take a byte

some kinda student
of the world
the digital sears
my eyes
this retina display
an optical delusion
trying to adjust the brightness
of reality

watch the waves
of content, waterfall
latency (what the fuck)
built by digital engineers
first thing we do in the morning
gather at the watering hole
get drunk on listicles

no place for that old booky smell
no place for a lover in the morning light
or psychedelic escapes in the summertime
job prospects perched on the windowsill
hold onto your stories
tidal wave’s coming

When you escape your own poetry reading

on Saturday we decide
to hit the road,
just GO like Kerouac
or Holmes straddling the white
line of highway.

we reach the cabin:
fresh gray paint. up here it is still
the dead of winter
so we hack
down trees and burn
the Yellow Pages for warmth.

The Beatles will always be cool
you say with glazed eyes,
shimmering
wine warmth.

and for a moment we are
allowed to believe
this is all
we really need.

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Park on the water

There’s a spot
in south Mississauga
where the branches of the willows
kiss the earth.

Sometimes when I feel the weight
of my reality too heavy
I take out an old bicycle from the garage
and ride the suburban streets
listening to the playlist you made me.

Today I don’t even change out of my old sweatpants
as I mount the machine
desperate for escape.

I steer down the strip
eyeing the early come-homers
in the slant of late afternoon light:
one guy is wearing neon shades
like he can’t wait
for May 2-4.

I veer into the park
park my tires in the sand
pop out my headphones
watch swans dive head first into
B   L   I   S   S

I soothe my own consciousness
turn my bike round
and swerve through the row of trees
with a renewed sense of duty
persistence
the same way nature
doesn’t give into the seasons
but simply
becomes part of the changing
tide.

When I return home
mother tells me the students
studied character traits in stories of
resilience.

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That March – From 2014

No one is something
all the time
he says between
mouthfuls
of breakfast for lunch.

It’s late afternoon
and we’re wrestling
meaning: debating
and debunking the
geometric skeleton
of clichés,
trying to fracture
their sentiment,
feed them zesty
onion sting, the miracle
of broccoli.

Omelette over Hellgoing
and as the sun starts to sink
like a bloody broken egg
I think nothing
will ever be
certain.