20008 Rubys Eulogy ruby's been dying forever.

since the first day that I bought him, his sole purpose was to die.; whether it'd be in a week or a year was the question. eight or so days after his purchase, ruthless ruby was pitted against pudding power. for 2 and a half hours, the two bettas fought ruthlessly, until ruby came out as winner alpha leader. the next day pudding committed fishy suicide by jumping out of his bowl. the fight would be engraved in the minds of crowd's 30'+ watchers. once I brought him home, watching ruby proved to be my sole way of anchoring my sanity when listening to the tech support playlists for hours on end, only to go no where. this went on for days. despite being beaten and bruised, ruby's toughened demeanor didn't affect the grace of his tails in swim. he was truly beautiful. eight months after his purchase, ruby almost died in a water changing accident. at that time I realized it had come time to purchase him a proper tank; 10 gallons, gravel, and a water filtration unit. never again would i have to worry about ruby's death. he would live the rest of his fishy life. upon returning from camp the following year, something proved to be un-right with ruby. despite being a top floater fish, he was floating at the water's surface more than usual. he continued like this, sometimes falling into graceful dives here and there, but soon such hopes proved fruitless. ruby's swim bladder's functionality continued to dwindle, disabling his ability to regulate float; that had been going on since i returned from camp the following year. at his worst, ruby hadn't eaten in weeks, and was being pulled down by the water filter's current, swimming up to the top, only to be dragged back down again. and yet I could never bring myself to kill him. on october 24th, 2008, ruby finally died, after months of struggle and with winter biting at the heels. a month before my 19th birthday, this heroic fish ended his majestic tale, resting in between the leaves of his plastic plant, much like he used to all of life. ruby's dead now, swimming with the fishes in fishy heaven. you truly were a ruthless fighter, may you rest in peace as you well deserve.

Women and Casinos It's amazing that something so delicate could turn into something so fierce. I'm talking, of course, about women. Never has man seen such wrath and anguish than that encompassed in the female body. As men, we're used to constant beatings back and forth, suppressing the weak and glorifying the strong, however, when women enter the battle field the war changes dramatically. No longer are the feats measured in strength, but rather in secrets held. Women will happily release the deepest, darkest secrets they've kept buried, locked away inside their mind. In one swift sentence, they can destroy a year's worth of work, or a lifetime of sanity. Women and casinos are one in the same. You start by bringing your friend along, to watch your back and make sure you don't spend, or lose, all your chips. The outside is always inviting, bright lights and decor galore, but once you enter, the fragile welcoming becomes a light show, and try as you may, there's no turning back. Quickly, you scan every playable table, any game where you think you may have the upper hand, ever knowing that the casino will win in the end. You may win a few, but you'll lose more, but as long as you have your chips you can play again. That is, until you rid your pockets of all your belongings, turn to see your friend has left you long ago, as you're forced to walk out of the casino, saddened and shamed. As you turn back to say one last goodbye, the bright lights tease you once more as men walk in and out carrying suitcases full of bills. No mercy, no pity.

Opus Card Opus ; It Wasn't Even That Good in Print I could write for hours upon end of all the mistakes to do with the new OPUS cards. I'll begin by telling you the story of how I came to own my very own. It ends with me, literally dripping with sweat, as I ride the bus home, staring at a beaut, one letter short of beauty, in a beautiful yellow dress. Here's how it began: The friday before Labor Day, my brother had promised to take me downtown to purchase the OPUS card. As far as I knew, if I wanted to continue buying transit fare at a reduced, student rate I had to stand in line to purchase this new top of the line card. Come Monday, the ride had fallen through. After a quick stop at Dawson College, to pick up my student status forms, I was waiting in line at 2020 University having just been dropped off by my mother. Two and a half hours later I'm staring at the single cashier working the hundreds of sheep as less than half of the photo booths had employees in them. I couldn't help but think that not only is the city forcing 3 million people to stand in line, they're also forcing them to wait well past reasonable time because they're too cheap to get the full service required to make the OPUS-switch sensible. I was amused when the photographer asked me to smile. Leaving school later that day, I finally ran into the oh-so-mentioned OPUS ATM, only to find it was out of order. The future seemed dim. After the purchase of a blueberry drink at the local metro-mart, where I was able to withdraw money from my debit account, I had the necessary funds to "buy" the bus pass. And so, it seemed the journey was over. Only to find myself stilled crammed in a bus-full of heated zombies, asking myself why were waiting in line for a change in the system when all we really need is more buses..reorganize those priorities. By the time I got a seat, and after being slept on for two brief moments, in walked the lady clad in yellow. As sweat dripped off my face into my sketchbook, I drew of melting ice cubes and popsicles. Depression is the plague of the 21st century.

For better or worse I miss the days when people knew how to socialize. They're the fairy tales that I've been forced to dream about. Obviously you have to blame technology, in part, for the way things are now. We're used to talking to each other through electronic text more than actual conversation. That's why we find ourselves at a stand-off of silence when two people meet for the first time, or even the hundredth. Why is it that we can talk for hours as long as it involves virtual hours when talking face to face is so hard to do? I'd love to be able to walk up to someone and say hi, this is my name, now tell me about yourself, but even when I do they have nothing to say. I've coined Conversation Manipulation, which is an act whereby an individual can force and produce conversation amongst a party of people and command the conversation to not only drive it in the direction he/she wants, but can also supply the catalysts to receive the responses he/she desires. The problem is, after years or months of use, it gets boring and trivial. You can only play puppeteer for so long. So where are we at? Stale mate. I'm too tired to do the same old shit I'm used to doing, and no ones coming out of the woods to show me anything new. The only thing I can look forward to is when they start installing usb drives into people. Maybe once that happens we can communicate electronically amongst ourselves, or maybe some software company will develop a program to put social back into socialize.

Bug life I just witnessed one of the most incredible things. As I hung out, sitting outside, a bug fell upon my laptop. Thinking nothing more of it, I realized this was no ordinary bug. Further inspection proved my assumption as a small version, offspring-like, lay hugging the bug's back-end. After a few minutes of squeeming, the larger of the bugs had wriggled it's way free, all the while the smaller of the bugs groping at the other for dear life. Once it was free, the larger bug hopped away for a couple of bounds, then left the smaller one to die, cold and alone, on my laptop. A short while later, the smaller one picked itself up and headed into nature's wilderness as well. And i though human parenting was tough.

Chapter 1 "I've never met a woman who could keep up with me" That's how it always starts "What do you mean?" "You'll find out soon enough." She smirks at me and with a quick whip of her hair she's looking out the window. Telephone wires and cacti burn past as I stare at her hair: maroon red, shimmering under the suns hot glow. We're cruising at about 93 miles per hour when some dork-cop on a bike decides to put on him blinkers and tail us till we pull over. The girl takes care of the job, luring him in with erotic vocabulary then sends him off by flashing a smile that could kill a moose. Luscious babes make great partners when you have 5 pounds of coke and an equal amount of mixed, exotic drugs in the trunk of your car, along with two guns; their owners no longer have the muscular mechanics to use such weapons, making the firearms slightly illegal. "How was that?" she asks, giving me the same flirty appeal she shared with the cop cadet. "Decent," I tell her, "glad I brought you along." You can never give a pretty girl the full credit she deserves; women don't know how to control power, that's why they're always asking you to judge them. They need a way to be put down, so they have something to work against to get back up. Give em all the compliments and confidence you can and you'll have more than a mess on your hand: a woman drunk with power...we all know what happened to Agamemnon. She slumps back in her chair and forms her luscious puckers into a sorry pout, craving attention. She leans over, placing her hand on my thigh. "You're never gonna give me that 10/10 are you?" "When you can handle it I will" "This is part of that 'keep up with you' thing isn't it?" Sometimes you have to choose not to answer. "Exit 54, that's the one no?" She looks at me with puppy eyes...all she needs in a quick compliment, anything to boost her spirit, something to make her feel accomplished, successful. "Exit 45, but close. Good thing you're not driving" The push pull, one of nature's greatest tactics. Start with something nice, get their hopes up, and when their hearts placed atop that mountain, about to explode into shear

