Vive le Québec grec

Yesterday the greeks were celebrating independance day. All of beaumont and jean-talon was blocked with flags and police cars. The sun was strong. I stood still. People I vaguely knew collided into me. Thoughts manifest and this is true. As I walked in the kitchen of his patisserie, he had a big bowl of crème de marron on his huge wooden table. I asked him if he knew where I could find a tripod. My senses are heightened I dared walk in his kitchen, Laurent the chef, full blown at work. I dare put down my question, He puts down his spatula and disappears in the back little room, which I once knew. As I write I wonder how come something told in another language creates a shield. We speak french he and I. I am relating this story and feel as if it is sealed because it is told in english. As if the barrier created freedom. He reappeared with a tripod in his hand.
-Here, it's yours-
Wow I guess the saying ask and you will receive really applies in certain cases. Those were four hours of blissfull meandering. The mind wanting to squeeze everything into a tight box, the sun just melting it away. I wondered if I could bear to just stand there for two hours straight, and wait. to see what happens. leave the self behind, stand with the consciousness, the center is still, no words, no event will shatter it, just create waves.

dealing/defying/audience

I read somewhere, "if you say something, own it, or don't say anything at all".
I was fingering through papers in an exhibition, when the guy in the uniform approached me and said "you can't touch. "
There was a pile of them Each saying something different, and I was to "not touch them".
a few words uttered and the course of life changes.
so simple...
AM I DREAMING?
How does one own a word?
How do I make sure that the word I utter is owned by me?
Does the guard own his inference upon me to not touch?
Que faire de l'irré-parable?
a noun.
a simple story illustrating a moral or religious lesson.
The domesticated ass.
Give the word I utter as a gift, in the utterance.
words are like guns.
so soon they're out.
Bound to be blood.

pandora drawn with right foot

ma belle

I never promised you a bed of roses.

you maybe me

(i) am big ice beds colliding. underneath the skin, tectonic.
The skull and bulbs for sockets abiding.
inside rumbling, a death surfacing, a long lull tugging.
Or is this just my heart thawing?

In it,
her blue sagged cheeked clown face puking in a tall slender glass vase.
a strange foetus comes out of her mouth,
and slowly floats downwards.
to the bottom.
The bottom is bottomless.
the foetus is fatherless.
(i) take deep tokes of air.
it is this.
or else.
(i) am dying.
There is the unbearable distance from the stead of my center.
No tolerance for the other or so it seems.
No welcome or kiss.
Just a cold surface meeting another.
The void in between,
(i) not known to me
until (i)'ve encountered the other.
He wants to run amiss.
(i) understand, (i) don't want to be here at all.
This blissfull deceit that life is rosy like the lit foetus in the bottomless vase.
Everything is there on the surface, looking like one thing but meaning another.
Fusing stillness with alienation.
Having spent too long in silence.
Death rumbles -ever so present demon susurring her tales and blurring her perception.
All demons aside-
he runs -an axe in his hand.
or is that me?
(i) want to kill you bastard man.
She will never read these words for this (i) am sure.
Her lips will graze mine in seams of reality,
(i) am the python digesting a sheep.

(i) can still see the glassy eyes, the flushed red cheeks from too much toking.
He growls at me -had you arrived a half hour earlier.
-You carry the shit bitch-
-You take it on.-
-Shut your mouth.-
-I've killed you with my glare long ago.-
-You are nothing.-
-You can pound on me all your might.-
-Your fury makes me laugh-
Don't mind me
I'm out of my mind.
And that,
across the street.
"Is just a body walking her dog."

father dearest you fucking broke my heart.
I made a pact mixed blood and all.
all for nothing. a blurry connection,
blindly groping to vomit the violence.

dragonfly dream #4

Dream #4
the city was flooded and I came accross a drowning small child who kissed me when I picked her up. She was so small she could be wrapped up in a napkin. I became instantly extremely attached to her and wanted to save her.
A series of events occured as I was carrying her in my hands. She had smooth, very smooth and wide cheeks, her arms stayed at her sides like a doll.
She wore red wine like pyjamas.
I loved her.
She,
in the midst of things.
threw up once.
and all hope went out with her yakking.
She became all shrivelled up like an old
dragonfly carcass...
I could not accept that she was dead,
I could not tell for sure, although all the aspects of her had radically changed and I was holding between my fingers what had essentially become dust.