We

You and I,

Sipping slop from red solo cups

Signing songs of love and lust

Under a blanket of twinkling gas orbs.

Ablaze with thoughts of what might be tomorrow.

Our bodies curl into each other.

My desires for future days dribble outwards

Into the frigid air of an optimistic summer night.

You speak of daring dreams.

The skin on my arm becomes goose-flesh as you touch me

And the both of us silently wonder

If that was from the chill air,

Or something more profound.

Your heartbeat tangles around mine.

And as though it was of no consequence at all,

The two of us, become “we”.

 

 

Here we are,

What seems to be

Ten minutes later.

Laden down with worries that stop us from breathing easily.

The baby is shrieking for no reason but to hear itself shriek.

A pile of unpaid bills is tucked away in cupboards,

Away from busy minds.

The two year old just shit his pants

Taking no regard to the hours of toilet training we pandered to last week.

We are tired but still

An hour commute is screaming at you

To get a move on.

However, you can see the smog of panic that just set in

Somewhere above my right temple.

It leaves me teetering on the precipice

Of a breakdown.

You don’t want to come home to find me

In the bathtub bawling with a bin of Ben and Jerry’s,

Again.

We wonder if it ever gets easier.

If we will ever find our niche.

We wonder if “we” are strong enough for this.

Can we make it through?

Can we defeat the doubt that begins to creep in from the corners

When the arguments over family, money, work

Builds this wall between us?

Will it wear us down?

Will it ruin us?

 

 

Here we are,

Sullen and sad.

Looking out over sacred green fields

Holding each other close

Anxiously clinging to memories made

With loved ones now gone but not forgotten.

The rigid crackle of leaves upon stone

Reminds us that life is precious.

Life is fast.

A magpie flies overhead and I look up to you.

Your jaw is ridgid, strong.

Your eyes, like always, are soft.

Without looking at me you reach for my hand.

Hours later, after sermons have been said

And our deepest regards given,

We hold our children close.

Despite them being at the age where that sort of thing is frowned upon,

They hold us back. For that, we are always grateful.

 

 

Here we are,

Bones brittle from years spent existing well.

Our hairs have turned like autumn leaves.

Our lives caught up in photographs

Efficiently arranged in a desktop folder

Named, “The Good ‘Ol Days.”

We sip tea spiked with whisky

From bone china once meant only to be looked upon.

We laugh and cry for days sped past.

We wait for the phone to ring,

But not too eagerly

Because we still have each other’s company.

A dreadful thing that nags at our innermost thoughts,

At the inconvenient times.

As I am reading my favourite Atwood story,

While you are looking up some current event

That spiked your interest.

We try not to think about that future.

It is a lonely idea.

Instead we pluck away through memories of

Bringing up babes, career days, accomplishments

The glory days.

I walk over to you and without thought,

You reach for my hand.

I get goose-flesh up my arm

Just like the first time,

The two of us became “we”.

Watch “Critic” on YouTube

Critic

We’ve got critics.

Cynics in the crowd that are mocking our every move

Peering at us with tight lips, fists that are gripped, and a hat-tipped gaze.

They are reviewing our inherent and unwary ways.

But days pass by and we still carry on.

Even though we are worn

From words, that Mama said would never hurt us

Our purpose is determined

So we will stand strong with courage-

Attempting to be unburdened by the current.

Because we’ve got critics

Skittish mimics who slink along in shadowed places

Picking on races, faith and, well, anything basic.

It makes us brainsick to watch their archaic ways

It could be hysterical, if it wasn’t so damn hateful.

But we will bear it, refusing to fall short

Sorting through the refuge and waste

Until we uncover our own sacred place.

And there will always be critics

Keyboard warriors who stand strong behind

A cyber interface—

A birthplace for anonymous and unwarranted hate

The gateway for nonsense to be transformed into

Plausible weight.

And that’s okay,

Because it’s not for us to berate

We need not be skeptics of this forlorn state

If you listen to one thing I’m going to say

Know that judgement is addictive,

Evicted imaginings from predispositions.

All that is envisioned from our haters own

Sordid inhibitions.