ecstasy, take it away, take it all away. Chapter 2 I need to tell my story. It's not a question of closure or fame, but rather a matter of physical health. I haven't slept for days, though I've tried hard; lying on my bed, eyes wide open, as thoughts pour through my head, never reaching full conclusion. I don't seek celebrity or fortune; I don't care if no one reads my thoughts. The fact of the matter is that they have to come out; it's the only way they'll leave me alone. It's a dirty story, twisted with lies and sex, large men in dark coats, stellar babes with flowing hair. The kind of stuff you used to read about in cheap novels, but this time, it's happening to me. It started off as any story does: just some guy walking around at some place during some time when something decided to go on and happen. You never saw the bullets flying: just her head swinging back, too quickly, with a faint trail of liquid-red glimmering in the streetlights She hit the ground hard and heavy, the kind of way that makes you perk up your shoulders and put that sour-lemon look of your face. I was standing at the other end of the street when it happened, but it was as clear as anything to my eyes. A floozy, maybe a street whore, mouthing off to this guy you wouldn't normally mouth off to. She was screaming at him, waving her finger around his face, eventually decided to pound a few pokes into his chest; the whole time he just stood there looking at her. Then, when she'd finally finished her rant, he gave a quick smack across her soft face, and that's when things started moving fast. Pang. I heard the bullet wizz by my ear, and the next thing I know the big guy's hitting the ground harder than that girl did. I turn around quickly but I don't see anything. Pang. Pang. A brigade of bullets sounds and I notice the smoke billowing out of the bullet holes. I run away from the action, which just so has me heading towards our lucky pair from before, bullets tearing through the streets the whole way. I reach the two and give them both a quick check. The left side of the oafs cranium is missing, and I can only assume the sticky smelly stuff by his side is the ghastly remains of his cerebral cortex. His watch and rings give me the feeling the guy's had some money to spend. Lying next to him is the girl. She doesn't seem to be moving but as far as I can tell she hasn't been shot. I roll her onto her back and pick up her head. That's when I notice her face, her soft face, batted by an angry hand. Her deep red locks flow through my fingers; it feels like magic. So there I am, with this beaut in my arms, a dead guy by my side and bullets flying by my head every five seconds. The girl's eyes start to open. She looks at me, but there's no way she's able to focus. "Help me." That's all she says, and like any other idiot, I follow the gorgeous girl's plea without giving it a second thought. The power of the pretty eh? I pick her up and slung her over my shoulder. She's been watching her figure...lucky me. Four steps later and my luck has run out. I don't know whether I hear or feel the bullet tear through my calf, but it happens. Dropping to a knee, I pick myself up and get moving again. I guess I became some kind of super hero. I turn the first corner I get to and

te bullets finally stop. Figure I might as well get myself home, bring the trophy with. Eventually we get back to my place. By now the girl's long since passed out so I lay her on the bed and move out to check out my wounds. My bathroom may appear to be a shit hole but it works for me. I run a bath as I remove my pants. Through and through: the bullets long gone and the bleeding doesn't seem too bad. A lil bit of hydrogen peroxide and I'll get it checked out properly tomorrow. As I slip into the bath the blood dissipates in the warm water. My body feels like ecstasy. A few minutes later my Zen gets the quick goodbye as a few knocks tap lightly on my door. "Yup?" It's all I can come up with on short notice. "Can I come in?" she asks, with that soft voice of hers. "Don't see why not" "Are you naked?" "Does it matter?" The doorknob turns slightly and a crack appears by the door. Her green eyes meet with mine. "Are you going to cover up?" At this point I can't tell if she's flirting or serious. "Nope" She pulls away from the door, closing it quietly as she backs away. "I'll wait," she says. A few minutes later I'm done and walking out of the bathroom with a towel around my waist. She's lying on the bed again, sleeping. Maybe this girl's got some kind of consciousness issue. I figure it's best to leave her be so I head to the kitchen and make myself a sandwich. Now that I've got company I should probably clean up a bit. Small footsteps approach me from behind. The rustling of dishes and cutlery must've woken her up. I turn around to great the gal but instead I find myself face to face with my frying pan. I wake up in my bed. I looking around; nothing looks differentNothings moved, nothings stolen. "Sorry about that," she says, slowly walking back into frame, still using that soft voice of her...you can hardly stay mad, "I just had to make sure you were safe." "Did the frying pan do that for ya?" 'Heh. Once again, my apologies. She curtsies, but it's easier for me to find out who you are by snooping around than by asking you questions and hoping your answers are truthful." She's got a point. "So...seeing how you're still here I assume I'm no bad guy. Mind telling me your story?" "Hehe, trust me, the less you know, the better. Clich but I let it slide. "Mind if I take a bath?" she asks. "Knock yourself out." I head on over to my bed and lay down. No sign of a headache or a bump but I down a glass of water for good measure. It's been a weird night and it's easy for me to fall asleep. A few minutes later I wake up with the damsel hovering over me, slowly placing her pelvis over mine. "Care to stay up for a bit, or has that pan put you to sleep?" A girl with attitude, gotta love it.

the rain outside pelted the ground rhythmicly, interlaced with the clashes of thunder and the shock of lightning. a young child sat in his room, amusing himself with the army of toys he had collected over the years. his parents had left for the evening to go out for dinner, an ordinary exercise for the outgoing couple. though tonight, all would be differnt, for they left the door unlocked and forget to check the latch before they left 11:04 the child mused himself for hours, creating intricate stories; making heroes out of his plastic figurines. then suddenly, a crash. the boy looked up, but being ignorant as he was young, and being alone in his room, he thought nothing of it; a grave mistake that would lead to his demise. someone had entered the house; someone had knocked over a vase, but still, the boy went back to his games 11:05 slowly the man ventured around the house, looking for anything worth his time and efforts. paintings littered the walls but they were too bulky, not worth stealing; though they did suggest a wealthy family. the man continued to walk around the ground floor until he reached the kitchen. upstairs the boy continued with his toys until he accidentally broke off the arm of his favourite hero. he let out a shreak. the boy's second mistake. the man downstairs heard the boys voice, and being older and wiser, he knew he was not alone in the house. he surveyed the kitchen and glanced his eyes on a butcher knife. he quickly pulled it out of its slot but then he saw it; a meat cleaver. his eyes widened. not since his childhood had he had the urge. 11:11 when he was young, the man had 2 cats; one that would hunt, one that always stayed at home. he despised the lazy cat and would often go out with the other to hunt for mice. the cat would catch them and he would break their necks. one day he took the lazy cat out to play; oh how he despised that lazy cat. it tried to run back into the house but he grabbed it by the tail. slowly pulling out his mothers meat clover, he continued to beat the cat till there was nothing left but broken bits of bone and flesh 11:12 the fire was back in his eyes. he sheathed the knife in his pocket and held the clover in his hand. slowly he took to the stairs, no longer interested in the homely goods; his mind set on the child upstairs

Summer Daze well, i just finished serving my turkey dinner to the 40+ staff here at birch hill, and let me tell you, it was fucking amazing. all day was spent hanging out in the kitchen making replicas of my grandmother's and aunt's recipes, which i had procured a few days earlier through the magic of mobile telephonics. it's amazing how fast everything kicks up once the staff arrives. for those of you who do not know, there were two weeks of precamp added to the original week of pre-camp. that means all the hard labor thats needed to fix up camp...unscrewing shattered light bulbs, painting floors, stripping wood paneling from the walls, we did it all. Cuts, scrapes, bruises, burns, splinters (fiberglass and wood)..,you name it, someone's suffered from it. it feels great to be alive. one thing that keeps on amazing me is how no one really know what goes on at camp. it all starts with the birch hill cup, a trophy fashioned by the gods to reward the cabin who earns the most points during a session. through games and activities, arts and sports, we band together to earn possession of this mighty chalice. but that's during the day. nights are filled with fanfare and wonderment as we crowd into Club 10 and unleash the craziest partying spirit this side of the west coast. it's especially great this year as 90% of the staff are newcomers and had no idea what they were up for. arriving in dense groups over sparse time frames, some counselors began their work hours while the rest toured the camp. when night fell upon the camp and the day's activities were down, most were surprised to find that a collection pool was being had for a booze run. of course, having been here for weeks (or years), the counselors currently here saw nothing new of the situation. partying with 40 people is way crazier than partying with 10. it takes a while to get back into the camp spirit, but its great looking forward to that time when you'll just let loose. last night i was asked to sing the crazy moose song, first time of the session as far as i can tell. and figure this: it seems that i'll be the song master this year since no one else really knows the lyrics. took a long bunch of years, but with this year's lack of returning counselors, i'm the key spreading the musical spirit. all that being said, "slacker" is competing with "canada" as far as nick names go. although its all in jest, im happy to take on the title as long as i can wake up for breakfast at 10 (9 now that precamp has officially started, 8 next week). the first day that i arrived i saw three evil crows flying up the path and right away i knew it was bad news bears. well, the predictions came true as the filthy hell-spawned sewer-dinosaurs continue to wake us up with their incessant caw-ing every morning. after chasing them from the cabin, arms flailing and voice screaming, and shooting at them with a ridiculously high powered paintball gun, it seems as though they've gathered their friends so that every morning you can hear an orchestra of 20+ crows yelping all across camp. i wish to digress but i can't. this morning i was woken up by a bastardly crow that was strutting around a near 15 feet from the cabin, then slowly opening his mouth, taking a few more steps, then continue to let out a scream that would have you believe streisand sound like the beatles. for stories there's nothing too extraordinary. we owned la casa for a couple nights so that will go down in the unwritten birch hill history. la casa is the huge house that 15-20 teenage girls call their homes for 2 weeks while the boys get a stupid cabin with no hot water. since then we've been booted to our new temporary cabins with the rest of the staff so we can compete. a few days ago we went out to see stephen lynch, a comedian who

