It Started In A Garden

It started in a garden,
I read it in a book,
The ink was pressed down soil,
The pages made of mulch.

An evacuated aroma,
The pungency of sound,
In the garden where things started,
To be permissed or disallowed.

And the flocks that would unravel,
Down uncharted consequence and time,
But let’s all remember gardens,
The stadium of life.

Janitorial microbes,
Dusting off apparent dust,
So clever and yet guiltless,
And deserving all our trust.

The unity perceived,
Feels so sacred and so whole,
One might feel inspired,
To take up a rural pen…

And share what feels as though
It could be delivered from above.

I yelled to my friend,
“What did you say?”
And he said something about God.

Contextual Evaporation

I was beginning to realize that syntax would do nothing for me if I couldn't seek out context to wrap everything around. Context was the most dying aspect of my life. Nothing mattered. Words came from everywhere with no purpose or direction, they passed me by in the wind. I wouldn't remember them because the moments were never significant. I was alone, losing my irrelevant memories for all their irrelevance but losing myself too. Wanting to remain, here, myself. Feeling myself get pushed along with the wind that refused me to couple my words with context. I could say anything to no effect. I could say everything for no reason. I wouldn't. I didn't. I did it less as hope vanished. I typed fervently to the none-audience. I stared at my hands angrily. I can`t relate to people, or vice versa maybe. I don’t want to. Or maybe vice versa. I want to see a Nissan Versa get smushed in a vice. Or vice versa. I want to be excited about life. I want to be appreciated, I guess.

I just watched a bunch of Tosh.0 on another Sunday morning of waking up to lonesome boredom and consideration. I don’t even think I like the show, except it makes me laugh sometimes. I don’t want to get onto my ethical high-horse but of course some of the jokes are too much. I laugh at a lot of them. The videos that get shared on the show observe some sort of twisted spectrum of human indecency. All seven of the deadly sins appear to be showcased by these grim wielders of technology (I analyze everything through the lens of the Old Testament so as to lead a life free of fire and brimstone). Everyone is shameless. Mr. Tosh's jokes are too quick for the laughs they provoke. I would hate to be in an audience laughing at stuff that I didn't get. I'm slow though anyway. The show is a celebration of the evaporation of context in a world that is becoming too busy for itself. It is a celebration of entropy I guess. Temporarily suspending my own critical voice while I observe these absurd spectacles, I wonder what good is it that I do so? I remember, I forget.  

Office.

Pop culture speaks,
Policy wreaks,
The status quo shall Starkly
sway,
new thoughts we`ll create today.
Old imagery will make new
moments
Interpreted by brave
opponents
Trying to see cause and
effect
To evoke change for more
than just a sec.
To be noticed here in this
empty place
By the empty ones who are
just like them
Who are just like me,
Anonymous scribe,
Boring myself to stay alive?
I`m so confused by what I
am,
And the future, and the
me it has then.
And I hope that in this one
example
My deftest fingers keys do
trample.
And leave imprinted in the doc,
The darkest copy, for the
one-man flock.

Indubitable, Undeniable- The Double Entendre

Which entendre was intended?

A blushing, blazing remark descended

Upon a room of cold stone faces

Allowing our speaker to demonstrate this

Uncanny notion from bewildered heart

That meaning arranged is unknown from the start

From intenders attendantly brandishing wit

To receivers with clasp`d hands who uncomfortably sit

Insistent intendants who are stuck on the merit

That lips utter stuff in an effort to be apparent

Coffee Shoppe

A random poem

With thoughts in mind,

A scrawny rhyme

To pass the time

My bag beside with

Books doth bound,

Suppressed within the

Bloodless hound,

The cavernous conquest,

The treachery unblemished,

The thoughts once

Accepted are now what we protest

And such is the

Course and against

Grains cut so fine,

A tawdry expression

To pass the time.

A Thought on a Tragedy

  Without entrenching myself too deeply in the context of what I am about to mention, I will begin by saying I was very disturbed the other day, and it took me very little effort to become so. I was drawn to click on a link from one news page to another, and was suddenly faced with the blank face of a 14-year-old-girl. This girl became pregnant I suppose around 9 months ago. She told no one, and apparently hid it from everyone including her parents whom she was living with during the past summer, in which it was hot outside. It was a year of significant drought.

  

  I'll be as brief as I can. This young girl went into labour on her own and gave birth to the baby in her bathroom. The baby was alive, and, terrified, I would imagine, she killed it.

  I've had this in my head for about a week now, and I am now reasoning with exactly why that is. It creates a picture in my mind that is pure sadness and I don't know how else to really explain it. In a way, it reminds me of a bit about Ernest Hemingway that I heard on the radio. Someone once challenged Hemingway to create a story using only six words, and so he said, `For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn.`

  The young girl who killed her baby reminded me of Hemingway's writing, because he often wrote delicately about terrible things. What isn't said is often what really stands out. With this tragedy, I wanted to keep it to myself and tell no one, because who am I to share such a story? I ended up telling my mom. I wanted to know what she thought. She cringed when I described the nature of the delivery, and I could tell that she really empathized with the young girl.

