Sunday, April 30, 2006
in complete / thoughts /
the house / in it's
eternal / deliberate mess
can't see the counter for the dishes
can't see the floor / for the 6 children
drop drop drop ping /
but i am busy / sweep ing the garden
paths
this day has other ideas / low roll of thunder
bounces / mountain top / to / mountain top
it brings rains / black er clouds / wind to shake
the trees / / it brings / lighten ing /
dark / the day is dark / & i am re duced to
tired / sleep sleep / body / head / heavy
it's the thick ness / be hind / my eyes
i can't stand / / & thunder bangs bangs
day turns to night / house be comes
confine ment of the worst sort / can't stay
can't leave / & the mess / the apathy piles
up with / the laundry / the piles
of weeds pull ed from the garden beds
/
Saturday, April 29, 2006
change / it's all i've got
i look a cross the field to my neighbour
jenn's yard / she is bent over her 3 year old
& her one year old
ah / eternal position of the woman / bent over
it's no wonder we grow old with curved spines
broken backs
spent years / bent over children
bent under lovers / /
this is my journey? ah /feign ed surprise
no wonder soul wishes to break
free of the shell of
life / /
but for now / be content with spring
oh yes / burst bud burst / let me see your
green / pale spring green
i'll have to move the rose bush from
under the maple tree / eventual lee
the maple will grow thick / residing /
as if it were / permanent
yes / aunt isy's rose will have to be moved
& i am glad for the / sounds of
this time of year / lawn mowers & cars
driving past the house / in to the golf
course park ing lot / the
constant crack of golf balls /
the silence of winter / rings rings my ears
can't turn off the buzz ing / ah 20th century
malaise of / too much noise / decibles st.ill
ring ring my ears / how i dream to shut it off
& so spring does shut down the sounds of
my long winter
high clouds drift in / make a mockery of
me be ing high / just want ing / only want ing
to sit in a patch of sun light / feel it warm
oh so wish to be / the cat / /
& i find as i get old er / i crave to have
a drink more often / / don't give in to it tho
just imagine the buzz / of beer in the after noon
& the wash er squeaks with each rotation
shakes / oh yes / the house is / / we must
clean the clothes / clean the clothes / no thing
left for chance / change / yes / spin in to / & out
of change / /
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
bit's / can't get a good right
wind blows warm
it's dusk a gain / & a gain
my belly aches for you
it's the prickle of skin down the
back of my legs as / dust dervishes
spin / chant sand storm / yes
the season is turn ing
& i am / help less to stop spring
yes / this is when / the mal content
sets tight a cross my pelvis / bone
of un happy ness
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
one more cigarette in the freez ing cold
some where
all the he's sleep
snoring / sweat ing
not think ing a bout
me
i'm okay with be ing
a turn of sleep / a flicker in
a dark shade of dream
tell me / you think of me
when waking from a bitter
night's sleep
& see / on nights like this
when stars scream for attention
a gainst black sky / i become
finite / small a gainst the back
drop of time / in finite
& it's time for me to be out side
a gain / night all most tolerable
a gainst skin / thin ner layers of
cloth ing / yes / i don't mind this
season too much / / pale yellow
green of fresh burst leaves / flowers
bloom now / /
i can't think / for the think ing
it's the raw comments i can't take / it's the ring ing
the bells catch wind / & i am lost in this night
un full fill ed
i am lost for wild language / words can't describe
if they can't be found / haze of /
i wish to land / out of my body
a way from / & i am feel ing not
a lone / some thing i can't describe
accompanies me / may be it's just the
wind / an over active imagination
cold hands / lungs fill ed with
too much smoke
& from out here / look ing in to
the house / thru the large glass windows
the aquarium takes on / yes / it is sur real
much like the rest of my life /
i'm living in /
a dream
state / & i can't wake up
i can't fall a sleep / never sleep ing
all ways waking / can't stop the ring ing
& so / i smoke a hundred cigarettes
a million more joints / some thing to
kill / yes / i'd like to kill / all this pain
& tho i walk thru the valley of eternal
pain / i wonder what is this lesson &
fear / / no pain / / one after a nother /
you see / the sweet smell of spring
hyacinth rises from the garden / it's enough
to stop dull ache of leg / the sharp pain a cross
my chest / / but not / the ring ing / /
& to day i'm angry @ all the stupid slow
yes / the world is full / of / stupid slow
my ire rises / & i turn down / sugar
silent silent / be silent / i think
but st.ill / i can't / be st.ill
& could i go some where & sleep
just for a while / let the day call on