pushes boundaries like nothing i've seen before. he opened with a song about aids, moved on to a girlfriend who ends up being a nazi, a childhood retarded friend, dirty sanchez, and whale of a cock block. as i mentioned, there's still a lot more energy to collect so hopefully we can get some good writings done. everyone loved the meal and it's a nice load off my back having backed out of making french toast last week since my ingredients weren't available. until next time, keep the jokes happening, the ladies laughing, and the mouths smiling. i swear to god the crows are cawing right now as i type it. those bastards will be extinct by the end of the week. kudos and toodles, your topless canadian friend, Trevor Colour war colour war; the greatest day of camp; a day to go the extra mile; a day when heros are born; a day no one will ever forget. it all stated when jungle jonny and me switched off-nights without telling the proper authorities. he got the first 24 hours off so i was stuck with the cabin. Not only that, but my cabin was the cut-off for kids that had to stay at camp while the other half got to go to the beach. Screwed again. At least i knew i'd be captain. at cove, the supervisors named the teams. red team; not captain. blue team; not captain. white team, please? not captain. black team; captain. great. 30+ degree weather and 'm stuck wearing black, running around all day. screwed over again? i don't think so. colour war means ones thing and one thing only: go all out. i took my boys with me back to cove and we carried the harred wood to our meeting spot. within 5 minutes i was a full fledge jungle negro, my bright yes and pink lips shining through my black skin. soon the other kids took up the charcoal painting and they too became black as the night. first up was a relay race that took us around camp. even though we finished first, we failed to read the fine print rules so white stole the win. screwed a 3rd time. at this point, there was only one thing left to do - go all out; get obnoxious; take over colour war. reborn and inspired, we became the all-black-crows, naming ourselves after the black bastards that roam birch hill. we took on the kah's too. we started to collect charcoal dust in a garbage bag to tag any opposing team member we ran into. throughout lunch, my crowlings and me made sure every kid a little bit of the black team on them, some more than others; especially the captains. following that, we returned to our nest, hated by the world. mission accomplished. as we began to refill our supply bad, others teams started to walk around us, some passing by while others stood to watch. we sat silent, eyeing those who eyed us, kah-ing at them if they got too close. we were no longer civilized humans, but rather a tribe mimicking their animal god. as predicted, war eventually broke out between the tribes as handfuls of charcoal dust and water balloons filled with soap began to cloud the sky. madness. when it came to present our cheers, my crowlings and me wished to go last, but

instead we were allocated to go 3rd. cheated by our white rivals once more. the first two cheers were sad attempts at camper organization. our cheer would have no such problem. after the signal of a kah, my crowlings swarmed the basketball court, arms flailing, voices kah-ing until their leader approached and hit center stage with his charred club. silence. two loud kahs and the crows surrounded their father. as i handed each of them a pile of charcoal dust, you could hear the screams of the white team as they fled the scene; shear fear. with our mission complete, we flew towards the woods and rested on our perch as the white team shamefully returned to the court to present their cheer. where did this sudden energy come from? the power to overrule an entire day's planned events? the knowing that i can do anything at birch hill. this morning i was congratulated for working along my own agenda. me switching nights off with my cocounselor, jungle jonny, was a seen as a personal martyrdom, that i would change my night since it would provide jon with the scheduling he needed to correspond with his night off days + college orientation. in truth, the switch was made days earlier but was kept a secret incase it would be reversed due to authorital parties. however, their mis-coordination matched jon's and my new schedule better than we could have expected, point proven by the story you just read. kah. Skydive 12:34. my time. running through this woods, tugged tightly by my vixen's hand, i thought to myself, "after a nightful of mayhem; jelly wrestling and crazy hot shower everything-but-sex, sky-diving's not too wild." waking up early, already a primary notch on what i wished to achieve on my 24 hours off, i felt revigorated, albeit ready to skydive. jumping out of the plane, the cool air rushing by forced a smile on my face. freefalling to my possible death, head pointed towards the earth, weightless turned to warmth as my sensory system came back to life. before i knew it, the parachute had deployed and i was floating down to the ground. as we turned left and right, we swung as a human pendulum till we butt-slided the grass to safety. following that there was one thing left to do; Batman: the dark night. after a quick lunch and a long delay, we were on the road cruising to Stanford in hopes that the theatre would be playing a show once we arrived. upon arrival, we found out that the first showing had begun an hour prior, 12:00, and that the next showing wouldn't start until 3. the movie being 2.5 hours long, and us being an hour away from camp, we had to move on and move out in hopes of finding a new theatre, since we had to be home by 5:30. after asking the staff for directions to a new destination, we were cruising to the Lilac shopping complex in high hopes. Barreling into the theatre at 2:00, we were informed that Batman wasn't even playing. However, the employees told us that we could try to catch the 2:15 showing at the Barrington theatre, a good 20-25 minutes away. faster than you can say buckle your seatbelt, we were headed down the road, eyes peeled for our mystery theatre. by 2:20 we arrived, and $6 later i was drooling over the Joker's insane performance. truly insane. two and a half hours later, we walked out of the cinema to witness a beautiful sky about to get raped by some dark clouds. once we got back to camp, the heavens split open their legs and pissed down upon us lightning struck the fields.

tired, energized, and ready to die, the smiling faces of my campers eased me back to Birch Hill, my adventures behind me, but relived as i began to tell the other counselors the tale of the most intense 24 hours in a long, long time. Wheres Waldo Where's Waldo; the greatest idea for a personal choice period, ever. Dress up as the friendly character we've all grown to love, hide around the camp, and run away when kids find me. Easy as pie..and what could possibly go wrong? The game started by the office, when Cabin B, the youngest girls on camp, spotted me and began to chase. I booked it and ran behind the cafeteria, fleeing into the woods towards the old, rundown paintball course..a staple hiding place at Birch Hill. After a short while, children's screams of excitement began to fade and I knew I was safe. With that, I continued through the woods to exit through the forest between cabin 3 and 4, on the other side of camp. And so I walked, and walked, and walked some more. The heavy rain from the past few days and minor hurricane had turned parts of the forest into wet marshland. As I came across new vegetation, yellow spores of fungi rising from the ground, I thought to myself, "Hey, this would be a neat place to bring my nature study class to." And so I continued waking, and walking, coming across the same vegetation, though this time it was a bright neon orange. "Cool," I thought, "they come in different colours.." Walking and walking, with the faint sounds of screams fading lighter and lighter, I entered a large clearing of collapsed trees with a yellow Backhoe, yellow construction vehicle, parked right in the middle. Not Birch Hill. As I walked towards it, I saw a car whiz by the road past the tree line. Definitely not Birch Hill. Exiting the woods, I noticed a ranch to my right and a never ending road to my left. Not Birch Hill. I began to walk in either direction, but still I had no idea where I was. As a car drove down the road, I tired to flag it down. Instead, the swerved away from me, albeit waving back with a smile on their faces. Looking at myself, dressed as a Waldo with red construction paper stripes taped around my shirt, a Santa Clause hat on my head, and countless bracelets and beads on my wrists, I couldn't blame them. I threw the hat into my backpack, and noticing the matches inside, I figured I could at least last the night. Spirits high, I drew up a mental map of where I had been to where I was in hopes of figuring out a route to return to my home away from home. I figured I had to head right. Not 10 steps into my journey homewards did another car pass by. Successfully flagged down, they driver and co-pilot assured me that I was walking in the right direction. Just keep to the road and eventually turn right. And so I was en-route once again. Walking, walking, walking. Walking again some more. Down into dips, up out of valleys, admiring the scenery as it went by. At one point I even passed by a hairy man walking his 2 dogs. When the smaller one came running up to me, it's leash got wrapped around the larger dogs leg, pulling the dog to the ground as it yanked it's leg up from under him. It was pretty funny. Walking some more, following by more walking, I finally came to the place that I recognized; the right-turn spot. As I began the ascent, I could only remember the time, a year ago, when I was brought to this place by my mountain biking class, which ended with me carrying my bike up the kill, sweat pouring down my face like the falls. The first and last mountain biking

class I would ever teach. But then, a merciful angel sent me a gift from the heavens; Elisa and Meaghan, 2 fellow counselors, 1 long time friend, drove by and hit the breaks. As Meaghan exited the passenger side, she screamed out, "Trevor, what are you doing!?" After a brief explanation, i was in the car being driven back to Birch Hill. Waldo had been found.

