Discover Top Posts Tagged with #mylightstnight

Coal Angel

As I listened to the final note ring out from a song I made 5 years ago, I realized. I realized that there was something in my eyes at 22, that I don't have at 27, and how that 'thing' that was lost was something I thought I'd never be able to misplace. Time turns. Time does not wait, time watches. (In more ways than one.)

I saw the grocery man, carrying his grocery bags back from the store 2 clicks away, with his arms suspended to his side like a stiff marionette. The strings, connected and invisible above him. The season is cold, so he must conserve energy. What else might he conserve though, he could frolick and flounder down these streets with the little stored entropy he still has, but the choice is not chosen.

I saw a lady, short in stature, vacant in stare, stand beside a greyscale car. Maybe waiting for it to unlock from someone walking behind me, but I never looked over my shoulder to check if someone was even there. Maybe she still stands. The cold didn't seem to bother her. But the months that end in: uary, are rather scuary, and there may be promised reasons behind them, but for me, it's always been from the lack of Canuarys.

As I crossed the street, I realized my writing will never be akin to Ginsberg. I will not be discovered, pre-or-post-mortem. I will simply jot my words, and jog my legs, and after enough time, I will return to pushing daisies like the phrase my ancestors once coined. I need to make coin before I go, or that's what the government tells me, but I was told something different... //

As I crossed the street, paying careful attention to the little man in the box, instructing that it was okay to cross the street, (but no one else in my personal life.) I saw an angel. A snow angel. She was covered in black, fully submerged in the sea of shadeless confetti, slow motion rain, frozen in time and structure. The sea of white around us made me feel as if in a mirage. She looked not at my eyes. Did I do wrong? Was it my gender? Was it my lack of sex? I don't know. I know so little, and so much less now that I know more.

Today feels slower. Those words will someday be meaningless once the sun has set, even though behind that blanketed wall of grey, there is no sun we can see. There is no faith we can hold, there is no hope that is certain, but all that we do, all that we carry on for, is to be a piece from a puzzle, and not the last. I am the last breather in this cafe. Laptop, headphones, even the barista stepped into the kitchen. What secrets did Autumn bury under the billionth snowflake? Does the rhythm of the heart matter as much as the choices of the train?

The tracks run one direction, the only choice is to stop or go.

I shovel more coal into the engine to keep warm,

Unsure what gear will be chosen next.

#mylightstnight

Many kinds of sadness are not caused by a solitary grave. One death, spurs a string, which a living soul carries as a burden, for many moments and years, until it's time, and is double knotted at the bottom of the second tomb.

#mylightstnight

Runnin' down through the fire.

Does Age come with Wisdom? Or more the other way around?

I ponder in my puddle. The leaves are brilliant shades that have been described before. But today, I will do them justice, and keep their shyness away from screens that would distort their poeticism.

There is no nature in the cement cracks, there is no fear in the bungee-jumping scaffolding, and those skyscraper window-cleaners know only their next reflection, but never knew how the years creeped up on them so fast, despite the mirrors planted in front of their face each day.

I may preach someday, but for this day, I prefer a quiet audience of a whisper, and the perchance of a bluebird to hear my struggle to whistle on the walk home.

The groceries are price-rising, and my wallet is fund-dropping, but my stomach still has cravings all the same, so it's this that I am grateful for.

I forget the names of some of my friends, but I'm making new ones, and I suppose that's a good thing, but those memories are paper towels in this mind's Greek fountain. More distorted with each swirl around Fantasia and Lake Volvi. Bring me the marble and watch my thumb imprint the stone. No miracle of David, Goliath, or Constellation, but rather the erosion of century-heartbreak and soul-love-made inside of Neptune's very own crystal eyes.

Is there a lodestone inside of your heart? One that pushes and pulls you all the directions that your fiery, and irritatedly youthful spirit calls? I've got no quarrel. I've got no Quail feathers either. Just a Quasi-Poignant message that needs to be deciphered through 500 words, with a warm drink in hand. Century-future poets may find meaning, but modern dialectics find no meaning in my didactic dialect. Perhaps it's just the curl of my own tongue...and I miss the curl of her's...But if her's never made the shapes that they did, then my fingers won't curl the woes that they do now. My instruments would never know real feeling in their play. ...But maybe... My heart would still be intact marble..Instead of cracked and dusted, shadowy pyrite. Coarse on the outer, but polished from my thumbprint on the inside. Trying to love-stroke my way out of a hell, that only Dante ever knew...

#mylightstnight

Not too much longer before the semester starts, and I wonder what it takes to get through the eras of your life. I don't just use that word because Taylor Swift is on tour, and nobody will SHUT UP about her prescence in the damn city. But Eras determine who you might be in any gap of time. Sometimes the gaps of time needed to produce a worthwhile change are long, and sometimes they're as short as a night's sleep.

It took 2 years for me to go through that change first time thru university, 4 years through high school, and 5 years in my 'adult' era. Working jobs, then not working at all. And I feel that some people are convinced I'm lazy. Hell, I've even convinced myself of that from time to time. But if you try, but if you wake up, and you're here, no matter how stacked the odds are...That's gotta be worth something, ain't it?