me / with out me / /
oh yes / there is other work to be done
but / i give it a way from my self / let it
sit / not be done / there 's not a huge call for
poets any ways / /
i shall just write / to calm my nerves
write / to block the circle /
i can't go on / think ing like this
& my fingers grow numb with cold
it's cold in the mountains / even
@ the end of april / even as we spin
to ward solstice / / /
& is it you i hear / on the wind
where have you gone / where have
you gone / / have you for got ten
/
Saturday, April 22, 2006
week 166 / unconscious mutter ings
- Buck::the trend
- Harry::sally
- Play::the thing
- Monstrosity::too large
- Nightclub::strobe lights
- Missing::poster
- Sprout::alfalfa
- Flavor::syrop
- Identity::lost
- Saucy::mexico
http://subliminal.lunanina.com
week 167 - unconscious mutter ings /
- Ambition::lost
- Meatloaf::bread crumbs
- Celebrity::strange word
- Coach::couch
- Slacker::sacker
- Reflection::mine
- Original::thot
- Risk::wrist
- Saved::lost
- June::girl
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
funny how /every moment of every day / is a poem
&
can't be
won't be / translated to
this / this piece of paper
as if a box could be paper
as if / laying in the tub / staring @
the sky / thru open windows / could
some how / be / cathartic
how does on translate the blue
of dusk / that funny colour of the air
when does the dry ground of early spring
be come / a poem / / /
it can't /
all ways / the perfect words show up
when there is no where to re cord them
yes / come to me / only to be for got ten
yes / come to me / when the hour has
changed for ward / & the day lightens & lifts
this is when / my heart skips /
this is when / i plan my fate
when i hash out the pains / the re members
when i can't think / for the think ing
/
can't be
won't be / translated to
this / this piece of paper
as if a box could be paper
as if / laying in the tub / staring @
the sky / thru open windows / could
some how / be / cathartic
how does on translate the blue
of dusk / that funny colour of the air
when does the dry ground of early spring
be come / a poem / / /
it can't /
all ways / the perfect words show up
when there is no where to re cord them
yes / come to me / only to be for got ten
yes / come to me / when the hour has
changed for ward / & the day lightens & lifts
this is when / my heart skips /
this is when / i plan my fate
when i hash out the pains / the re members
when i can't think / for the think ing
/
Saturday, April 08, 2006
confessions from suburbia
i was breaking down for years but didn’t know it - i was
suffering from unresolved issues around my own
addictions and four babies worth of post partum
depression - i ended up in the psychiatric ward of our
local hospital - of course, by the time i ended up in the
hospital - i was worn out - mentally and physically - i
quite literally wanted to die -
once in the hospital - they asked me twenty questions to
decide if i was really depressed or not - one of the
questions was - “do you have a gun at home?” - i
answered “no - but if i did - i would have used it by now”
-
*****
“I keep having this recurring memory.”
“What kind of memory?” The doctor’s voice is low and cool.
Inviting.
I pause, my mind heavy with thought, as I sort out fact from
fiction, what to keep inside, what to share.
“It’s like everything in my life. It just keeps recurring. Kinda like
a nightmare. I have one of those too, you know, a bad dream that
I have over and over. It’s always the same dream, but the setting
is different every time. It always gives me the same horror when
I wake up.”
The doctor leans forward. “Horror?”
“It’s like waking up dope sick. I come to, really sudden, like
someone has pushed me off the bed. And the bed, it’s wet from
gallons of sweat dripping off my body.”
I feel moisture gather in my armpits at the thought of it.
“There’s always dope in the dream and a red light or sometimes a white
light. And stairs. Crazy, steep, dark stairs. And that’s where the light is.
At the top of the stairs. Except, in my dream, somehow it’s not only a
light. It’s the presence of sheer evil, beckoning me. I hate that fucking
dream.”
I look down at my hands. I’m picking my nails. Always picking. Tearing
little pieces of myself away, dropping bits of myself here and there.
“So this is memory?”
“No, that’s just the dream I have. No, the memory I have is something
else. It’s more like a constant reminder of death or something. I’m not
sure. It’s hard to describe.”
“I don’t really follow you. Could you be more specific?”
“Well, it’s like a colour or a smell. You know. I’m sure you must know.
Like when you smell something or see something, or even taste something,
it can remind you of something else. Another time, another place. Maybe
even another feeling.”
“You’re being too ambiguous. Can you get to the point of the memory -
Where it’s coming from, perhaps?”
