189. The hours between

You have been asleep for hours -
three and a half,
approximately.

Here
I am:
not anxious (a
welcome surprise
)

the night is though,
I hear an occasional
car and a distant
party rumbling
incessantly;

I am reading
emails and
Instagram comments,
half-aware of the
black-and-white episode
of "What's My Line"
playing
at my left
nightstand.

I am at peace;
I could drift off at
any point, half-
conscious;

and it is not
that I have too much to do,
but I revel in my
Bohemian nocturne
as I squeeze the
last drop
of possible waking.

I briefly fantasize of a
day job
where I earn
a decent salary, benefits,
2 paid weeks off -
the thought! -

where I wake and sleep
at the same two times
every
single
day - the
horror!

Such a regular life,
such a square
existence.
And I did have a taste -
for three months
teaching Grade 12 chemistry
to six
teens who will
grow up to
do the
same:

I leave the
regular hours to
you:
waking, sleeping, and
otherwise:

as I spend these
pensive few
dark ones,
brooding, contemplating,
creating.

Living solo
for just a few
more
moments.

Aug 15, 2018
Waterloo, ON

152. Mr. Turtle

In my ignorant
youth,
swirling,
beaming –
catch its eye:

almost
shallow,
modern, and
unassuming,
I pause,
frightened by its
shrunken, wretched
face.

Pity, disgust
contort my
face,
I am no longer
smiling, unless
a trace still lingers,
body a step
behind
            -

Glasses,
hat and scarf
shades of
beige and
fudgy
grey

skin wrinkled,
eyes scrutinize,
wary, weary, and
beady:
shocked, I am
entering the washroom,
and – it –
the
elevator.

Familiarity dawns –
English? Philosophy?
He once taught me
Philosophy,
nearly died halfway
through the
course
because of
medication issues;
has a strange attraction
to Nietzsche
and Beethoven –

Half-disgusted with
myself, to be
repulsed by change
and old age and
academic
exhaustion –

I feel ugly,
sad, though, I
admit –
he was never all
that
good-looking:

It was that moment’s
gaze, of
fear and
confusion and –
bewilderment –

at my…
youth?
my warmth?
my candor? –

that gets me,
as if my joy and
energy
are
an insult,
a flaunt,
a – taunt –

Sorry, but I will not
apologize, (I
think) –
but I feel
guilty and afraid.

Please God,
let me never
become so
cynical and
insecure;
Botox takes away
the wrinkles,
but it
cannot erase
the
age.

143. The Sublime

From: Jan Axel's Blog

swarm of vultures,
high in the afternoon
sun;
slow and circular,
like a baby’s
mobile, suspended in morbid
listlessness above the
Florida
flats:

restless,
tension hovers in the
unoccupied molecules
buzzing between the
unfashionably active
fat mosquitoes;

boxed-up fish suppliers and
phony Chinese restaurants;
ghetto Black-men at the
7-11:
tank-top children in the
avenues and
dried-up yellowed
grass
roasting in the
sunburnt air.

118. Indictment

I do not understand my
gift;
judgement makes all
relative,
relevant.

All seems
bland and
weary.
Child’s enchantments
revealed as
empty.

I am happy though I am
sad
Smiling though I’m
crying;
Callous, wry, and witty
when all I feel is
hurt.

So many disappointments,
so I have learned the game:
I can play too:
let us both
say empty things

only you mean them,
and I invent them.
Quicker the lies are said
that I may retire,
observing how alone I am,
remarking the silent absurdity
of my worthless life
somehow so exalted by my
ego that

it must awake again
each day,
to produce, create;
to hope
and regret.

91. [Insert Text Here]

A teenager with a phone
is a horrid thing!
“Look at me!”
“Look at me!”
I want to yell.
I want to take you by the
shoulders, shake you.

Look at me!
But it's not the phone
you love; it is the
soul on the other end.
And I will always
be second
best.

69. Paging Dr. Freud

I think it was in 8th grade
when my English teacher noticed
I leave out “that” a lot.
It is not really an error, she told me,
but it isn’t entirely correct
either.

I still find this in my writing today:
I wonder if it is some bizarre
Freudian slip.
The more I think about it,
the harder it is to gather what
its significance
is.

At least now I know what to look for,
specifically; though I am finding
I forget even sometimes
to check for this
omission –

I have lost so many things,
but perhaps you cannot really
lose what you never had.
I think maybe I
am a little envious:
I feel I should have had the
normalcy, the happiness,
the security others have.

So maybe,
Dr. Freud,
that is why I am always
missing these “that’s”,
and those “that’s”.

But what do you know, sitting
in that chair,
in this office,
about me?
I am always reclaiming,
recovering,
and you are always
collecting, collecting
fees, fees.

67. The Good Samaritan

I told you your bag was open
because I was worried
your keys, pencils, notes
would fall out of your
bag;
I told you because it
was probably left open by
mistace mistake

Instead, you looked at me,
amused,
asking if it bothered me.

Jerk,
I dress well,
I am well-mannered,
but I don’t go around
correcting things that I think
are out of place,
pretentiously.
This is my last act of sympathy:
make your futile statements;
leave your bag wide open
for all to see
how much of a rebel you are:
while haplessly, your
essay, due Friday,
falls out,
splats in the mud;
rolls away and
drifts, lost,
with the wind.