A microscopic home.

this is a literary blog. i'm literate so i must have something to say. hopefully.

Wednesday, October 25, 2006

mediation on my panic one

there is so much noise in this room
fan buzzing and whirring up the wind
keyboards tapping, tap tapping tap tap tap

my hair is on fire

there is a dragon in the corner of the room
there are no exits marked in case of this emergency

meditation on my panic two

(heart rushes, quickens, think about it, think about it, heart attack?)
(hands shake, death is imminent, mind moves faster then light speed from star trek warpspeed)
break breaking busted.
(curled up. numb. )

mediation on my panic three

it’s almost a waste of my time to be consumed by such a thing.

meditation on my panic four

and for twenty five minutes
I think about leaving the apartment
to walk across the street,
and buy the newspaper
and greet the cashier with a smile
but I know the truth,
I have dexterity.
the cashier will be rude to me,
and will not smile back,
and the men behind me in line
will make crude comments about
my ass in these pants,
and the lights will be garish
my eyes will strain
and everyone will smell
of where they have been.
and they will stain me
and the cars will stop at the intersection,
I will try to disappear by dropping my head
and they will watch me walk across
and I’ll worry if I’m dressed alright
and I’ll worry if my hair isn’t too messy
and I’ll fidget,
and I’ll think about how much space I’m taking up on the sidewalk
and I’ll wonder if that’s small enough, or if I’m taking too much.
and by the time I get home,
the whole trip will be a heartattack slur
like a hand slapping blood onto a page
and I’ll race up the stairs as though I am being followed,
and I will miss the key hole several times
while my hands shake
and I will bust into the apartment,
lock the door
and wish I had never left,
only slightly content that I made it alive.

Sandy dee.

And women of her shape

And size.

(written more than one month and a half ago.)


There are pictures of her

spread on your table

next to your college style desk.

They are sprawled beside mine.

We sit tight in these quarters,

I have to see them,

it’s forced upon me

and jealousy, it builds

inside like that ugly monster

It can be, and I am such

a victim, I repeat ,

such a victim to its

disease .


She is not beautiful.

Maybe if the lighting is right.

But her teeth are crooked

And she speaks so quietly,

I wonder if she has anything to say.


You loved her for years

Then she ran away,

packaged up the contents

your things,

her things, things that belonged

in between and ran

ran into the arms of none.

And though I’m not sure she

left wreckage behind,

There still was a wreck.

And for such a young man

your face looks so ruined in this light.

I wish I could

Paint you something new but

anger in reds and maroons

and fire. I wish I could

build you a fence

so you could

cower behind its wooden frame

secure and safe from her,

from anything that could hurt

you again. I wish I could

with these two hands

make a blanket around which

you could bend

and contort your small


your jutting ribs,

your wide-open eyes

like small pools of sea.

But these hands are so feeble

as to render myself

incapable of this.

If only it was a gift

I could give.


What is the point of these actions?

After years of living different

moments how could we possible

hope to merge them together

as one.


You are older and at times

I feel a wolf in sheep’s clothing

pretending I do not comprehend.


Middle of northern Ontario
There are bays
Small rivers that seem to come
From the sides of the sliced rocks
Make room for the human populace,
There I am, walking down their highways
That swerve and bend, I cannot see past the next
Groupings of trees. There are sounds all
Around me that I am unfamiliar with
There are no street signs, just numbers
Counting off various plots of land
Warning signs: private property.
I trespass.


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