is walking down the street with her strange, disjointed movement. She's there still, I imagine. She will be there next week, next year. She will be there until she dies, sad, and alone, lost in her mind that is so different from mind. Her mind is a roadmap of dead-ends and roads that lead to nowhere. The idealistic woman of yesterday is gone. She is here now.

(fairytale) endings

Silk...

          Lace....

                   Chiffon....

I float

aimlessly 

on this ocean surrounding me,

engulfing me,

reminding me of almost

of not quite

of so close.

Cinderella

if Prince Charming married the stepsister

Snow White

if the seven dwarves threw her away

The Little Mermaid

alone and forgotten,

turning into seafoam

                            ...disappearing.

The remains, the memories

of shining,

glowing,

for one moment being iradescent

begin to fade

as I sit in the middle of yesterday.

shedding,

bleeding sparkles

that perhaps I was never meant to wear.

I Know You

I know you.

I know you upside and down,

inside and out.

You work,

I imagine,

like anybody else. 

Your heavy heart toils endlessly,

moving life through you.

Your lungs inhale energy, ideas,

wonderment,

and exhale...

waste?

abandonment?

Tiny neurons fire ceaselessly

in your miraculous brain,

sending wonderment through

innumerable synapses inside

of you.

Making you you

I know you

like the back of my hand

which I don't know very well at all

until I look closely

and see a freckle

a scar

and something underneath it all

I desperately want to understand

Dreams

If a dream is a wish your heart makes,
then what is a nightmare?
Is it a wisp of fear clinging to the fabric of you thoughts
like line that can never be fully brushed off?
If a happy fog covers your mind in dreams,
are there holes,
to let in your own personal demons,
to torment you?
And what about when there is only sugar
and spice in the inner mind?
What makes your gossamer dreams flawless
instead of fractured?
Are dreams a reflection of you world,
or simply a random collection of pretty pictures?
What causes dreams?
And what happens when dreams no longer
outweigh the nightmares?


Forgotten Dreams:
What happens to broken dreams? Do they fly away and implant themselves in someone else's mind? Or, true to the song, is there a boulevard somewhere, the resting place of forgotten dreams? People forget their dreams every day. A person may drop acting, in favor of something easier, or more lucrative. There are very few people who follow through on their childhood dreams. When I was a child, I wanted to be a bride professionally. Needless to say, that dream fell through. Did my past dreams float away to settle in a crevice at the bottom of an ocean, or curl up in the back of my mind somewhere, festering and settling, ready to be called upon, should I have need. Where do dreams go when they are forgotten or crushed by the harsh world. Do crushed dreams lie broken on cement, or do they vanish? Some dreams are crushed, some simply fade away, forgotten. Do forgotten dreams have a graveyard, or a castle? Do they live in the highest peaks of the Himalayas, or the bottom of the deepest valleys? Do they live in trees, or clouds, or nestled in a teapot somewhere? Do they float about, waiting for someone to walk through them, so they can grasp hold and take a new person for a flight on the wings of imagination? I think dreams are dismissed in favor of new ideas, and changing personalities. But dreams never die. They are never truly forgotten. A lost dream will always remain a faint memory in the back of a mind.

Alice in Neverland

Hello, Mr. White Rabbit,
my name is Alice.
Follow, down a void of
swirling, whirling, twirling, curling
colours.
Maybe I'm real,
maybe my head made me up,
and I'm actually just a figment
of my own imagination.
My little guide races off,
and I stand,
alone in backwards land,
waiting for somebody to lend a hand?
A quirky hat, tipped on it's side,
the tea looks in danger of spilling,
the glasses are skewed.
He is crazier than he looks,
but then, so am I.
He calls himself a cock-eyed optimist.
I call him a scatterbrained madman, 
being, myself, a realist.
A real cock-eyed optimist exists,
a grin, floating from...
not ear-to-ear, 
ears are not noticeable behind the
beguiling smile.
And twins, gibber twins,
blibber at me, and I 
quizzically watch them.
A big-headed dictator--
or dictatoress?--
every land needs one, does it not?
She is red, the colour of
lust and blood.
She thinks it represents her
passion.
I think it represents her deisire to stamp and
kill
all who cross her,
being, myself, a realist.

But who are you?
I do not know you. 
How did you find your way into Neverland?
Unless my mind fabricated us both, 
and we are both of us figments of
my wild imagination.
In that case, let us be figments
together.
I call myself a realist.

I am Alice.
Welcome to Neverland.