On Edge

 So, one day I sat down to write and suddenly had the idea of turning a poem into a prose piece. This is what happened:

 

I’ve been sitting here for much too long. I feel myself teetering between the waking world and someplace else, somewhere beyond the hazy edge of consciousness. A peripheral blur of colour snatches my attention. I see her.

The girl is making her way into the coffee shop. She pushes open the door, her movement a pleading gesture. Every part of her screams out such timidity that it’s a wonder to me how she pulls herself out of bed in the morning, puts on shoes, steps into the world and exists. 

My gaze glides up to her eyes. Those hazel orbs dance an agitated dance, not daring to stay one place too long. She searches without finding. (Who doesn’t?) Then, our eyes meet.

She takes a breathe and starts her way hesitantly towards me. Her feet carry her closer. Each step is taken cautiously. I notice her heels barely strike ground. As she nears me, an arm comes up. I see her taking aim, her fingers on an invisible trigger. She shoots me an accusing look. That one glare communicates more to me than I think I will ever know.

“The entire world dances a collective waltz on tiptoes.”

At this point, I am only imagining and assuming. It’s all perception. My mind, my eyes, my being, every part of me has joined in the mayhem. I dance on the edge of the page, out of step and out of line.

I have no need for eyes any longer in this world of agitated dancers.

chapter one

you came home

told me how fucked up

the world is

has been

always will be

I nodded along

1:29 a.m.

This is something I composed as a continuation of a "first line".

this battle has left her weathered
robbed from her eyes that
constant sense of wonder
that lust for life that grew to be
so infectious
wrapping around me like a child's blanket
a pink umbrella in a sea of black
that one brushstroke
intentionally out of place

I cried that first night
she no longer wore on her face that
smile

"you see" she explains
"the muscles around my mouth are
no longer capable"
she breathes in deep
drowning her lungs with air
and tries but
that hideous grimace on so beautiful a face
a shame!
a parody of its former glory!

I cringe
 
the wounds from the weapon
of the enemy
the punctures that
let in the venom
that seeps through every cell
every pocket every hidden contour
of her being
didn't appear on her
skin until she came home
with seven new piercings
from that place right beside
our favourite bookstore
saying she was
fortifying the wall that
had come down so easily
brick by brick
it would soon be
impenetrable

it wasn't until a year later that
she showed me
on the inside of her left thigh
"1:29 a.m."

photo response #1

the few wisps of fluffy white
against the rolling green
look lonely
o how they long to join
their pack!
that triumphant parade of
predators on the prowl
patient -- almost benign
(if you listen close you can
almost hear them purr)
only to awaken with
claws of rain and a
menacing growl
from somewhere deep
and on their ends go the hairs
on the back of the mountains

the few wisps of fluffy white
o the poor strays!

the billboard on the corner of the old movie theatre

"A pound a minute!"
announced the letters standing
proud and tall and bright
unavoidable!
countless souls have slaved away
losing sleep
breathing in
drowning
in coffee and money
to make them so
as I walk you walk he walks and

she walks by feeling guilty
for the chemicals in
her body telling her
"no you can't be skinny"

a single syllable

that familiar curl of the tongue
at the roof of the mouth
that slippery serpent refusing
to stay one place
ready to pounce
not a paced, elegant
trip along the palate
landing at three
(oh the canonized nymph!)
but a leap straight down
no landing gear nor lullaby
can rock this consuming passion to
peace

that familiar curl of the tongue
at the roof of the mouth

"love"

let's wake up one day and throw out all the colours

honey they're distracting from what really matters
like the boxfuls of letters that never got sent
the time we spent standing in the rain with signs held high above our
balloon heads
putting in our two cents on a billion dollar problem
thinking we could impact a masterfully orchestrated
attack on the collective conscience until the day
we realized we were barely just
a nuisance
an itch to be scratched on the pages calling for
intricate harmonies and such a spectrum
of dynamics that our seven little bands
could only aspire to being
if only they had the proper funding or maybe
it would help if our socks they actually matched for once
because honey we're just a few melodies scrawled
in a hurry on a napkin that's been used already
neglected and never turned into the masterpieces
we could have been should have been

honey our seven colours just won't cut it
they've got the world at their fingertips
sometimes i fear we're courageously foolish
but no i don't regret a second of this