Incompletes Sextalk thats the difference they talk about humans having established a higher consciousness than animals. What it comes down to is our separation between love and sex. while animals can bear with appreciate the physical aspect of the copius act, humans develop a longing, an obsession, an additiong for such. we ruin it for ourselves, stealing the magic, the passion that's involved, and replacing it with brainly sinapses that we excuse as emotions. why does sex have to come between everything we desire, no pun intended. pocket contents pocket contents tell the story of your life; they can instantly transport you back to somewhere you were once before. like the magic power of scent, pocketrees remidn you of the very instant you won that marble, picked up that paperclip, and ended paying way too much for an inexpensive vice, be it public parking or food. Beyond that, sometimes the way you left it will hint to more of the time. snow How could it be predicted Isolated Flurries with less than 1 cm of expected snow? I'm tired of these weather networks bastardizing the truths of precipitation. It's as if the truth that we'd be buried up to our knees in snow by mid afternoon would cause us to riot in the streets. Not that this in itself is far from the truth, but what else could you expect from Montral, ranked the absolute worst place to live, climatically. rroids i sit atop my toilet with my ass submerged in an inch or two of water. This is due to hemorrhoids. Like you, I too laughed at the comical pain, but let me tell you, there is nothing funny about it. Agony, sheer agony and pain emanate from my asshole into all areas of my body, at times crippling my knees. This isn't the first time I've been plagued with the anal tumors, but by god, this has undoubtedly been the most painful. I'm in day 3 or day 4 currently, I can't bear to remember. i've continued to lead a normal life: going to work, seeing friends, and going to sleep, how my dog snickers my dog snickers is an animal. he barks a lot, and I mean constantly. Usually I don't put up with him, but sometimes I do. Those are the times when it's just him and me. home slaughter

i always hoped to come home one day to find the slaughtered remains of my family around the house. have my entire life swept up from under me; freedom at last. everytime i called home and no one answered, images of my father faced down in a puddle of blood fueled my imagination. when i'd call their cellphones and those too failed to connect my hopes and thoughts would continue to grow. hours later when i finally made contact, there was a greater sense of grief than relief. it's not a matter of hate or disdain, just personal greed and selfishness for an interesting life, minus the beatings and trauma. i was ready to face it, i wanted it. who knows what they had stashed away..secret family records, estates..who knew. midnight ramble if there was anything i could teach my father it'd be to control his temper. it wouldn't take long for him to burn his fuse and go off with a bang. a husky man he was, such fueled emotion was nothing but a strain on the system. often time he'd begin a roar with me at night once i had walked in from my evening scampers. how fast he was to infuriate, as the talk would devolve into a rambling of threats, spewed from my father mouth, as my mother clenched the sheets tightly, crying out not to wake my brother, eldest of us three. Mom doesn't like it when I have friends over. It's not because of them, it's because of Dad. Still, she keeps asking me to see my friends, that she misses their friendly faces. I guess that she forgets that their arrival causes the problems. Dad starts drinking more when they show up, but he does it in a playful mood. You wouldn't suspect anything unless were still here after they left. That's when the screaming begins. It's unfortunate though, the gentle ride out of the sobriety comes out well through my pop. He reminisces about days of old, whether or not they are true I do not know. Still, they bring wonderment to my mind and the occasional mind of one of my friends. The stories take me back to my childhood, when my father used to sit on my bed and begin these lustrous tales of wonderment for me. My room became a theatre: a pantheon for fictional ideas. Those times are over now, I'm growing up and I think that's to do with it. See, I'm the youngest brother; last of the three. After me there's no one left to take care of. Eddy and Gerald left home a few years ago already. I was born late. one of the older brothers has died orphan boys story [story's told from first person of attic kid "lay down turn off the light -go through all the steps -

don't forget the match"] attic as litle club for the 4 kids. 3 of them are orphans who live in the orphanage: paddy is the other orphan who live with his aunt shelly orphanage is on a slope; hill area, early winter time; snow but not that cold poem is recited by paddy one day, very depressive sounding poem about a week later the 3 boys are in the attic when paddy's caretaker comes up. she's all disheveled, hair's lost its brown colour, its wild, wiry and grey. she almost glides and floats while she walks around, almost like a ghost. talking softly and mumbling about surprises and games. wearing her sleeping gown. weird smell (gasoline or somehting flammable) the boys and i were in the attic like usual, playing our games and telling our stories like we did most mornings before we had to get ready to do the orphanage chores. suddenly we heard footsteps walking up the stairs to the attic, shelly emerged from the shadows and she was holding paddy by the hand behind her. when she entered the attic a certain smell wafted from her. it was familiar but i couldn't place my finger on it. she looked different though, incredibly different. her hair no longer retained its brown value, nor was it modeled into the perfect "HAIRSTYLE" that it usually was. instead it seemed to be grey, wild, and wiry. she let go of paddy's hand and started to walk around the attic, almost gliding with each footstep. she seemed lighter than usual. as she walked around slowly, her bedgown flowing from behind her, she almost appeared to be a ghost. it was rather queer. I looked back to the attic entrance and i saw paddy standing there, still and silent. his eyes were wide open but it looked like there was no one home. shelly continued to walk around room. She knew that we were there but still she seemed to almost ignore our presence. it was rather queer. then she began to sing softly as she recited a familiar tune. "lay down, turn off the light, -". we all stood still looking at each other, exchanging glances as shelly walked towards the light and pulled the cord. The attic quickly dimmed as the only light now reflected into it was from the morning sun outside. suddenly it hit us. the poem that paddy had recited the other day was not his own, it belonged to shelly. she walked over to the attic bed and lay down as she continued to recite the poem, "-/-". The she pulled out a box of matches and i realized what was going on. i dashed for the box and grabbed it. as i passed by her the pungent odor eminating from her body finally became famiiar; kerosene. i had run to the other side of the attic and now stood next to paddy, who still remained wide eyed and still just like before. shelly cried out softly "don't forget the match" as she continued to lay on the bed. i grabbed paddy's and ran down the stairs, out of the attic and out of my house. we exited through the side door where we came face to face with shelly's car; a purple "box like car, short, angled roof". The driver door was still open so i walked up to it. shelly's coat and purse were on the floor on the car, under the steering wheel. I looked back at paddy and he hadn't moved an inch. he had picked up a stick and

he was staring at it, dumbfounded. i ran back to him, grabbed his arm once again and brought him to the car. i could only imagine that a few minutes earlier shelly had woken him, dragged him out from bed and done the same. i sat him in the passenger seat and i went back to the driver's. the key's were in the ignition. Mrs. Pascal ha taken me out with her on some runs to the drug store and, being the oldest orphan, she had started to teach me how to drive. i turned the key, looked at paddy, and decided that we had to get out of here. we pulled out from the orphanage, got onto the road, and began our new lives. park fountains It's all about the comb-over. Part it the wrong way and everyone will see you for the pedophile that you are. You have to be slick, part it away from your face's natural angle, or else you're gonna get that stalker's slant. If you've got droopy eyes, put on tinted shades, if not, use a soft blue. Don't walk with a step, don't wear a coat. A polo-shirt and jeans will do you fine. Look like a father, but don't act like one. They'll ask themselves where your kids are. Hand around, waiting, watching. Pick the kid who likes to run off, who's parent doesn't mind not seeing them for a good ten minutes. Test the field, watch the kids. Make your move. I like to stake out by the water fountains; hep the kids reach the water. Get them in your arms, then you're home free. sexy attempt acrobatic *sperm* The woman's body will forever be more beautiful than the man's. This principle was further *put* into my mind through art classes these years. It's quite simple, whereas the male strives to achieve a rigid and box-like shape, the females go for a sleeker design. Their curves flow smoothly over their exterior, slowly gliding over the subtle changes in slope. The body itself becomes one shape or round perfection.

