18 June 2009


You can't leave your room
without passing by them
or stepping on
brushing against
walking under them.
They're absolutely
everywhere, unavoidable.
Last week,
your dog buried one in your back yard
by the yellow slide,
close to where he hid
your dad's old left penny loafer -
the one with the hole where his big toe
showed through.
It no longer showed through.

Your younger sister,
though still small,
took one of her own home with her
from the park
and put it on the highest shelf
in her bright pink room,
next to her favourite doll,
where no one could find it.
No one could find it.
She even made it a bit tough for her
to reach back up and get it.

Just last night,
at that big family gathering,
I saw your uncle softly spit one
behind your mom's ear.
I don't know how he kept it
in his mouth
for so long,
but the saliva will surely keep it tightly tucked
in your mother's hair
with her pretty, green, dangling earrings
as a barrier
to keep others from getting too close
for her liking
to keep it
from getting out.

They lie under creaky floor boards
in old houses,
where no one would dare to look.
Parents put them
in closets,
under beds,
behind all the monsters,
which keep the kids
scared to peak.
And they are even coated in spit
from uncles' mouths -
repulsive -
but with a shiny, metal exterior
to make people smile and think nothing
of the slobbery, dirty things.
Like the native Americans
who fell for trickery
and traded their land
for shiny metal objects,
because they were pretty.

They, too, lie in the waxy glaze
of those shiny metal things,
which caused the corruption of lands
hundreds of years before your dog
thought to bury his in the soil,
where the same mistake
had taken place.

My own aren't too difficult to find.
They reside in a few locations -
in an art room,
a ceiling tile of a freshman dorm,
the closets of an old school.
Mainly, though, in my room,
behind my canvases,
on the canvases.
Next to the paintbrushes and paints -
watercolor, acrylic, oil.
Usually acrylic.
They're in a wooden art box,
underneath the pastels
and the ebony pencils.
Others have seen them and
received them.
Look there
and you're good to go.
They're good to go
and the price range isn't bad.

14 June 2009


Yesterday, you ran through my mind
as I ran through a field.
Simultaneously, my joints unhinged,
and retracted,
while your name ricocheted
from one side of my head
to the other.
My cleanly shaven, pale white legs
propelled me forward,
lifting one foot in the crisp air
while allowing the other to
forcefully pound the Earth,
slowly sending vibrations through
paper thin grass blades of
pine, jade, viridian,
teal, lime, harlequin,
et cetera.

Several of the blades swept
against my exposed ankles and sent
chills up my calves,
ascending toward my thighs
and sky
was the limit for my goose bumps,
which caused every inch of my body
to quiver.

As you lightly brushed
your finger tips against my frontal lobe,
you tampered with the remote
to my emotions.
I tripped over a rock,
distracted by the thought
of you.
In my clumsiness, you too
stumbled, and left a finger print
on one of the buttons of the remote.
My face was covered with dirt
and my elbow had a scrape.
I was not alone, though, in injury.
You bumped your head
and the letters of your name
jumbled up,
leaving me
in my own thoughts' dust.

I steadily regained my balance
and gathered my thoughts.
You were back in the centre,
as if on a treadmill,
running my system.
When my pace increased,
your image,
your name,
all of you became more
The brown hair which matched
the bark on the trees I passed
on my way through the field,
and which enhanced the same dark colour
of your eyes,
never fully open -
literally or figuratively.
And your pristine facial structure,
equal to the sheer beauty
of the magnificence by which
I was encompassed.

I suddenly stopped to think about
but you.
A breeze caught onto my hair
and carried it as far as it could
before it was pulled back
by its attachment to me.
I wish the wind could have carried you
far away from my being.
But you didn't move.
You stayed constant to your place in my mind,
as you do
every day,
in my maze of a thought process.

My heart,
without an apparent reason,
pounded and
beat, pulsating and waiting
to rip through my sternum and
free itself from captivity.
And I looked down the opening
of my turquoise t-shirt,
and the beat showed through my skin.
I placed my hand over my chest
just in hopes to stop the outrageousness.
You banged just as hard against
the lining of my skull
in an attempt to keep my attention,
which gave me a throbbing headache
of, well, "epic proportions,"
so to speak.
When the pain and the obscurities were
I woke up.

13 June 2009

JAMIE WROTE THIS!!: Thomas the Tank Engine

It is only a dream I have,
not to be taken seriously.
I buy the ticket.
I get on the train.
And I ride it everywhere.
Only it speaks to me,
"Now Jamie, don't say a word
about this.
Or we'll both be out of tracks
to ride on."
I never said a word.
Didn't feel the need to.
Thomas was his name.

He was a mighty fine tank engine.
Strong.  Cynical.  Wise.
The steam he created...
Well it just gives me 
thinking about it.
One day, I'll be old enough
to own that tank engine.
Then I'll be able to show the world
how much
I love it.
How much
it loves me.
I'll be able to ride it through town,
blowing the whistle and waving
at the curious bystanders.
They'll never understand.

But at least it will be

12 June 2009

Forbidden Fruit

My alarm sounded at 5:30,
as it does every morning.
My body uncurled from its fetal position.
Left leg, then right leg,
my limbs unraveled and
brought me from my bed,
through the hall,
down the stairs,
through the door,
and to my garden.
Three minutes had swiftly drifted past me
on my way.

With time comes age.
I was three minutes closer.

I made my way through the garden -
past the cherry tree and
away from the watermelons -
until I came to a certain fruit.
I planted my feet firmly into the ground,
squished the fertile soil between my toes,
as if to burrow myself in the Earth to be
a little closer
to that fruit,
that spectacular life force,
thriving on all of its surroundings,
no matter its conditions.

I gazed at it, lovingly.
And I stood,
and played.
Over and over.
Every day for nine months.
Sometimes, I would take my own time
away from that beautiful being.
But I would,
at the end of every break,
filled with elation to see
how it had changed -
with time comes growth -
and how it had grown.

My time with it was
a euphoria
of sorts.

The rest of the fruit was good,
colourful, bright,
but it always came and sooner
or later
it was gone.
Always the same.
That fruit, though, lived longer than
the others
and followed through, stayed true
to its purpose.
A couple of weeks ago, my alarm sounded
at 5:31.
My toes curled and I let out a groan.
I had to see that fruit.
It had been nine months.
I dashed through the house
to get to my garden.
I stepped into it,
refreshed by smells of herbs
and tomatoes and cherries and

And the Earth.

I once more steadied myself
in front of that magnificent organism.
I gazed, longingly.
I reached toward it and, subsequently,
received a prick.
The fruit's leaves had thorns.
One bite was all I wanted.

I reached again.
Pricked again.
Again and again.
I stopped.
It wasn't ripe. It was aged.
But it was not ready.
I was not ready.
One bite is all I want.

With time comes age and
with age comes growth.
And that garden embodies one fruit
I have yet to experience.

One bite
from this forbidden fruit
is all I want.
I am not ready.
Time will tell
as I wait and age
and it ages and grows
and I grow and experience.
But I will wait.