I'm not looking for lightning in a bottle. And magic has been missing since the old world went to sleep. ... This isn't the first time I've had the following thought, but it has been a while: "Maybe the 'magic' I'm searching for. The mystic winds through the trees, and ethereal sounds produced by boxes of wood, making sounds so divine, maybe all these feelings and thought and beauties, are simply...Life.

A wandering thought, that seems to appear only after I've wandered through the wilds myself...A dumber man might not see the signals, and I'm only as clever as the ones who came before me...And...well...Cycles are meant to be broken...Maybe my genius will show this time through.

What I really know, what's most apparent,

Is I HAVE to want this, maybe even more than the first time around. IF I believe In myself,

my skills,

my heart, my mind, my bravery, and just about everything that glows...Surely, I'll make it through.

See you on the other side, Love.

#mylightstnight

It Was...

It was the little ‘tink, tink, clack’ metallic sounds from my heart shaped locket bouncing against it’s own springs and hinges. My breastbone the trampoline for it’s rhythmic step to my footsteps so hollow and yearning.

It was the smiling barista, less a smile today than the other days, and maybe she saw something less in my eyes, but it’s not fair to ask today...Not fair to ever ask, really.

It was the way that a family member survived an ER visit, and I was urged to phone. And I wanted to send flowers, hell I would have dropped what I was doing then and there if I had known and raced to the hospital picking up every red light ticket I could on the way. But it turns out she didn’t want my bedside support, so I’ll be over here without any tickets, and a shame in my heart knowing that an end-of-life scenario, isn’t enough for reconciled reunification...

And it was the cross I never saw you wear, but the God I knew you believed in.

It was the way I ne’er spell god with a capital G on my own accord, but it meant something to you...and you meant something to me...and those are the kind of sacrifices I began to make before we became smoke and cement...One impenetrable to the other.

And It was the way I did my glances around the cafe, and saw no other patrons aside from myself. Alone is a state of virtue that I know better than most. And ‘Alonska’ is a State that you can guess even though I changed the letters because the isolation of that state matches the virtue that the patriots hold. And Virtuoso is the condition that I was, perhaps destined for ‘Alonska’...not the state, but the state of being. And I threw my virtues out the windows, unaware that they were tethered to my skills with a rope in a comical way Bugs Bunny would have chuckled at...So now I’m skill-less, jobless, Virtueless, and most of all, Carrot-less, but at least I still have my silly humour along with a book of scrapped memories of all my friends who never made me feel alone, yet...here I am, with no hand to hold.

It was the London Fog, in the tall Strawberry Mug, made with the right ingredients, but combined in the wrong way.

I remember my novel I wrote about strawberries, and the youthful charm it contained, and the youth that I feel in my bones waiting to explode, and the sorrow in my brain waiting for me to explode, and the google searches for dark answers I needed the questions to...

I have so many damned questions, and I’d have less if the answer to Love was searchable. And I googled it, just to see, just to SEE if it might be there. And there were 4 results. A play, a song, a movie, and this: C8H11NO2 + C10H12N2O + C43H66N12O12S2. The proper chemical combo. I tried that combo, but maybe I had one too few carbon, or I just got the order wrong...Because it imploded in my own face, the beaker bright, acidic, and orange with stardust of poison. So now that I know....just how hard it is to get the ingredients right...I’m not so mad at the barista anymore...It’s just so hard to get right...

It was my left hand that reached up my neck and felt the links on my locket. I felt a gentle, yet coarse rusted copper gold. I realized that the links were all smaller than I thought they would be.

And I realized that the links each stood for a moment in my life.

And I realized that some were already made, and some still needed to be added.

And I realized that maybe my life is about adding links, and then taking them away so that the locket and my heart might hang in the same spot.

And THEN I realized, that even if I got the links right, by some miracle chance, that I’d still have problems timing the pendulum swing...

And I realized that this life has no rules on what you can do...

But somehow...Rules on who you can do it with...

...

And I realized, that no matter the speed I’m bound to take in this life,

It was all for something...

Even if I never figure it out.

#mylightstnight

Color Me, Color Me Not...

...

The lilac bushes were a floral over-powerment to my very own organic-grown nose. The stank of the underground parkade, the dirty puddles muddled with cigarette flakes, were putrid, but the summer smells came out on top.

I thought about chrysanthemums, my mom’s favourite flower. I forget my grandmothers, but I knew it also began with a C. I learned my other grandmother’s the other day, it was mentioned, they were red and white. I wondered if deep down it was because she was a romantic. But if she was, if her heart had deep reds, and pure whites, why was the love to hard to show to her own family?

And I wonder if that is too personal for an internet blog read by 0 strangers.

I wonder if that very-kind barista, was being kind for tips, or if we had a celestial connection. Perhaps that was far-fetched, perhaps she’s waiting to catch my eye. Maybe it’s about the slow game. Or should I throw it all into a hail mary, for shock and awe. Flip the table, profess my love, and then still only leave 12%. (The drink can always be better.)

I grow anxious for the messages I must send off to my friends later. The invites, the reconnections, the plans gone haywire, the penny-less ideas gone bankrupt.