2009 Halloween whats the point of halloween if not to abuse ourselves and fall victim to the spirits that poses us everyday. as i've mentioned before, it's my favourite holiday of the year. we drop the charade and show our true colours.. rather ironic that it takes dressing up to portray our real selves, but hey, narcotics will do that to you. speaking of which, it might be the ghoulish atmosphere but it seems like we all try to kill ourselves a little bit on this day, testing the limits of our bodies and mentality. kids collect bag after bag of candy, which we read about daily as being detrimental to our health, while teenagers and adults alike dress up, run amuck, and consume what they will, hoping that by november all will be forgotten and forgiven. that's my second favourite part about the halloween; it allows november to slip through the cracks almost unnoticed. i realized this a couple years back as the reason why it takes about week to realize november's actually begun, and by then the month is already well under way. Excerpt #49 She got him to stop drinking. At first, they were the worst of matches, but looking back, it's hard to believe we never saw it coming. A schizophrenic and an alcoholic would rid each other of their malice. I guess it was a personality each of them were able to put away for the benefit of the other. No ones likes to show their ugliest side to their soul mate.. South Beach Miama Day 1 they gave me thirteen days. thirteen days to say goodbye to the life i knew. thirteen days to say goodbye to all my family and friends for who knew how long. thirteen day, after i finally settled down after five months of figuring my shit out, to drive down to south beach to start the next chapter in life; five years ahead of schedule. and here i was, thinking that buying a new car was going to the most important thing i'd have to deal with today. today, october 13th, 2009 Day 2 today i am scared. i haven't really been scared for a while, especially not like this. it feels like the butterflies in my stomach went back to their pupa stage and now i've got caterpillar-worms crawling in my stomach. a new world, a new life, all waiting for me at a moment's time from now. i'm no less ready, i feel like fear is the next sensible step to feel. when people are awaiting their death, they go through stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. someone should make a list of the five stages for when you

decide to toss your life up into the air the second it just landed from the first toss. is it money: the issue of necessity vs desire? is it friendship: those I leave behind will never match the new ones i make, but maybe...is it a secret pleasure in being afraid? the fact that i will have to master the unknown, knowing that i will prevail i feel like a child again, i miss my home though i haven't lived there for a while. laying on my bed, i hug pillows, seeking refuge in what little mass they have. i want to cry, but nothing would come out. i'd rub one out, but i have no desire. this is limbo. this is transition. i can't wait to sleep, it's the one place i find refuge. but sleep only brings the countdown of days closer and closer to it's end. and while i feen to enter the dreamworld of my subconscious, a resonance scares me away, the fear i might have nightmares. what if my innocent playground becomes a battlefield for internal demons. you must always keep your sleep. 9 days till i leave. Men Dressed as Wolves When men dressed as Wolves Come knocking at your door And offer you gold Think twice my friend Think twice untitled There's nothing like being tipped onto the opposite scales of civilization. More and more often I find myself saying goodnight to my friends and family as they go off to sleep while I begin my nightly adventures. Nik once talked about being a vampire, this must be similar to it. But this is not vampirism, no. Work may start in the afternoon, but it still starts at four. If I want to get my ten hours of sleep, I have to be in bed by 5:00am if I want time to eat and shower in the morning. It's not as easy as you think. But at least I'm not alone, there's an army of us at there. Walking, waiting, hopping roofs, breaking in and entering. We're the new face of society, a minor few hidden by it's shadows. Change, that's what we're after. Not political, not economical..in the social mentality. We're looking for a change of thought, an abandoning of a primitive brain with primitive thought patterns and primitive thoughts. Renaissance 2.0/ So watch well, but sleep tight, for it's when you sleep that we're most active. You'll wake up, you'll notice change, but you won't know what. Just wait, embrace, and don't think, just do. do. do. Writing 2011 New year;s 2011

I looked around and nothing had changed: folks were texting to and fro, figuring out the best place to get sloshed for the night. I was in a different mind state: I wasn't too happy, and I knew drinking would lead to problems. Intoxication often has that effect when coupled with bad vibes, especially in the cranial department. I had the choice of invitation to drink downtown, drink in the suburbs, or drink alone. I decided to stay at home with my dog. I had recently picked Snickers up from the kennel, albeit a few days late. That night I told Snicks I loved him as I hugged him as best a human can. We didn't always get along, and it was two years ago when we held the fort that we truly bonded. For the first time it was just him and me, dog and master, and I made it clear that I was in charge of the home. In breaking his bad habits, I learnt that dogs, having been domesticated, like law and order in their lives. He had grown a newfound respect for me, and I him. Back to present day, the time when one year is slowly consumed by the next. As I've mentioned before, I find irony in celebrating the new year as I'm sure the particular instance, later transforming into minutes, days, and weeks, surely changes the actual beginning of the year as we no longer keep track of things with sun dials. I'm sure that even those had their respective flaws and exceptions too. Looking back on previous new years, nights of excessiveness cloud my mind, whether its in relation to planning, partying, or spewing. Having returned home in Montreal to check on business affairs, and being less than content with the results, drinking was out of the question. It would throw me into a rut than any artist, especially writers, know all too well. 2011 was going to start off memorable: sober. I made a vow then and there to avoid using any form of intoxicant, be it beer, bud, or tv, as an escape. It's all too easy to numb your feelings, but you'll find that your teeth press down on each other harder and harder every night thereafter. Ignoring an issue doesn't resolve it. Instead, it buries it deeper and deeper to the point where you can't remember what it is, making it harder, or borderline impossible to deal with. Here I was, burning candles, watching the clock tick by. Thinking about life back in Victoria, I couldn't believe I'd be flying out of Montreal a day late due to an overlooked detail; My original flight would leave me sleeping over at the airport waiting to catch a ferry the next morning. Sorry Mr. Hanks, but I'm not THAT big of a fan. Great job in Cast Away though. With thirty minutes ticking away the first decade of the new millennium, I figured the only person I'd be running away from if I were to leave tomorrow would be Spencer. My phone rang. Guess who? Spencer had just woken up and seen the slew of messages I'd left for him during the course of the day (Interestingly enough, my first call ended up being a mere hour after he went to sleep, me thinking he had been sleeping all morning and would surely have woken up by then). I jumped into my mom's car (as I had been staying at my folks' house as they travelled through Vietnam helping bear and gook* alike), and made it to Spence's with ten minutes of 2010 to spare. I explained to him what you just read and once again, we found a common ground. We've been talking a lot about mentality, mind state, stress, drugs, and their interrelations and effects on each other. Simple, yes, but we've delved pretty deep into it. Since then I've learnt a few things: I'm a drug addict, and so is everyone I work with. Business will never take off until I grow up, and I'm happy to say that this applies both to life in Montreal, Victoria, and anywhere

else I may choose to live. I've also learnt that it only gets easier and easier to fall into a rut. I once heard that all artists were self destructive but I never believed, nor thought I understood it until now. I think it takes the ultimate project to start killing the artist, and I began mine six years ago. It's called Newstate, and if you know me I've probably mentioned it before. I've imagined the greatest project I could hope to create; a cultural revolution in the form of a graphic novel. My gift to the world. As it grows, I weaken, as I become further overwhelmed by the prospect of turning my idea into a creation. Every added detail magnifies the difficulty of the project exponentially, as it forces me to spread what little I have even further. That's where the drugs come in. As an escape to the world I live in, and as a comfort to the world I can't seem to create, I get lost in the limbo, trying to find meaning in my life whilst avoiding the clear path ahead of me. It's like finding the girl you've been searching for all your life, only to question if there's someone else out there, maybe someone funnier, or prettier, all the while ignoring the gold in your hands, dreaming of platinum. I once expressed my goals through geography, saying "first you build a mountain, then you climb it". I got caught up adding flowers, trees, animals to the top, not to mention imagining the panoramic views I'd see. As the peak became evermore majestic, so I feared climbing the mountain, lest it appear less than what I imagined. All the while, I should've been climbing, walking through paths and forest admiring everything I could sense around me. That's the problem I face with Newstate. That's the problem I face with my life. I come from a wealthy background, and it's a hard thing to deal with. I'm not treated as an equal by anyone who know's the fact that comes from a different lineage, and I beat myself up about it the most. How else could I afford to be an artist, without the comfort of knowing that eventually down the road my bills will be paid? Bollocks. That's what the morons say. I didn't choose to be born into this family, the same way I didn't choose to create. It flows from my finger tips, and there's little I can do to stop it. I'd be happy to live in a shack, by the beach, with a horse, and live the rest of my days drawing away. But then one must face solitude, something a social creature like myself finds daunting, albeit necessary at times. Often I think that it's the only way Newstate will ever exist: after I disassociate myself from the world around me. Then the true question arrises: how could I then share my work? And so we meet the dichotomy of my situation: I need silence and space to create, but I need to be enveloped in social noise to be inspired. At the same time, the natural beauty of the serene world stimulates me, and I'm more than pleased to keep my creations to myself. Four sides to one coin. This is true therapy, expressing myself through any means necessary, and at this point; words. They flow faster than anything else, (lest music, though I'm only a novice [if that] in the department). So words remain to act at my therapist, expressing the energy and emotion I put into and behind them. A mirror to my soul stares back at me, explaining what goes on in my mind, and by golly do I seem insane ( the third [or fourth?] pillar of my exaltation). As my mind widens, I continue to accept everything while believing in some. My reality is comprised of my beliefs, but reality as a whole is a collective. Be ye a human, a bee, or a rock, you add to the melting pot of experience and existence. It's comforting to meet others with open minds, as we tend to learn from and share with each other, but more and more I feel a divide from those around me who choose not to believe, nor accept. My teacher once