“Well, that’s the problem. I can’t seem to get to the point. I don’t know
what the point is except I keep having this recurring memory.”
“And when exactly do you get this memory?” The Doctor taps her pen on
her desk to get to the point herself.
“Well, I seem to get it in the morning, just before I drift off to sleep, and
sometimes I get it during day. Funny, I guess I get it any time. Do you
think it could be the medication?”
“Hmm, well, that is a possibility, but somehow I doubt it.” Doctor Silver
writes furiously in her made-for-notes notepad. The one attached to my
file. “Tell me more.”
“Well, in this memory, I am on the lam.”
“What exactly do you mean by on the lam?”
“You know. I’ve run away from home.”
“Run away?”
“Yeah, I’m running along a winding trail through the forest. My
destination? The Coquitlam River. I’m running to the river
because there is nowhere else to go. ‘Nowhere to run too bay-bee,
nowhere to hide.’ That’s the song I’m singing while I’m running.
I always hear that song. That’s my song. Even now, it’s in my
head.”
“Okay, so tell me why you’re running.”
“Well, because I don’t know what to do. I mean, with my life that
is. I’m trapped in an intolerable situation and I want to escape.”
“Escape? You mean physically? What about mentally?”
“Sure, always mentally. I always want to escape mentally.” I
close my eyes.
“Okay. Continue.”
“I want to escape and the river is the only place I can think of to go
to. Have you ever walked through the woods toward a river or a
creek?”
“Mmm, yes I think so.”
“Well, if you ever have, you’ll know what I’m talking about. It’s
a very subtle experience. As I close in on the invisible river, I can
hear it getting louder and louder, until finally, it absorbs me
completely. Its roar blocks out every other sound. Auditory
deprivation. Gone are the birds chirping, gone are the sounds of
my feet as they hit the ground. The river consumes me before I
ever see it. I’m alone in the forest.”
I trace the outline of the dark grey tile on the floor with the toe of
my paper slipper. “I can completely visualize myself running
along.”
“Describe it to me.”
“Sunlight trickles through the tops of trees lighting up my head and face as
I run, but it doesn’t give me any comfort and it’s not warm. It doesn’t
make me happy. Somehow, it just makes me feel sadder.”
“Why do you suppose that is?”
“I’m not sure. It’s as if I’m moving through a dream. Nothing feels real.
I’m breaking down. I can still remember the smell of the forest that day.
Mildew, damp, green. The rot of a lower mainland winter. Early spring
forest. I keep running until I come to the water edge. It smells like mud.
The river is high. It’s a vortex of movement. The water tears away at the
banks, moving rocks and leaving holes, bearing the roots of trees. It sucks
away everything in its path. I want to fall in. End it all here and now,
because, I’m not worthy to live.”
“Why are you not worthy to live?”
“Why? Because my life is a dismal failure. I’m nothing. I am completely
unlovable.”
“Do you still see yourself as completely unlovable? I mean right now?
Right here as we sit?”
“No, I don’t think so. Not now.”
“Oh good. Then we have made some progress.” The Doctor’s pen
scratches hastily across her notepad. She looks over her glasses at me.
“Continue.” she commands. “You were standing at the river.”
“Yeah - I was standing at the fucking river. - I remember thinking ‘no one
knows how big this pain inside of me is.’ I felt completely alone. I
decided to jump into the river. I could see myself going down it, tumbling,
rolling, arms and legs flailing. The current pulling me under - sucking
away my last breath. I am drowning. I am Ophelia. - Romantic, eh?”
“Do you think it’s romantic?”
“Well, not really. But I can remember thinking that the river was
calling me. Thinking no one will miss me. The children may
wonder where I’ve gone, but it doesn’t matter. Poor, miserable
little things.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because, I thought it would be sad for them to lose their mother.
You know. And then all of a sudden the enormity of it all hit me.
I realized - I can’t abandon them. I decided to go and get them.
Bring them to the river. To save them. I stood there imagining my
children floating down the river. One at a time, into the water. No
fear. Just relief. I will save them and end my suffering.”
The room is quiet except for the tic-tic of the doctor’s watch. My
nail is bleeding. I put my finger to my mouth and taste salt blood
on my tongue.
“So, what you are saying is, that you wanted to kill your children
too?”
“Yes, I wanted to kill my children.”
“So what did you do next?”
“I’m not sure. I think I lit a cigarette. I think I sat on a rock and
smoked. One cigarette after another. Yes, I’m sure of it. I sat
there. I cried and I smoked. I smoked away the pain. I returned
to common sense. I smoked some more. I realized it was not the
day to die. And then I walked home. Slowly.”