I saw an old candle the other day. Walking down the street in blue denim shorts, 45 degree angle shirt, and the hair flip that she used to do back in high school. She still does it. Made me smile, and then my gut dropped, and then my blood pressure rose, and then I remember why volcanoes stay on remote islands away from major civilizations, and I remember why bartering is so hard with a god, but so easy with the devil. With a god, it’s not always something you wanted, but the devil always has something that you NEED. Like your soul-ship won’t be complete without it again. Anyways, I ducked into an Indian restaurant, to sort out my feelings, avoid our eye-lines’ connecting, and I scruffled my hair, just like I used to do in high school...

Never Aware, are we?

Just wandering spirits,

With compasses all set to the past.

I wish for Rosemary to be laid upon the graves of those who lost the last war. Celebrate in a festival with me, let’s launch lights into the sky, both fairy lanterns and fireworks. Explosive and violent, and soft with patience. I don’t have your intentions lined out yet, and I’m scared that mine will evolve into some monstrous character. But I have potpourri prepping on my kitchen table. Lilac in the bowl, drying more each hour. I see mosquitoes babies appearing in the early days of June, and all at once, by September 3rd they will be gone. I don’t understand how it works, but I’ve rarely understood the orders of the world. I understood sounds, and the sounds people make with their mouths, but not their hearts, those frequencies are alien to me. Misunderstood, farther and farther away.... .... ... I don’t know if the bodies festering underground are growing farther into the soil and loam. But I know this. One favourite colour was red and white, another was purples and pinks. Mine are yellows. Dandelions, Tiger Lily’s, Calendula’s, Sunflowers, Lilies, and the one’s in the field of crops that I don’t know the name...Anything but those Tulips. Anything ahead of that. Because as far as I know, Tulips grow from Hade’s Vases, and divinity still roams among these green above-ground scents.

#mylightstnight

Good stories have an endi..

They say many words about stories. How they must have beginning’s, middles and ends. But what about the ones that taper off? Is an unwritten conclusion the same as a planned ending? The trail that goes off a cliff, is that consider finalized? Final for the hiker, but maybe not for the swallow...

There are too many stories written without the intention of the possibility of the hero’s failure.

Such miserable plans. Who’s fate was ever predestined for absolute success?

How does one rectify this. Come to terms with knowing that all will be right in the end?

Maybe that’s the parable of everyday life and why we often feel so trapped when things go wrong. Where can we look for ease? Not in novels, movies...capitalists buying property in the golden age. Simply in sports, the injury for the best player where it shouldn’t have been. In your grandparent’s tale, the leg lost from the war, a sacrifice worth the freedom of your country. Hometown soil, and how it won’t feel as rich with life after you return...

I’m side-tracking now, but what I want you to keep is this...

My guitar broke, and now I need to express in new ways, the story is just a story until it’s finished, but no one knows when it’s finished until the gravestone gets hammered into the soil, which is dry and no longer produces life, since the blood was spilled across the sea. I can’t guarantee anything, other than this might all go wrong...And for that very reason, is that worth it for you to continue? For me, it’s a maybe, a strong maybe, has been for years...Maybe someday I’ll tilt the scales in a positive motion, but for now...the ocean knows my devotion, to self-sabotage, so that the scales will be even and fair...Unlike all that I’ve had to live through,

Me and my crippled heart.

#mylightstnight

There’s Blood On The Cars.

There’s blood on the cars, and not a soul will notice.

It is covered by layers of gravel, and road rocks, and snow, and ice, and rain, and dirt, and dust, and everything else these roads have to offer.

The cigarette butts on the road get caught up in the wheel wells.

The heroin needles roll across the dash like wipers doing double time.

I’m not trying to scare you. I’m not trying to give you a harder time than I need to, it’s just that I know that you haven’t been shaken to your core in a while now, and this is a needed shock.

Remember walking on that beach back when you were a youth? You thought something about the sunset as it began to drop, and that thought you had was the same thought that people have had for centuries prior to you. And that’s not a bad thing. That’s the very thing that connects you to this world. Makes you a child of this circumstance.

And maybe you believe that the thought was individualistic due to your experiences only, and honey, it wasn’t. It was the very same. The beginning of the threaded trail, had the same loopy curls and curves from beginning to end. It’s not a negative realization. It’s something you’ve just gotta learn to accept, the fact that we’re all a product of what came before us.

You can recolour that string, change it’s material. But the moves of it are gonna be just the same. So change up your moves. Go dancing. Pound your strong heels into that ageing pine. Notice the way it squeaks, notice the shrill way the girls exclaim as they’re twirled around the room faster than they’ve been spun before. It’s all a magic merry-go-round, and we get to participate in this grand gesture we’ve been given.

So sure, ...The cars have blood on them from the city streets, and homeless beats. But walk through the city near the end of the day. See the skyline fold upon itself like paper roses, turning warm colours to cool like a cup of tea left vacant. And just try to realize that the flat horizon line, was once a string, edgeless and sine-like, waving up and down to the beginning and end of Helios’s sun schedule, all the ways to view what once was, and never will.

~M.L.A.N.

#mylightstnight