compared people to horses, saying that some run around the track with blinders, unaware of what exists to their lefts and rights. Others ran free with open eyes. It hit close to home. I don't know where else to go, aside from saying that I feel much better. Even though no one's read this (yet, until you), having expressed it was my therapy, and re-reading it was my learning. I know a little bit more about the part of me that just left, and I hope that past and future Trevor are content with my present self. It's the year of the rabbit, and it's supposed to be a slow one. I'm looking forward to it. What do you believe? --*im not a racist, and if you met me, you wouldn't believe it. but if you knew me, you would. we live in a world full of political correctness. So much so that it propagates the very concepts it hopes to destroy. Teaching children about aids won't stop the problem. Instead it will strike fear into every nine and ten year old, further "destroying" the beauty and innocence that true love brings. To inform is one thing, but to frighten and alarm to prove a point is wrong, despite the means. Lessons learnt through terror hold false when compared to those learnt from love, or better yet, understanding. A constant reiteration of hate, be it racism, bigotry, or other, keeps the topic centre stage, forcing those around it to stare back at it's ugly face. So we react the same, trying so hard to appear just and right in our cause that our underlying overtones imply the very connotations we pretend to ignore. Racism doesn't exist, it's purely a label for hate. I choose to accept and move forward. Half our slurs are derived from the very races, ethnicities, or cultures they mock. There's your flaw with language, it changes over time and the meanings get lost and skewed. Take a look at body language, something that had millennia of evolution to develop. You can easily tell, or rather feel a person by their physical cues. Consider how easy it is to misread their words. fragments a common misconception held by those around me is that i enjoy being pitted against the rest of the world. there is nothing id like more than for my peers to simply accept what i say as my own and move on its so nice to be smoking stress free again. i had the option to cut it dry turkey, but that wouldnt solve the problem. There's an expression stating guns don't kill people, but that it's the person behind the trigger that does the damage. The same can be said for drugs. Smoking a joint doesn't make you a drug addict, unless you're toking up to avoid or minimize reality. There's an added value knowing that I can smoke peacefully now, rather than jonezing to get high knowing that I have't overcome a mental block. Redefining the way I smoke changed the perspective, and usually that's all we need. Today I bought my first pair of DC's. I'm a Vans man myself but since I can't find the skate version of their shoe I had to switch. I like shoes as much as the next guy, but there's something special about buying a new pair: whether it's the nostalgic memories that flow from throwing the old pair away or the mystic mysteriousness of adventures the new pair will bring, I don't know. I love it all the same.

People treat new shoes differently: some people can't wait to wear em in, like a good pair of Converse. Others hold back, hoping to maintain the immaculate look, like Uggs or Chanelle boots. Me? I love the comfort of tying into a new shoe, but I await the day I can slide my foot in and out at will, without having to undo the laces. Today my shoes and I had quite the adventure, making sure to get a head start on our shared experience. After confirming the size and pair of my desire, I asked the retailer if I could wear the shoes out. She told me I could, but it would imply a final sale. I figured best to hold off until exiting the store lest I find myself in someone else's shoes. I asked her about the return policy, and she said as long as I didn't wear them outside I'd have fifteen days to return for cash and a month for store credit. As I neared the mall exit I dawned the new pair, curious to see what outside adventures I'd run into, and to see just how clean I could keep them. At this point the universe popped in to provide me with some well needed ethereal comedy. It wasn't until I got to the park that I decided to take the Robert Frost path la road not taken. After pit-stopping at a public washroom, I noticed a small brown leaf stuck to the front on my shoe. "Curious," I thought, though further inspection proved the leaf to be a smear of doggy doo. I laughed and, confirming the sole of my shoe to be as clean as ever, hurried to wipe the stain away. Later that night I tied the laces up once more, deciding better than to force my way into the virgin pair. Once again, the new found softness tickled my toes with ecstasy. Nearing the bar, I danced my way to the window, eyeing my seated compadres by the window. My shoes tested groove-positive, and further dancing would verify the fact. As last call neared, the shoes became familiar with the Victorian custom of walking home from downtown, but not before making a pitstop at Sopranos. Here my shoes were introduced to my newfound hobby: pool. Like any good soul, they supported me whilst I played. Heading home with friends by my side, I stepped into a large pile of white goopy substance. To this day, I have no idea what it was, but I imagine transcendent plasma from the stars, proof that the shoes were made to get dirty. I got home late, untied the laces, and placed them by the door next to my old pair. The recently deceased had fallen victim to camping: waterloggedness led to a reshaping of plastic as the shoes dried by the fire. As I dreamt, my old shoes conveyed meaningful lessons to the new pair. When I put them the next morning and tied the laces for a third time, a familiar snugness was felt as the shoe's tongues absorbed my stinky feet. And it was good. i think the best lesson my parents ever tried to teach me was limiting my tv watching time. An hour and a half, three episodes; that was my aloted time slot. The rest of the day was expected to encompass playing, eating, and sleeping. The fine tunings that work in between, by I digress. I wasn't allowed to waste my time in front of the screens, nor my eyesight. That, and sittting far away from the screen. My grandmother "taught" that one too. At least a yard a half theyd say, but id snuggle up and rub my eyes on the tube, baby. Now, i sit in

front of my laptop and zap away my eyes. Tvs in the living room don't help either. I've even got one in my pocket, it's called an iPhone. It'll help me succeed. why do bad things happen? When little kids ask this question, those around them swell up inside. When a teenager asks the question, they're mocked by their superiors. When adults say it, those around reply "that's life". So, why do bad things happen? Because Good things happen too. Look at your life as a series of events, and instead of trying to make the right or wrong choice, focus on the action. You know what you're going to do, the question is why did you do it? Every day we're put into situations; it may look like someone else is forcing you, but if you think hard enough you'll realize that ultimately you're the reason you're there in the first place. Call is the workings of the subconscious mind. People often seek advice, but the truth is that the answer can be found within. Why do bad things happen? Think of the scenario. Were you rushed? Were you angry? Were you sober? There's no rewind button in life, and if there was, it'd be a hard place to learn a lesson. So dissect the moment, and pull a lesson out of it. As Bill would say, "charge it to experience". I like to think that past, present, and future Trevor exist simultaneously, and the emotions that one feel are reflected through the rest. thoughts through the limited perception of our five senses we try to understand the world we live in. imagine, if you will, all that exists beyond your sensitivity: the colours that insects see, the flavours that dogs smell, the sounds that only cats can hear, and brace the unknown world. it's been a killer year 2010, let's see what 2011's packin Now more than ever ive come to realize that the goals we set to inspire us can clip our wings just as easily. Few people cope with failure, preferring fairy tale lives filed with veiled lies of hope and enthusiasm. When your future is so close to your fingertips that the brightness begins to blind you, then and only then are you tested by the true limits of your belief. watch a plant live and be inspired to grow (include Housefly: Memoirs of a Roomate)

Poetry - 2008 Winged fire serpent a phoenix born through the embers of it's ashes i have seen the past the future i have been with you by your side the image the mind the saviour but you did not carry me the girl, the hockey player, it all comes together and then it is lost dressed around the dinner table alice serves us dinner then nothing nothing is more than a mirror a reflection of what is already known my wants imagined realized my future imagined realized it all comes together the strings, orchestrated i control what goes on around me is this god? there is nothing left to know streaking through the woods i am one i am none i am all we are one

the soft tips of bristled pine mosquitos sucking at my flesh they peel apart my skin i am lost - i am adam standing still by the fire my memories and i we've arrived back to nature now what? become one grab the fire melt by it's side seep into the ground become entangled in the vines if you build it, they shall come fire; home; a refuge they sit, i talk to them about the city driving cars - fast buying furniture - expensive summer girls - sex money all behind us now what? two strangers? no, a glimpse from the past out of the woods; my parents calm, relaxed, set me naked, bare, whole i am my father, as he was his own i tell him this and we are one i am my world leave anchors throughout time and you can always return wake up at any point the winged fire-serpent speaks I am Ozymandius, king of kings this is my reign this is my land

i shall return

Emerald and Aquamarin in an Amber Sleep the fantasy developed in or through the minds recant as memories once imagined fade leaving them but scant i knew tonight wed meet as all parts did come asunder now being all dispersed could be categorized in number as patterns be discovered and the nornalcies come true tonight i'd dream of someone and that someone would be you your eyes - they shine quite brightly be them green in left or right in blue your hair was dark in color your image strong and true so i choose you to remember for in you there's something more i hope one day to find you standing right outside my door

