In these dreams,
you were being wild.
Wilder than ever before.
I always say I should let you go
And all these old birds,
will not let me leave
They say;
Don't fly away little bird,
don't fly no further than the mango tree.
A spotty-pawed Calico looks at me,
She says: "You are to come back
to the nest, you've reached your wing's
Well I guess the life of that bird and
life with you are just aren't meant for me.


A friend of mine went to Iceland.
Wouldn't you like to get lost in a snow covered field with miniature ponies?

It's like a dream. The snow is like candyfloss, the ponies like unicorns, the air is probably filled with their tiny hot breaths, and I bet it tastes like bubble gum and cherry cola.


love is home.

Beneath the bosom of the sea,
Wandering in many a coral grove


Back in the swing of thing[s].

"The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom."
-William Blake

Today is filled with the abundance of life. The tiresome; must sip at a latte. The stressed and worried, must forget the troubles over a glass of wine, and a night out with two hens. Fabrics must be washed & worn. Pockets emptied, mind astray.

Currently, I'm:

A story of a man, life in the slow lane.
drinking: vanilla soy pumpkin latte.
reading: the great gatsby.
thinking: shamefully of how to avoid studying, for juuuuust a bit longer, please?


do you dare?

Ten thousand more times I’ll see you. From now until then. Regret is not a story I tell often. Inward and out I saw something in you like a cat on a fence against the cold moonlight. There in the night, I saw you. One thing I’ll never forget is the way you looked against the shed. Into the dark you lead me. And through the evening, I fell.

Got home.

Split went my mind. Wrecked to hell. Torn up sweetcandy magazines, ripped into miniature bits. Tossed out my curling rolls. Threw on some old shoes. Tied my hair back in attempts of looking pretty. Looked like shit, left anyways. Met you at the park again.

Frost stuck to the grass like summer’s dew. I dressed in layers to keep warm. I don't know why, because to touch, you're like lava. Oh, our bodies full of thumping hearts and arteries, full of blood and muscles, they didn’t need sweaters, nor mittens and scarves.

We could have loved each other like a sailor to a calm night. A silent, smooth, tidal-type, that only rocks the boat slightly.

Read you some poem I wrote at fifteen. Telling of some boy who crushed me, blah blah, laughed at my pages of tears. It makes my rib ache with hyperhysterical laughs, because I tried so hard to be somebody, yet didn’t have a fucking clue, I still don’t have a fucking clue.

Sitting on the old bench engraved “To a love once lost in ’92”, we shared a short kiss. I left you to lay in that frozen grass, hoping to god something would come running out of the night. A wild and crazy thing.

Instead, not much was said, for you seemed rather drained of thought. Careless could be the better term. Null et dull. So many boys like you came and went. You bored me and ignored me.

Who gives a fuck about you now, hey? Love’s a dirty thing, some wildchild full of twigs and bugs and leaves and moonlight shines on and on. And whatever you called “love” now is floating away into the stars, past all the comets, ready to implode. Our love was up there in the sky once, just fucking once. Now it’s over. It’s gone straight to some sort of celestial hell.


a trip to ole ontario.

of nordic past
of prairie truths
loving tales
of oldtimes
long, oh-so far gone

600 hundred mile away and i don't know who to call.

a few ciders in.

i'd empty all my pockets, drawers, and spill out my brains
to spend one more day on the open plains

with love/ homemade.

meadowdeer; that move so fast you won't see them.

I saw 3 foxes, plus a thousand mailboxes, emptied out my mind of citylike ways. i thought,who cares about time, days can go by, months could pass. my school books can read themselves. i'd rather watch the clouds float on. i'd rather bake a pumpkin pie. say.. i met an small farmcat who followed me around. she tried to hunt a bird, but she's too young and her mother never taught her how not to be heard. woke up real early, drove down some dirt roads. woke up early again, saw the stars fill the sky, two hours went by. drank coffee black. i sat here writing about my time in the country. cause all of my mind is stuck in the country. have you ever felt you were born in the wrong place? if there was a thousand places i could choose to die, i think it'd be somewhere in the middle of a field, in the middle of nowhere, under apatch of prairie grass, with maybe an old shoe. troubles become like bubbles from the mouth of a trout. forget about the city, forget about the people in the city i live in. send me back.


no denying the obessions.

something like a flicker of light
you got rogue eyes
there is no denying my obsessions.


go wayward and beyond; be fond.

try not to go skyhigh
swift moving shadows, slink through moonless nights
follow the pebble pathway
into a wild garden.

possibilities are ending;
the clock tick tick ticks
beyond the garden lies a pond
full of golden stones
there you will find the secret i hide;
in the dark moonless night.