the truth and the lie is a blur i love to live
another day another last question on the page
wrote a poem today
about poets (writing poems during philosophy midterms)
and the tragic ways they lead their lives only to die

the coming alive when my cells bleed together under my skin
nerve tissue contracting in fear and
i terrorize.
the shape and the solitude stumble that alone in itself prescribes a sort of eloquent articulation -- if it could be so imperfect in the background of my forebody -- that any attempt at now articulating eloquently what it means simply existing in its plain old sphere of existing is
nothing.

pink red purple brown
under the soft light
under the black light
which one is the right light?
who do i live by and record aside?

i use to believe in digital memories and photoframe entries
but pictures don't capture the bare light
and details fade into pixels and
3.2's and 5.6's
numbers of times will be forgotten past the days between the prints
what matters is the now and the next then
what matters is the sleeping in between
what matters is the big picture and the love of the lost sight

so fuck the poets of the past,
my friends,
because there are no beautiful deaths
just dead corpses with shit in their pants

and the end of gifts

seven oh seven on dxm

people
in the world
i want to meet the people of this world
i want them to meet who I am but who I am is just a lie and that is another story for another time
music will save our lives and teach us the secrets to spies
explosions are in my head
what to do with these hours
what to do with our lives
what to do with all this goddamn time

The only thing I’ve learned is that there is so much fucking time to do all the things that will learn ourselves and will do themselves and just happen

So much fucking time to spare and to kill and to throw away in the sound particles and memories of our objects and our skin tones

i wish I had a typewriter because I hate the glare of the laptop monitor
what am I writing
writing is something you have to do for yourself
do it as if no one else in the world existed and no one else in the world will ever read it

he says cover it up and do it blindly like no one will see
like you will not see
like I will not see me

I am eighteen today and I cannot say where I will be when I am twenty-eight except that by writing this down I can recapture this moment perfectly in ten years and the way the warmth is really just toxicity in my belly and the way the internet is just fake friendships at my fingertips.

there are so little little people in the world
what is actually important?
what does it mean to be important in any way?

This could get addictive

Because right now I am healthy and beautiful and there is warmth and love and there is sweetness and gentle kindness and the kind of impact on modernity that we all need to find in the meaning of things.

This could get addictive

Because I love this state a bit too much and it’s a little too late to stop it now and it’s only 7:07 and the wish I made last night at 11:11 came true this morning so who is to say that there is no guiding warmth somewhere out there, defying gravity and logistics, to push forth from the cells from our souls and to connect the dots of our minds.

I am going to do the best that I can and in the end, that’s all any one of us can do. I’m not gonna erase that line I just wrote because I don’t believe in mistakes, just missed takes. You just notice it too much. I believe in trying to communicate absolute truths and failing but trying, those are not mistakes but they did miss their mark.

There are too many what-if questions, so many in fact that grade school teachers tell us never. Never ask a what-if question, but what if I did? What if I had grown up in China? What if I had chosen Lawrence Park C.I.? What if I had fallen in love?

The decision to flee came suddenly for the folks of the beat generation and the lost cause. My decision to leave the past in the dust was not so grand of a moment, it was a scaling slow escape that has yet to be fulfilled. It’s called difficulty and it is difficult to type difficult whilst this plateau takes its hold and it is difficult to let go of anything anymore. The hardest thing in the world is to live in it and I plan on living in it for as long as this physical personification of my soul will allow endowed.

Stylistic changes come and go, why did the romantics sound the way they did? Outdated and when was that dated so? Am I writing for an image, am I writing to be perceived, and is being a writer and a liar essentially the exact same thing? No more self-psycho-analysis, you know it only leads to the multiple-identity-crises.

The heavy beats cascade like it’s two am and dawn at the same moment. That’s how they slack each other one on top of one another, like stacking time and timeslots one over one. If we could file away music in filing cabinets and take from them only when we please, that would be the life and in typing this, I have realized that I am living the life because we have it all now. The drug binge was the beat generation and the music binge is the eternal generation.

I like heavy heels. I like crushing weight and heavy feels. The word that words itself is heavy, it’s all in the V.

I want more.

I’m smiling because I know I want more. I’m smiling at the memory of how it feels to be a dear and tilt your head back and it’s just lovely scandals in the making. In the building. The single moment you push over, as if the head is balanced on a half oval circle and the neck is just vertebrae leading up to this imperfect balancing act and my head spends its life threading the line between falling flat ON ITS FACE or on its back.,

Does anybody know what they want when they say they do? I think I do believe them. I knew what I wanted in grade 11. I knew I wanted to be fucked like that in that faceless, shameless, fashion. It’s just that I always get what I want, why do I always get what I want? It’s not good to be so good at getting what you want because pretty soon you have no remaining idea of what you want at all and ever again. All you want is to close your eyes.

I am motherfucking excited for the rest of my life.

I have to believe that when I close my eyes the world is still there. I have to do this for the rest of my life in snippets of different induced states, whether by fate or by ambition, I know that something is coming and it is coming in hard.

This is called frightening lives because my life scares the shit out of my and I scare the shit out of myself when I live my life. Abuse and use and madness all around the stage. What time is it? Hang me from a wall so I can watch people come and go and I’ll call from a payphone that costs two quarters today in all its postmodern existentialism.