English Poem This poem is not lofty, nor sad, distressed or calm. In stead it is quite angry (personification), And is foolish just like Tom (simile, in reference to Tom Foolery!) How angry I am at you, O paper that I type on (apostrophe) You are merely just a sticky ground, (imagery) A mother (metaphor) for my words; a bosom. You don't really care about all you hold, To you it's just a job. (perfect rhyme) But I don't blame you all to much, To me it's just a gob. (perfect rhyme) Creativity's not this poem's point, For it is just an exercise, To test the limits of my mind, of literary techniques wrapped up in lies. I'm forced to produce words, To display my knowledge of pattern and sound (half-rhyme) And because of this mechanical production Soon this poem I shall barely stand (half-rhyme) But believe me, I am not frustrated! (verbal irony) Rather I'm happy to shatter the art of poetry (verbal irony) Rather than placing a pen to the paper (visual imagery) I get to attack it violently with a knife (visual imagery) At last, the pen is weaker than the sword. But hope, for Shakespeare: The Man, one said "Noble patricians, patrons of my right, (iambic pentameter) Defend the justice of my cause with arms,". (iambic pentameter) And with that, sweet butcher, to you we fight.

Guilt its guilt that keeps me going for those who had no choice but someone, wont someone take me out and away from this place high above the tree line deep into the sky to a land eternal full of wonder happiness or peace, i do not know though often they are intertwined to a land of angels where harps sing songs of the bard a longing for redemption to feast upon the clouds

over timers poem She walked into the kitchen to check on the chicken. Ms. Maynard still took pleasure in cooking, even if it was only for herself. Of course she'd give the dog scraps every now and then, but made sure not to give him too much lest she spoil him. She checked the timer. It would still be twenty minutes before the poultry would be finished cooking. Still, she reached inside with the effort of her body old, wrinkled, and used, never to come out again.

Random poems masturbation; just isn't the same as thrusting and busting all over some dame >>> oh prince charming where hath thou gone destroyed by years of treatment wrong still: by your side a flower white rose for the woman who'll treat you right though badly bruised and beaten sore you and your blossom will rise once more for after time when fates declare as dream's come through so shall arise the flair of chivalry strong an art forgotten to bed your wed as dark turns rotten to reveal the white beneath the black a curse now broken prince charming's back >>> twelve thirty four i misses you a minute late or fast there was a time i did see you at every timespot glance

>>> sweep me off my feet and show me life that is worth living full in mystery; a sense rekindles the lost feeling the feeling of the morbid the feeling of despair the feeling of calamity as wind rushed past my hair without the bad there is no good cast balance through young eyes to learn that there is chance in all as long as some one tries to find what's lost; the innocence so often tied in lies bring out the love, the smiles true for soon time too doth dies >>> life is so annoying why does life do this does it like to laugh does it like to joke does it have a sense of humour after all? all these ties these liaisons anchors throughout time do they really mean something? >>> just when you give up and stop trying you'll find that life has a lot to explore

 for love or lust for love of lust i do not know 'side 'twards you i tend to flow forbidden fruit how i long forbidden fruit tasty as a peach still you hang up in the tree clearly out of reach love bites get your ass kicked by romance put your heart out on the line try not to fall in love and you'll see you do just fine powerless dying i lay at the head of my bed waiting for someone to walk through the door friends from the past love from the future anything to take my mind away from the present the power that once grew strong in my hands has dulled now, to a faint luminance the armies i command, laws i controlled gone now, with the wind of time

 stand alone A shadow of my former self I stand alone; remorse --remorse for all i could have been remorse for all i could have done remorse for all the love i had to those who loved me as their sun in their eyes now, where do i stand broken, tattered, worn and torn, to leave at once, be gone forever avoid their valid, mournful scorn the son they had, he's long dead now buried deep within himself all that remains, an outlined man saddened, tired, dead, alone. stock sonnet her hair (which grows so fine through dark, free-flowing curls) her face, (so soft and kind) and a body that fulfills her eyes, (how bright they shine) a pair of luminescent pearls holding her as mine unlocks the wonder of my world with sways of grace, and pants that match she throws herself at me as i fuddle with the latch how happy i can be to see that I've the greatest catch the best fish in the sea teach me how to love

teach me how to love again turn me soft once more for it has been a long time since the cold fell at my door start with my feet and warm my toes so they can feel the ground that you've cemented under me to dislocate my frown next are my legs where time has made my knees turn weak with blondes but with your aid you'll make them strong so i can stand on one now at my waist you alrea'y know the things you make me feel so scratch your hands upon my abs i sense it now, im real keep on working further up to reach my chest and neck and with your hands, your lips and tongue to stop you i must beg then look at me with soft told eyes to tell me what is true broken once you gave me love now i belong to you time passes are we really alive living these lives?

or are we just waiting for time to end to accomplish nothing is what really is despite how hard we try the end is always near then reached then passed then what? nothing? more of it as always the times they go on with or without us usually without unless with memory for memory is all there really is without memory what really was? who knows? i forgot you look at us and wonder you look at us and wonder where and what in hell went wrong to leave these kids so rotten with imagined heights forlorned you, yes you, you grew up in beatle's harmony while backstreet boys were my times juiced up hey hey monkees staring at the mirror i no longer see myself the monster thats erupted hath eaten all that's left from whence did came this beast of burden Have you ever prayed for death? Death for everything you've ever known? Everything you've loved; everything you've hated. Everything.

Death to all so you could start anew; no ties, no concerns. An empty canvas to paint your masterpiece upon; a new life to live, to take pleasure in; to cherish. A way to fulfill your dreams long forgotten, a chance to go back and do what you wished to do. To break from the highway of your life and go back to the back-routes of your youth; your development.

v-letter Teacher, Did you ever, implore That a student Be smarter Than you? That despite, lack of years He has made up for it, through scholastics? But No, Then why the fuck are we at school? But of course! ME: i am, that teacher.

2009 Jesters rhyme The Man of La Macia Had no game When compared to this clown of jest Try as he like Whatever stories he like One cannot beat the best jakimo he goes by the name of jakimo, but whence he came, we scarcely know some say he arrived from the land back east montreal i believe, land of leg and breast it would explain his french, they so quizzically joke and his love for the habs and his desire to smoke! but us few who know him, said truer and well know the jakimo tale and the jakimo tell others remark he's a man of the woods who slices up salmon, and if asked, would go ten miles uphill, and fetch you a pail of the finest of water, the sweetest of ale it would explain his strength they joyfully snicker and how he carries a knife and why he's so quicker still us few who know him, said truer and well know the jakimo tale and the jakimo tell most will quote he's a guitar star an angel from heaven who's fallen too far gingerbread sweet, with a rosy complexion

happy as heaven to share his erection so that's why he fucks! they figure it was "a musical prodigy? And red hair!" they applause still us few who know him, said truer and well know the jakimo tale and the jakimo tell So here's the plain truth, for all those who wonder: such a man was created asunder took him time and trials to grow a look today, and what does it show? a past complete, with lessons learnt a future, paved clean, no areas burnt a present today, he so plainly lives a present today, jakimo gives he's a one of a kind, sticks out in a crowd he's the one who's drinking and screaming aloud you'll know him if you see him, you've got enough clues so say hi to him please, you've got nothing to lose the holy dollar the holy dollar sought for always worth working and killing till the end of your days just for paper to redeem a prize for whatever tickles your fancy with dollar sign eyes now let me ask you a question what if all was freee? would have the desire to squander feverishly? is it the prize or redemption you so valianty seek? do you follow desire or material goods, so meak?

imagine if nothing in this world had a price tag and you could walk to and fro, doing what you please would you live in this world, where freedom abounds? or rather bow to the dollar, as you crawl on your knees? dying castle little more than players running amuck in a game over time, the rules have changes but the goals remain the same more is better or so they say chanting in their castles while peasants and peons frolick around dealing with their hassles see, once you're king you sit in a chair people paint your toes and clip your hair once you're on top, it's hard to fall down since the beggars below you are clowning around and as the gap between the 2 of you grow so does the time to climb the ladder slow see when push comes to shove in this game of master it's easy to see how it leads to disaster and since the rules do change over time i'm thinking a new game will do us just fine your thoughts?