/
suffering from unresolved issues around my own
addictions and four babies worth of post partum
depression - i ended up in the psychiatric ward of our
local hospital - of course, by the time i ended up in the
hospital - i was worn out - mentally and physically - i
quite literally wanted to die -
once in the hospital - they asked me twenty questions to
decide if i was really depressed or not - one of the
questions was - “do you have a gun at home?” - i
answered “no - but if i did - i would have used it by now”
-
*****
“I keep having this recurring memory.”
“What kind of memory?” The doctor’s voice is low and cool.
Inviting.
I pause, my mind heavy with thought, as I sort out fact from
fiction, what to keep inside, what to share.
“It’s like everything in my life. It just keeps recurring. Kinda like
a nightmare. I have one of those too, you know, a bad dream that
I have over and over. It’s always the same dream, but the setting
is different every time. It always gives me the same horror when
I wake up.”
The doctor leans forward. “Horror?”
“It’s like waking up dope sick. I come to, really sudden, like
someone has pushed me off the bed. And the bed, it’s wet from
gallons of sweat dripping off my body.”
I feel moisture gather in my armpits at the thought of it.
“There’s always dope in the dream and a red light or sometimes a white
light. And stairs. Crazy, steep, dark stairs. And that’s where the light is.
At the top of the stairs. Except, in my dream, somehow it’s not only a
light. It’s the presence of sheer evil, beckoning me. I hate that fucking
dream.”
I look down at my hands. I’m picking my nails. Always picking. Tearing
little pieces of myself away, dropping bits of myself here and there.
“So this is memory?”
“No, that’s just the dream I have. No, the memory I have is something
else. It’s more like a constant reminder of death or something. I’m not
sure. It’s hard to describe.”
“I don’t really follow you. Could you be more specific?”
“Well, it’s like a colour or a smell. You know. I’m sure you must know.
Like when you smell something or see something, or even taste something,
it can remind you of something else. Another time, another place. Maybe
even another feeling.”
“You’re being too ambiguous. Can you get to the point of the memory -
Where it’s coming from, perhaps?”
“Well, that’s the problem. I can’t seem to get to the point. I don’t know
what the point is except I keep having this recurring memory.”
“And when exactly do you get this memory?” The Doctor taps her pen on
her desk to get to the point herself.
“Well, I seem to get it in the morning, just before I drift off to sleep, and
sometimes I get it during day. Funny, I guess I get it any time. Do you
think it could be the medication?”
“Hmm, well, that is a possibility, but somehow I doubt it.” Doctor Silver
writes furiously in her made-for-notes notepad. The one attached to my
file. “Tell me more.”
“Well, in this memory, I am on the lam.”
“What exactly do you mean by on the lam?”
“You know. I’ve run away from home.”
“Run away?”
“Yeah, I’m running along a winding trail through the forest. My
destination? The Coquitlam River. I’m running to the river
because there is nowhere else to go. ‘Nowhere to run too bay-bee,
nowhere to hide.’ That’s the song I’m singing while I’m running.
I always hear that song. That’s my song. Even now, it’s in my
head.”
“Okay, so tell me why you’re running.”
“Well, because I don’t know what to do. I mean, with my life that
is. I’m trapped in an intolerable situation and I want to escape.”
“Escape? You mean physically? What about mentally?”
“Sure, always mentally. I always want to escape mentally.” I
close my eyes.
“Okay. Continue.”
“I want to escape and the river is the only place I can think of to go
to. Have you ever walked through the woods toward a river or a
creek?”
“Mmm, yes I think so.”
“Well, if you ever have, you’ll know what I’m talking about. It’s
a very subtle experience. As I close in on the invisible river, I can
hear it getting louder and louder, until finally, it absorbs me
completely. Its roar blocks out every other sound. Auditory
deprivation. Gone are the birds chirping, gone are the sounds of
my feet as they hit the ground. The river consumes me before I
ever see it. I’m alone in the forest.”
I trace the outline of the dark grey tile on the floor with the toe of
my paper slipper. “I can completely visualize myself running
along.”
“Describe it to me.”
“Sunlight trickles through the tops of trees lighting up my head and face as
I run, but it doesn’t give me any comfort and it’s not warm. It doesn’t
make me happy. Somehow, it just makes me feel sadder.”
“Why do you suppose that is?”
“I’m not sure. It’s as if I’m moving through a dream. Nothing feels real.