They will try to steal our happiness, our wisdom, our faith

Our unending conviction for our futures fate.

Yet we will choose to turn away

Continuing to plunge forwards in our freethinking ways

The negative haze will not discourage us

Only give us strength.

Because we will forever have these critics

Cynics in the crowd jeering our actions with a hat-tipped gaze

Crazed by the fact that we’ve forged our own way

Using their rules

As our own personal foreplay.

We will be brilliant

The players of our age

However disgraced by those who couldn’t accept the change.

Engraved by some as the outcast

…But by some as the brave.

And the naysayers indeed in the end

Will inadvertently show us what we need to see.

So we beg of you please

To all of our critics

Never quit us.

 

 

 

 

 

Identity Renting: The Illness of Infatuation

The year is 2093- a newfangled fad called Identity Renting is hot on the rise. It is a privately funded program where individuals with enough cash can walk into a laboratory and within minutes become fully immersed into another human beings body & life.

It is typically a recreational venture that lasts 2 to 24 hours long. Participants are said to find the experience mind-opening and exciting.

You can choose to be anyone you’d like that is listed in the Identity Renting directory. The statelier of a person the more expensive they are to rent. One registers themselves to be in the Identity Renting directory. Sometimes they do this for the publicity, or money, or simply interest in the program.

This is one human’s journey through the steamroller that is Identity Renting.

***

Now before I begin- please don’t get me wrong

I love who I am, I love my own song.

But there are some times when my mind

Gets to thinking

And I ponder the possibilities of change and

Re-imaging.

Strange and unnerving when the idea first hits the ear

But truly and utterly, they tell me, there’s no need to fear.

To walk in the shoes of your best friend or foe

To understand what it’s like to partake in diversified flow.

It all sounds too interesting and exciting and neat

The deed of publicity is all-around great.

Yet ominously I hear in my left waxy clogged ear,

Side effects may include- profuse sweating,

Bed wetting,

Everlasting loss of memory, extreme swings of mood and mind

Not to mention the slight change of getting

STUCK in recipients body and living out the

Rest of your days as someone that is not you.

And of course, like always, possible death.

But we live to take chances and try things that are new

So now I will begin to ponder the more important question of who!

Who can I be, who will I chose

To hack into their life to become my VERY personal muse.

I could be as witty as Ellen De G

Or try my hand on a throne as a prominent queen.

I could be mysteriously handsome like the talented Depp

Then no one would think I was a miserable schlep.

What if I could sing notes reminiscent of footsteps,

In new fallen snow-

Creating wondrous imprints wherever I’d go.

With the voice of an angel so sultry and sweet

The attention I’d get would be no difficult feat.

I could be tough- a right bitchy ol’ broad

And no one would mess with me in fear they’d get clawed.

I flick through this directory of thousands of lives

And wonder if the word ‘hijack’ is much too contrived?

Once I delve in to this rapidly unnerving heist

My body too will be hung up, valued and priced.

At any moment I could be caught unaware

Be locked in subconscious while a stranger takes over my stare.

Upheaval would sully my everyday life

Chaos taking over- resulting in nothing but strife.

And for what?

For a few extra kicks?

For a few hours of unaccompanied bliss.

For a rush of triviality. For a rush of the new.

I am willing to toss all that is true?

Because really I am a pretty wonderful catch.

I’m talented, funny, and all around fresh.

I’m bright and adventurous, I’m audacious and cool

And to become something I’m not would make me a

Self-sacrificing silly old fool.

If I am quite happy in the skin that I’m in

To change that would be the most awful of sin’s.

I won’t do it, I can’t! I will be myself and be free

I will live in the life I was meant to be.

But wait…OH NO!

I’ve waited two minutes too late

And I find myself sealed to a table of fate.

Men in white jackets encase me in fear

There are no soothing voices, no settling cheer.

They work with quick fingers- their goal in plain view

As I try to explain what I do not want them to do.

But as hard as I try my words are all mute.

My body no longer is a pristine working engine

The last thing I view in that room

Is a large multi-colored injection.

And as my mind fuzzes over with the influence of preparation

I silently curse the illness of infatuation.