empty searching all my life i've always wanted someone to call my own but every year that passes by i feel so more alone it started with a sibling that i thought i had been promised but i was sick, and stress abound at least my folks were honest and so there'd never be for me a younger bro or sis and by the time that i was 10 i knew what I would miss my friends had theirs, my bro had me but here, all i had, nothing a younger self, to look up to i'm searching for that something so what'd i do? i put up walls blot out my goal with grails i search for fame i invoke change all this, to no avail i missed the point it's plain to see that i don't want celebrity i just want one to call my own to love me back to be my home 5 000 miles took 5,000 miles to get away to learn a lesson that's here to stay

searching for change in all the wrong places imagining gold without running the races picturing peaks instead of climbing the hills dreaming of failure while seeking the thrills clouds in my mind head's up in the sky praying for love while waiting to die paying the most for the simplest of lessons ignoring the teachers and learning from guesses to papa To My Darling Papa At the age of 80, much can be said About a man, who has not lost his head. Nor kicked the bucket, for he is not dead, Though the odds stacked against him weigh heavy as lead. The story emerges from jolly ol England, Manchester, I believe, is where it began. Soccer, tea, and crumpets flow through the land, Pig's dick in lettuce, if I might add. Here, the clouds live up in the sky, Where once, my grandfather, was commissioned to fly, As fate would have it, he would not die, As B-52's and bombers flew by. But just as boots get pissed in at night, The leather of Peter was strapped on too tight.. He wanted out, foreseeing the socialist plight, So he ventured to Canada. His transport? Flight! Carousing Sherbrooke like a pimp on the street, There wasn't a dame that Papa would not meet,

Who soon, after greet, would drop dress to her feet. Peter the charmer, ever discreet. Till along came a woman, As strong as a Boar (change to lion and roar) Who stood up to Peter And said, "You sell fur to whores!?" Of course, this coincided with the look in her eyes, Where Peter must've gazed into a thousand starry skies, Finally, perfection amongst so many stained ties, He loved her too, it's true. I assure you, no lies. ...where was i? "You sell prostitutes fur? No more!" she said, A few months later, the duo was wed Two eager beavers, now sharing a bed, And a few years later, a family was bred. Now I can go on about the years in between, But I fear through the rhymes I won't say what I mean After all, four-score can be pretty serene, Especially when your grandson's no longer a teen. So.. To the man who taught me how to PISS OFF, To the man who everyone thinks is so lost, To the man who's heard all the dumb things we say, To the man sitting here, on his 80th birthday. I'd give you advice, but what don't you know, I'd tell you to reap but I see that you sew, I'd say "be happy!" but already you glow, Peter Burnett. That's the end of my show. wonderous eyes as i look into your eyes i see the wonders of the world i watch the mysteries unfold of where we are, trapped here in time swirling round your pupil plays an iris caught in trance

through hues of blue and yellow dance emerge the greenscape of your mind pause feel the thunder, feel the burn of earthbound love that sits unturned by trust or lust all through the ages lost the book, but kept the pages clouds obscured, blot out by darkness chivalrous knights that fight for conquest who lost their marbles long ago began to reap what they not sow reverse the passions clogging up the air avoid despair, let's keep things fair take a step back, what do you see love yourself if choose not me days of end people say that i aint trying waiting for the rest, i'm dying counting down the days and minutes waiting for this world to finish try so hard, we gotta save em pray for peace instead of mayhem fruitless bowls of empty beauty can't you see this ain't your doing bridge/chorus all these boys and girls are screaming all the adults, gone or leaving babies in the streets, they crying eat a sheep cause you're a lion (lying) promises, one day you'll help i've seen the end, i've heard them whelp prophets with their fancy preaching learnt the lessons, now i'm teaching

the trade a trade: the ultimate sacrifice for that which you believe tonight a game: you win, and change it all but first you die, and then you roll you die forgot, memory unknown the world you've changed, oh they don't know a utopia, made in your image catch the falls, trace your lineage see the playground of perfection for your thoughts and all your action boughs of Eden, land eternal thermal don't fear revere, or petty fame you'll disappear without a name as moved are played within the game one day you may return again throw that body overboard they'd nail me to a cross but we've cut down all the trees they'd throw me to sharks but we've vaporized the seas they'd ship me to the moon they'd kick me in the face watching sunsets verse 1 said i needa tell you something bout the way you make me feel said ive got to be real with you baby, (baby) cuz ive never heard a girl say she loves me the way you say you do when you say you love me it brings tears to my eyes, it's true

chorus i love you too, i love to say you bring me smiles everyday when i'm with you, i feel ok i still love you, by the way here's some chocolate, take some flowers i'll buy you shoes, we'll laugh for hours watching sunsets come and go we'll build a family, grow a home verse 2 when i wake up in the morning and you're laying there beside me it's enough girl to remind me just how lucky i am i look into your eyes and i see them spark and dazzle i look into your hips I wanna give em a rattle chorus verse3 when i go to bed at midnight you're the last thing that i see and it helps me fall sleep quite comfortably chorus open eyes preserve me you are worthy make me last for an eternity love me touch me do the things that make me live make me bleed

teach me what life's all about make me shout make me cray-z cray-z show me what this life can be make me crazy let me see broken angel a broken angel on the curb stomped by on society a heartfelt whisper solely heard by the man, the wild-he appeared at her side through the mist of the night asking if she be well once caught a glimpse of her soft side 'came entranced upon her spell he needed her to feel better, yet to set his own heart free since through the sadness in her face scarcely could he feel glee until he knew self very well that indeed she was ok

t'was his job to protect her to shield her from dismay and just when he thought he had done all that he could then do she reached; over to embrace him (thought fully through and through) at last, he thought he'd met the girl the angel of his dreams but as he kissed her oh so soft a flash. awoke. her scream. had he done wrong he paused to think to steal her purity? but the soft tingle on his tongue he knew he'd set her free un earth bound love Trapped inside a little box This planet we call Earth Eagerly awaiting for The day we leave this mirth But what comes next They always ask How is it we'll be judged? Based on action? Based on mind? Or is it based on love? Love, now there's a trivy tale A tail that's fun to chase! Over under, all around

The cue is in her face You'll recognize her when she comes Don't worry-fret your socks Look in her eyes Looks at her lips What color are her locks? So be not in a hurry, sir Sit down, again. Relax. You'll see that she ascends with you When Earth-time hits its max. jail time I need to go to jail Get taken care of a bit Ill have time to read Ill have time to learn So i can take good care of shit When it all hits the fan Ill be the man with the plan to save mankind for a third time having read the word of our lord ill know first hand what to do but first i need time away from this destructed city a project gone to hell so i can understand what is god's master plan mind-numb systems turn off the numb-mind systems that you folly with day out walk around and go outside,

see what life is all about if you miss it, it shall pass as a sand through hourglass. see that time pays no respect to those who show it but neglect said embrace it without fear for there's still no true divide till you love it, choose become it. sir: feel your soul survive through the bullshit, through the mess of the decade twenty ten. chill out and take a puff; ain't no hurry for the end jesters krown i feel good when i'm with you you make me warm, i swear you do and if i could not be with you oh; only god knows what i'd do and because god i am to you then i must know then what i do and i do this and that to you, and i do this and that i do then one last time i do to you that i do this and that to you POETRY 2011 Wasted time ive wasted so much time with you i heard your lies, i thought em true my friends, they tried to warm me too but still i pined that we'd be two two in one, one in the same i thought id try to play a game convince you to be my dame

through romantic means, year of the rabbit year of the rabbit time to take things slow be pensive, calm, and patient and see that watered plants do grow the curious thing about plant life is it's desire to stay alive and even without shade or water it tries just as hard to strive so take a look at a tree, or a leaf, or a fig and be inspired to exist as it does sit back, chill out, and take a puff and see you might just fall in love its amazing how things begin to fit when we stop forcing pieces together that despite the cracks, and chips, and flips genesis + poems wherever i doth travel trouble follows in my wake to move on blindly forward is a true test of my fate plan to justify the end by any machiavelli means create a brighter future, or so at least to me it seems --are you so blind you cannot see the simple steps that are in front of me to turn around and face the truth youll see me walk away towards another future, bright and burned from solar flares and ruby golds that slowly sink into the crust of earth, they sit as i wait alone for you --the man reached out, only grabbing false hope as he slowly sank deeper into the river of lies