2.2.12

This is a city carved from the block of the Canadian tundra
of whitebread, blue collar rednecks
and filipino immigrants
abolished originals drunk off their ass while white collar city workers crowd the bar at River City to watch the new look Jets get demolished in the same old way
skateboarders and basketballers caged like birds
the only ones who haven't flown south for the winter
this city is barren

yet I feel a faint pulse beating its way stronger through the heart of the city
buried deep beneath forked skating rinks and abandoned dreams
a prairie queen being beaten into submission by years of misunderstanding
quiet pride, threadless but hanging on





1.2.12

Hope smells like ocean air, sifting in from between the seams of slave ship planks.

Hope sounds like scrabbling earth, dull shovel strikes into the soil ceiling above your head.

Hope tastes like dried sweat, salt taping your tongue to the roof of your mouth while the prize draws closer.

Hope feels like push-ups,

and it looks like rain.