I’m breaking down. I can still remember the smell of the forest that day.
Mildew, damp, green. The rot of a lower mainland winter. Early spring
forest. I keep running until I come to the water edge. It smells like mud.
The river is high. It’s a vortex of movement. The water tears away at the
banks, moving rocks and leaving holes, bearing the roots of trees. It sucks
away everything in its path. I want to fall in. End it all here and now,
because, I’m not worthy to live.”
“Why are you not worthy to live?”
“Why? Because my life is a dismal failure. I’m nothing. I am completely
unlovable.”
“Do you still see yourself as completely unlovable? I mean right now?
Right here as we sit?”
“No, I don’t think so. Not now.”
“Oh good. Then we have made some progress.” The Doctor’s pen
scratches hastily across her notepad. She looks over her glasses at me.
“Continue.” she commands. “You were standing at the river.”
“Yeah - I was standing at the fucking river. - I remember thinking ‘no one
knows how big this pain inside of me is.’ I felt completely alone. I
decided to jump into the river. I could see myself going down it, tumbling,
rolling, arms and legs flailing. The current pulling me under - sucking
away my last breath. I am drowning. I am Ophelia. - Romantic, eh?”
“Do you think it’s romantic?”
“Well, not really. But I can remember thinking that the river was
calling me. Thinking no one will miss me. The children may
wonder where I’ve gone, but it doesn’t matter. Poor, miserable
little things.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because, I thought it would be sad for them to lose their mother.
You know. And then all of a sudden the enormity of it all hit me.
I realized - I can’t abandon them. I decided to go and get them.
Bring them to the river. To save them. I stood there imagining my
children floating down the river. One at a time, into the water. No
fear. Just relief. I will save them and end my suffering.”
The room is quiet except for the tic-tic of the doctor’s watch. My
nail is bleeding. I put my finger to my mouth and taste salt blood
on my tongue.
“So, what you are saying is, that you wanted to kill your children
too?”
“Yes, I wanted to kill my children.”
“So what did you do next?”
“I’m not sure. I think I lit a cigarette. I think I sat on a rock and
smoked. One cigarette after another. Yes, I’m sure of it. I sat
there. I cried and I smoked. I smoked away the pain. I returned
to common sense. I smoked some more. I realized it was not the
day to die. And then I walked home. Slowly.”
/
Monday, April 03, 2006
twitch ing / / i read to night / but no body listen ed
funny how /
every moment of
every day / is
a poem
some thing that can't be
won't be / translated to
this / this piece of paper
as if a box could be paper
as if / laying in the tub / staring @
the sky / thru open windows / could
some how / be / cathartic
how does one translate the blue
of dusk / that funny colour of the air
when does the dry ground of early spring
be come / a poem / / /
it can't /
all ways / the perfect words show up
when there is no where to re cord them
yes / come to me / only to be for got ten
yes / come to me / when the hour has
changed for ward / & the day lightens & lifts
this is when / my heart skips /
this is when / i plan my fate
when i hash out the pains / the re members
when i can't think / for the think ing
& it is late again
this day of 1 less hour / this day
of / my legs are aching a gain
can you feel the dull ness
& what is it a bout / putting words
in to perspective / a bout words making sense
or no sense @ all / words that are empty
there is no mean ing / simply / only /
hope /
a clarity that can't be found / a worry
that is /
constant
so i smoke to kill
& the clock tics / later
to day / i rake / i trim / & sweep
out doors is such a big place to clean
every moment of
every day / is
a poem
some thing that can't be
won't be / translated to
this / this piece of paper
as if a box could be paper
as if / laying in the tub / staring @
the sky / thru open windows / could
some how / be / cathartic
how does one translate the blue
of dusk / that funny colour of the air
when does the dry ground of early spring
be come / a poem / / /
it can't /
all ways / the perfect words show up
when there is no where to re cord them
yes / come to me / only to be for got ten
yes / come to me / when the hour has
changed for ward / & the day lightens & lifts
this is when / my heart skips /
this is when / i plan my fate
when i hash out the pains / the re members
when i can't think / for the think ing
& it is late again
this day of 1 less hour / this day
of / my legs are aching a gain
can you feel the dull ness
& what is it a bout / putting words
in to perspective / a bout words making sense
or no sense @ all / words that are empty
there is no mean ing / simply / only /
hope /
a clarity that can't be found / a worry
that is /
constant
so i smoke to kill
& the clock tics / later
to day / i rake / i trim / & sweep
out doors is such a big place to clean
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