at Finch, on Palmerston, in Lake Ontario

Off the subway and onto another, they sit next to each other, polite giggles, how wide her smile. Eyes narrowing as she flicks her head away, and back again. Strays of ink hair fell onto his shoulder and her freckles shimmered as she nods, "that's exactly so."

He didn't understand, he sometimes did, but this time he didn't. He puzzled at her slim eyes and quick nods. What was she confirming, what had she said? He remembers only her smell; steamed rice and shampoo. After a few stops, they noticed a shambling man, gazing from across the train. With a fog in his eyes, the man looked at them shamelessly, longingly.

Just before the final station, the man rose and shifted towards them, until he stood firmly before the train door. He mumbled a murmur and looked down at their feet. The two teenagers looked at each other. He saw her dark olive eyes, light and playful, and they laughed at their own silent hesitation. As they walked past the shambling man, he could hear a faint, coarse whisper. And he paused a moment, and tried to listen. He thought he had heard something familiar, and immediately was pulled away by her arms determined.

The seasons melt into snow and it's winter now. They somehow found each other again, in his car and headed towards a restaurant. He followed her directions and parked near Palmerston Avenue. They then sat from across each other, and with earnest searching, they scaled the history of each other's walls. He had left the city, while she remained. "I love Palmerston." She had once said when they were younger. At the restaurant, she ticked off the past in an increasingly complex manner. Stories of marriage swirled into recollections of affairs. The names were foreign to him, like the dish he ordered and barely ate. He looked only at her lips as she confidently drank red wine. Deep rouge waves cascaded within a thin frail glass.

In the car, she had asked, "Now that she is around that age, would you care who she brings home?" He stopped at the mute red light and said that he'd be fine with it, that he trusts her to make her own decisions. "People make mistakes, it's inevitable isn't it? You learn and you move on, it's okay." The snow fell softly onto the wind shield-- landing and melting in rhythmic symmetry. She was looking at him, at his mouth in the shadows as he spoke, and turned away towards the window when he finished. The car accelerated onwards and the lonely glow of street lights blurred across her eyes. She had always resented his careless ambivalence, and her silence told him he was wrong.

They undress each other in a hotel room.
Slowly.
He doesn't understand why she had searched so desperately for a view of the lake.
At this time of year, there are ice floes on Lake Ontario like gently bobbing islands, suspended in the slow process of melting and freezing again.
The hours until her flight dissolves coldly into the corners of the hotel room.
As he kisses her neck in the pale morning light, he feels a tear roll down her cheek.
"I don't know what I'm doing."
He stops and looks into the quivering pools forming over her eyes.
"I don't love him, you know."
He lifts himself off her and off the bed, as she continues to look at the ceiling.
"He doesn't hurt me like you do."
A suffocating silence.
He leans aside the window and sees a strong wind pass over the ice floes.
The wind lifts a thin layer of snow into a shimmering, empty rotation.
He parts his lips and they are dry.
His voice is coarse and distant.
She closes her eyes, tears escaping and she nods,
"that's exactly so."

- December 2013

on poetry

I am slowly realizing
that my thoughts are
everyday, like waves
of clouds

my writing, and the urge to
write, is a construct, like
trying to catch those clouds
as they were

and poetry, my need to
write poetry, is my only
salvation, to just let the
clouds
be.

what i know

i know that any thought
i think
is already gone

i know every film i make
is a shadow of what i see

i know that everything
i write
has already been forgotten

i see the rain droplets
before me
and
it is the only peace i know

indigo madness

a cityscape

of buildings rising

skeletons of an ancient race

softly rising, softly falling

slow whimpers, incoherance,

the dawn approaches

indigo madness

artificial leaves

in artificial light

so real to the touch,

this hologram

where are we going

where is it leading us

where is the sun

and the moon that i knew

why all the plastic

in all that i taste

i look through the building

through its exo-husk

i see the city

it tries to become

i feel the madness

it tries to contain

and i know of babel

and how it must fall

fer e

mark kozelek's lyricism transcends

like debussy.

the restraint he exercises,

those builds and crests and falls

and builds again,

until releasement.

like finishing a thought

all the way through.

looking into the mountains though,

and looking at the river flow

with old friends,

but memories

and one day, you know this day,

it has been written into the

stars

that emotions escape you.

fer f

we swim in trees
and breathe out leaves,
our sighs to clouds
and smiles believe,
in this great unity;

of all that is present
and all that will be,
memories of;

her eyes at dawn,
you wink at me,
between coffee steam.
the mistakes we've made,
it's all laughter now.

equanimity.

and our dogs will grow
yet still be the same,
and our loved ones too,
we never change.

our leaves will fall,
our flowers bloom,
your waves will crash
your sun light rise,
into the wind.

may all the warmth in the world
gather towards your happiness and well being

fer p

at the tip, and higher still
staring at the new red leaves,
blooming bloody droplets on
web trees,
branching constellations
ruby and bright, reaching upwards
into a stale indifferent sea.

sinking we, surrounded by
a prideful sky,
and the wind that tides,
teasing the strands-- our fine threads,
like the light,
which splits all trees.

it is gray outside again,
as the day,
dies into night.

fer e

a warmth so small,
gently rising,
and out again.

each strand containing,
a breathing rhythm,
between cold fingers.

your eyes will open,
and the cosmos spill,
in exploding agile instincts.

but for now,
you lie atop of me,
tail painting on my face.

and all else is still.

fer m

two divided travellers meet,
by chance, aside a meadow's creek,
their souls a floating far behind them.

through lightning storms and cloudy peaks,
and distant days of fading weeks,
at last, they finally found her.

dazzling smile in shimmering heat,
her river glimmering through heart-beats,
softly she surrounded.

their ancient weary souls united,
and oaken earthly eyes a lighted,
all those years released them.

valley rows of orange trees,
carved with holes of secret leaves,
and all their adolescent yearnings.

no longer did he need to seek,
that dark ocean beyond his reach,
for her oneness was all around him.

and silently their souls a melted,
and all the dew drops felt it,
their final breaths escaping.