“How can you say you love one person when there are ten thousand people in the world that you would love more if you ever met them? But you’ll never meet them. All right, so we do the best we can. Granted. But we must still realize that love is just the result of a chance encounter.”

Charles Bukowski

"You're Really Worked Up, Aren't You?"

Well should I not be? Should I not care about what we are talking about?

Oh, if I was indifferent, would I be more powerful?
If I didn't feel every single rush of love
or anger
or helplessness,
would I stand queen of the world?

Everything and every thing means something,
value is intrinsic, you see.
There are no such things as idle words,
only idle hearts.
When my mind idles, it creeps into a corner
of despair and desperation.

So yes, I am really worked up.
I'm really worked up because I care deeply,
about you, about the conversation,
about every silly little argument ever held in the universe.
There's time for silence when we are dead.

Welcome to The Crow's Nest: Tubes and Nurses

Welcome to The Crow's Nest: Tubes and Nurses: Medical equipment. Tubes and harnesses. This is my life, and it will be my death. I try not to think about it most of the time, but for a w...

Words, Words, Words That Mean Nothing

I can't write anymore
because I'm not angry.
I am scared though,
you think that'd be fuel enough to write.
But how can fear create poetry
if poetry is born of love?

I don't really have an excuse.
I guess I'm just lazy.
Lazy is as lazy does,
and lazy does nothing.
But I do things in my heart,
I constantly write to the universe
and the universe reads it back to me,
green to brown to red to white,
reading me stories of my past, present, future,
of realities present and realities not so present.
Yet, I plug in my headphones and escape into
universes not born of man or woman;
there is nothing in them that is there for me.
But all the same,
I stare and stare,
reading without glasses in a world without lights.



It is the middle of the night.
I'm writing to You,
or you.
It is difficult to be awake when I should be asleep.
The dark thoughts pervade my senses
and it's hard to see the light in any tunnel.
I have sad eyes,
really sad eyes
at night.



I knew my real life father,
he puts cheques in my bank.
They come from the government.
When I used to live at home,
I mean, at a time when home was where my family was.
I remember sleeping in the twin bed across from my sister,
and I saw my dad's thin forearm stroke her forehead.
I'm sure he did the same for me,
he must have.
He cleaned the vomit out of my hair once,
and put his shirt on me.
I was sleeping in a tank top that day,
I mean, I passed out in a tank top that night
after drinking his whiskey.
I was twenty-one,
and he never called me on it.
My dad, I know his name.
My dad's name is Frank.
I'm sure you'd know him too.

What Followed Your Birth

You might not like being reminded
of your birthday, Father said,
but your mother & I do. Your
birth was a happy occasion.
What followed was both good
& bad. That was to be expected,
but what we didn't expect was
that you'd be the last of your friends
to get a job, which you still haven't
gotten yet. It just took you longer
to get started. You had to go back
to school. That wouldn't have been so bad
if you were learning something, but
after all these years to still not know
what you want for a present doesn't
speak well for education.

Hal Sirowitz

I Actually Really Like a Band Called "Puscifer"

Really. You know, I always thought names meant something. And I mean they do. But I never ever ever thought I'd be listening to a band named "Puscifer". It sounds like some kind of anarchist anti-religion kid band who smell like eggs. And while they may be some of those things, including egg smelly, they are definitely talented and have a gorgeously interesting sound. While one can't deny that a lot of their songs are influenced by metal, they do have random gems that don't really fall into a category. Especially "Monsoons", is it rockhop? Melodictronica? You tell me!

Floccinaucinihilipilification

The act of describing something as worthless or having no value.

It is a noun.

Yes, please.

Iron & Wine are coming to Saskatoon. Still feels unreal.

I don't acknowledge it most days, or let it acknowledge me. Not on days like today where it's just gorgeous and everything's happy and wonderful.

But I mean, overall, I guess I'm angry. I guess I'm an angry person.

I think I'm scared.

Will You still love me when I'm no longer young and beautiful?

Anonymous to Anonymous

You have to stop beating yourself up over silly things. You worry that you're not good enough, attractive enough, personable enough, talented enough.
Stop it.
You are wonderful. I love everything about you, the way you laugh when you forget to worry, the way your eyes reflect the sky in all its glory when you stop looking down. Don't forget that.

Anonymous

A Final Embrace

http://lightbox.time.com/2013/05/08/a-final-embrace-the-most-haunting-photograph-from-bangladesh/#1

A minute ago we were standing,

and now we are dead.

You see, my love,

my stranger,

the veil isn't that far

from me or you.

It follows, whispering,

taunting, yearning;

at the end those are the lips we kiss.

At the end we kiss the lips of God.

Yet look,

there we are, my love,

there I am with my arms around you.

Maybe I never even knew you

but a lifetime passed between as we sat there,

as we sat there and the sky crumbled on our lives.

You have a beautiful forearm,

a very beautiful forearm.

That was the last thing I noticed,

or maybe the first thing I noticed for the rest of my life

or unlife.

I don't know where I am

but now I am immortal.

Someone writes words about me

but they'll never be adequate.

Adequate.

Was I adequate?

Was I enough to keep your dying breath golden?

"I don't do drugs. I am drugs."

Salvador Dali