Interruptions. Vibrations were felt for the first time on this harmony and in this suburban nursery of a house. Those that know me will always be on my mind because I cling to the knowledge that somewhere out there is the knowledge of me and the whole of me without the lies of me and just resting away in the peace of that knowledge and that memory of me is what will finish this sentence/\

We are all given opportunities to shine in the classroom but the classroom itself is life and this is what I do in the classroom and in life, this is what I write. To put a fingerprint upon a keytstroke and to put a finger on the symbol will take the rest of my life. Here it is, where it all goes from here, softening chapstick lips kiss.

bury me.

no more writing insane.

business proposal

i feel alone with this cursor
with every blink of my eye or its sly disappearance and reappearance
if i close my eyes: do i have to believe the world is still there or do i know the way the cursor knows
that there is
a moment between all things: the world slips away from us all
driving downtown that way
the hands never left the dashboard wheel and
the impossibilities of the moment you closed your eyes were all there in my head anyway.

morgan lee is not the girl you fall in love with either

if these edges ever touched anything sharper than
themselves
if past mornings rewrote another episode in a another season
itself
remind me that torture is a word for the soulless
and to have less than a soul is torture
some people believe we are born to be a half of
some greater togetherness and
maybe it was true once
that girls and boys came together in some recognition of this creed
but nobody falls for my one-liners
lifted from men's room stalls
I've always wanted to be fucked bent over
and blind too

the first time a hand founds its strength on my head, i knew exactly why

no there was never anything more than my fingers
under my laptop
catching fire under my laptop
cooling down from the key strokes
i still want to free love for the sake of --
I start with an amelioration of all surrounding tales
collective histories and the implications thereof
her laugh
and his crackling big fucking ugly toe
snap
people opening up easy as i share the pie
who am I to say right now that there will never be a "one day" or a "someday" or just a million more of the same
sundays
mondays
tuesdays
wednesdays, thursdays, fridays, saturdays,
SUNDAYS.

the first time a hand..

"sweetness,
sweetness never suits me."

peace attack

the way life travels around me, the particles inside, outside, overhead
around
the heaviness of my lightness
my feet that don't fall farther than the epicenter of your college dorm room
the peace sign that we became
captured in rapture
if i close my eyes, i feel myself slip away into the abyss
when time and space never made it so far and black holes were deemed like death
we slipped, me and you and you and me
into ourselves
more than ourselves
and we knew you were out there too waiting to find me
collective histories never made a path in the conscious present
we made our own path

there is so much more

to trip on a sober waking life when we return
to listen to white noise that fades away with decay of our newfound souls
to know you are not alone
if i sit still too long, i feel it slip away again and i feel it scary like scarce moments that can never be touched with the semiotics of language
but music
but song
but particles that wave together like the rhythm of life itself
like the end

push through the stars of the sky and open my eyes
sometimes i have to remember to breathe and take breaths between takes
we lifted each other right out of the night
peace attack
forever

Eliza

life is grand you say on our internet conversations that substitute and constitute all that
we are now
the echoes of digital pasts
your laugh on a disposable camera
please can I call tonight at 3am and tell you my god is still love and you are still love and does that make you a god in my sky maybe only in photographic ashes on lonely nights
the jeans were too short on you (on him, you are a him now, do you see that you and him and why that difference lies in real life and not between quotable emails and instant messages
remember when I sold my condo?
remember when I cried on the phone and told you that night i could love you
i said i loved you
i meant i could love you
i meant i would love you
the misshapes of our backyards never coincided and the mistakes of our bestfriends were so cold that we couldn't just go back inside
Everybody needs somebody to rest their head
You can act all high (be high) and mighty as you want when you're alone today
but you just end up (high) and crying to another internet friendship, one after the other
on and two and three boxes of flashing

there's the floor where i lied
with you
and once we were kids too and I was shorter than the head i have now
(it was smaller too)
and i could stand on my window sill and i never lied
on the phone those days
and you beside me, we give new light on friday's nights.

here in a new city
a new week day, weed day, i'm not alone am i?
not any more or less than usual
what is usual WHY IS MY USUAL DIFFERENT FROM YOUR USUAL
trancesdence is a better word for self-destruction, self unpreservation,
eraser take it away
my journals never finished themselves
but by then, the lead in my mechanical false substitute for the truth was loose across stacks of paper and smudge
(the eraser was too small to be taken away by now)
we die
each day and every night
don't deny it
it's where you love to live
Eliza.

dot. come.

yamaha!

She asks
what does it mean to be lonely
to have individual psyches
if we could be what we wanted to be when we could have been anything -- i would be a red fire engine and she would be my lighter
what does it feel to lie
to have to plagiarize
if every word i spoke comes from a language apart from our collective histories than i wouldn't need to watch you from this side
distance is a
choice
ultimatum is just a fancy word for
choice
who knows we could still be friends
will the trips ever feel so good again?
on fridays or on racer-car bed sets?
i fuck around to the names of my ex-lovers if only to remember them for a moment
the right moment

english is a signifier and i am the signified

the skies were so high that night but we always came down on the floor in our arms
i always hated your feet touching mine
my mother always called at 1am to cry
you had to leave but leaving itself is a lie
when the summer comes back, we know where it'll take us in the heat of new nights
by the shores and grass
between toes and lips
out through noses and in a kiss
broken bones left my city behind for another life
library cards have 40 dollar fines but my name has changed and that didn't cost
a dime.
i've always wanted a backyard like yours to look
up, into, from, around, away
people lose hearts for spades in places like the past if they're not careful with their sugar water and gin
i'll never be one of them
but i'll sleep with all of them
to be close to any of them

let me be as ephemeral as the courageous in montreal
and in le petit prince

i'll trek up alone on a coach canada bus to hold back my mother's free death and the tears that come
watching trees stay alive
i have hope for pausing love in the passing of lust
(was there ever anything more?)
HERE,
i am a coupon for the cutting board and the last ad in the qualified section
(oh there is no qualified?)
THERE,
ban the cards that weren't made to say FUCK YOU
i have no more definitions and the sticker I stole from your memory was ripped off anyway
from the case of my five year
of my two week
old
guitar
YAMAHA!