It is as holy as hardening to have a part of your identity bred out of the memory of someone else.
We are all living memorials of people who affected us then moved on without us.
Hope, Hope, Hope, Hope, I’ve said it too many times. It just sounds like a word that slip, slip, slapped out of my vocabulary.
The same way I stutter and twisty my way through the language of my identity
The way I think my words have melted me to build this
Night back up.
To reboil, Hope.
From scrambled, to soaring:
To catch the word at the bottom of the slope it fell from and have it re-sound again
Attach it on a hot air balloon, four letters on four corners and some hot glue, to put steam back into the air and supernovas to count on again.
When the balloon runs cold, the pentameters and prologues in these four letters will take plight again, this time ten-fold into the star-crossed, eyes-wide and bleeding night, for the poets
The broken dominoes, the out of tune clocks, the off-key metronomes, the often solo and hopeless
These poets, keep rearranging H-O-P-E in different ways
So we can build this whole night time
Camp, cosmos, the micro godlessness on this stage
A pedestal of all the ways we sense out the flux of fuckery
Here we are, H-O-P-E ing
But sometimes this word, hops, repeats in my ear like a cockroach cassette, my friends, hoping, convincing me and themselves, that they are OK,
It plays like ambition looped with melted memories I’d rather forget
Because whenever I need to hold on to hope, it’s because I have little else and their poems on breaking are a music shelf.
Where I open up my hopes to the tune of my past regrets
Snare drums of doubt and threats
when I used to have aim, I now just have guilt,
and blame in the place of resilience
But, yet, there is something magical about spreading
The ounce of belief lit up in your chest,
Our fingers want to share our tiny atlas’ hope balls
So we write our own tiny worlds on a flash cards
And trade them
These are the stanzas to our secrets.
These metaphors we write at our weakest,
Ring like revenge, making art from our lonely lyric
But we all stay with the same thesis, rearranging H-O-P-E, spelling it differently so every ear can hear it in the sound they need it most. We write like ghosts in full spirit. Spreading our sonnets to the sky in our hot air.
When we write when we are defeated, that means we have not truly been.
Rewriting ‘Hope’ like the magician that shook off all the gold off of my tongue but I kept finding a new way to speak.
Maybe, my mouth is valueless, it stills stays like osmosis for promise.
When the moon comes out to howl at me
And the blue machete under under my eyelids starts to scream
And the voices around me grow loud like a wonder monsoon
I write like you all will hear me.
I listen back like I will thank you all.
my metaphors like a moon jungle
as wild as a glass animal
my urban religion and
get cliff-dived machete stomped
still leaving a salt tang of Hope, my nucleus
the hike, left in me, dead, end, hungry but still believing
Like even if I can’t
Somebody will hear this future I describe like a disease, and they can follow it, like a robotic prayer in the distance
And as they hear me, and they move, and together as I speak and they sway we will find it in our bodies to take one step closer to an imaginary place that we move to
I keep looking at fireflies that have forgotten my fires
And tricycle tires that sometimes spin out of sync
Because I want to reboil this and get every last drop, telling you that when I bleed and you listen it saves me. When I stare off hunting for a day dream and you root for me, it saves me. When I tell you I keep hunting despite the bones on the ground and the meat under my feet that stays uneaten it saves me. Some see a poem, I see the only way to be. Some see a poem, I see the lonely innate beauty. Some see a poem, I see Jesus with robot teeth.
This is me telling you that the moon has scarcely bloomed for me this year
And it sounds like the all too familiar empty howl of hopelessness
But when you hear me, it’s like I can hear you calling back
Hope like a revenge. Hope like that revenge is your religion.
So I will write a poem an uproar
I write my struggles like rebellion
A force to be reckoned with
I hang my poems for your starry starry whisper at night time and send them off in the hot
For you to tell me come daylight
Then for us to reboil for hope
One after another
Distilling our dictionaries to their core and answering the prayers
In each other’s soliloquies, speak, listen, step off the stage, repeat, repeat, repeat
Until resilience, then repeat, repeat, repeat, it sounds like a new language to learn from again
On cathedrals that crack
I’m stuck making love to the same mistakes
Playing back memories in stillness.
Watching cathedrals crack themselves until the prayers bleed out and the city that never sleeps
Watches these beliefs come out eyes wide and motionless,
pope-less caught in the glory of a day-dream.
They stare, seeing the shades of purple magic and velvet abracadabra crucified into the crumble of concrete. Despite it all, believe their gods still stand complete.
In awe from seeing the foundations of their thoughts float from religious to rigid to
This city goes on, moving and unchanged.
Even though now its people seemingly unscathed walk with a mouth full of mud.
Even though now its people seemingly bathed walk with a stomach sunk with dirt.
My mouth used to pray out I love yous like it was holy.
The light that used to fill my belly, I now understand light may feel like glory but it is just as airless as foodlessness.
Hunger masked by fullness.
Mud replaced with the revelry of rescue.
My heartbreak hurts like this empty was just waiting to show its face.
This cathedral was waiting to crack, for its empty, but I still watch it dissipate in disbelief.
My belief in our I-love-yous are stronger than the structures falling down in front of me.
I want to mourn you
As deep as I loved you
But first I have to walk in a old city with new bones full of broke
Glass under my toes
Reminders of this rigid religiousness wherever my pupils go
On my cell-phone, my facebook, stanley park or bumble bees
It all just looks like forgotten forests of mercy turned factory far away
An imagined fullness that was always clay and blood
In my stomach and in my mouth
This relentless loneliness
Misses the rhinestones of your body and your humour
And the days we chased obstacle courses and raced crossword puzzles
Having a baby stuffed sloth at the bookstore and teaching him the bible
Of our beautiful make believe, how colorful and contagious, how loud and holy, how hollow and hurt, how skin, how flesh, how mud, how stop sign, how traffic cone, how handshake, how Simon, keep moving as it all crumbles
How it comes out from under you like this magic was meant to be momentary but even knowing this,
It all still feels meaningless.
How keep walking and don’t think
How walk and don’t remember the street corner, the kissing, the cackles
How these shackles pray that a fictional place will rebirth itself one day
Even though the city looks exactly the same
And it is only my mouth and stomach that have changed
The city has cracked like it splits into soliloquies that only I hear
With a mouth full of techno betrayal
And cut throat gospel collapsing
You and I go back to dust for Mars
The notebook writes itself
The love undos itself
The sex wraps itself back up
The jazz and the rap sinks back into your iPhone
I am stuck making love to memories of mistakes
In a cityscape that feels imaginary
Yet bleeding and bare
All at once
I’m at an intersection now
Watching the traffic light at 3:30 am
Though our bodies stopped being each others make believe
And I do not wish cathedrals to uncrack themselves
I still in this moment wish for a
Flicker for a switch off
While the whole city sleeps and I stay awake
So I can watch the prayers of our love bleed out
Sometimes I can hear a sound, like a car honking ten streets down
And despite it all, I hope it is you awake
Saying my name to yourself like a whisper