  `She must have been so scared,` said Mom.

  The story is so tragic that I can`t really think about it directly. Only backwards through a mirror upside down sort of thing will do. I glanced around and sighed. `I hate that I know this and I hate that I am fretting about it. It is just a horrible thought.`

  Mom said to me the inevitable when she detected fervour in my tone: `Why don`t you write something about it?`

  I responded: `Some things you just can`t write down, because they are not meant to be showcased.` Again I thought about Hemingway.

  `How about a poem?` she asked.

  

  I shrugged. To delve into a gruesome tragedy such as this and then attempt to wax poetic sounded utterly monstrous. I would not be entering this into the medium of poesy.

  `How about a poem from the baby's perspective?`

  I shuddered. That seemed even worse.

  `Maybe baby forgives mum.`

  And I began sobbing. Humans take care of each other. This girl felt so alone that she couldn't reveal her pregnancy to anyone. Maybe, somewhere out there, baby forgives mum. Maybe someday, she will forgive herself.

Heaven`s Garage (a short story)

  The can made a sudden, dinging clank sound, and Tristan jolted in surprise. `Jesus Christ!` he exclaimed gruffly.

  Unbeknownst to he, Jesus was up in heaven`s garage. It was extremely nice. The cloud cars hovered in place at the edge of the vast cavern. It was incredibly huge, matching in size the metropolis of New York. That is the size of heaven`s garage!

  Jesus, now long dead even after His brief, though exhilarating, resurrection, was just chillin` in heaven. There He was allowed to negotiate all of the powers of His immortal father, but He was very minute in His displays of superiority. That is, Jesus only dealt with one person at a time. He took His time, in life, and in death. He was compassionate. He suffered. He thought it no crime nor sin to prank living humans for eternity.

  Today, on this specific day, He was taking a specific turn at 11:14pm or so, Ontario time, just to mess with Tristan. How the Emanuelle guffawed when His mortal pal jumped two feet in the air and even exclaimed the Saviour`s name in vein to boot!

  His pals laughed with Him up in heaven`s garage.

  Matthew was there, eyes always on the global economy, always wondering why the world seemed to linger on the brink of depression whenever he thought it prudent to meddle with the affairs of humans. The once prominent tax collector had for instance attempted to induce a world-wide system of borrowing and debt over time, even though most associates of heaven are not allowed to contact Earth, only view it.

Paul would just sit there writing, just wondering what the Corinthians would say if they knew about what went on in heaven`s garage.

  Sure, Matthew may have been the worst, but Jesus`s pranks were just irrelevant most of the time, especially for a resurectee of such high regard. Lazarus in heaven, for instance, had made a name early for himself following his post-resurrection death; he was the one who chopped wood for the folks of heaven, so that the flames of eternity were constantly aglow. But a spilt glass of milk, a surprise step in manure, an unexpected ding from expanding air within a sealed container... Jesus lived his life to create moments of humourous shock, jolting His mortal flock and simply revelling in the results: He thought them hilarious. Meanwhile, Peter would just sit around and eat nachos.

  Ding! Jesus laughed again as Tristan moved uncomfortably in his chair. Tristan telepathically pictured the scene from his own place in Stouffville. He smiled.

  God had long ago relegated Christ to the garage of heaven, for He had seen what Jesus was doing to the people of Earth.

  `Like an irrelevant Candid Camera,` He once chuckled before eventually snarling at His son: `GET OUT OF MY HOUSE JESUS CHRIST! My refuge cannot be yours. Chill out in the garage for eternity. Eat whatever you want. There`s a futon out there, undeniably preferable to a cross.`

  Jesus looked indignantly at His dad. His sort of mortal life had been an iridescent speck upon the plain of Jerusalem. His tortures had been despicable; He wondered often Himself why the tortures had lasted so long. Why had He not died earlier, before the cross for instance? It was all bad, but Jesus had admitted to Himself immediately that the cross was the worst.

  He didn`t think it problematic to ignore the actual issues of the now gigantically populous planet upon which He had once existed, now transparent and ethereal, observing His various followers and descendants  with amusement and vague concern.

  God had long ago retired to heaven`s Living Room, Him alone in a room twice the size of the existent universe.

  The other hundreds that lived in heaven lived elsewhere on the estate. Christ and the Apostles usually chilled in the garage unless Peter shambled into the kitchen for more nachos. Once or twice, Doubting Thomas had slunk into the spacious Living Room just to see it for himself. The Old Fellow, not unaccustomed to violence, had immediately backhand slapped the intoxicated skeptic and said, `For Christ`s sake get out of My Living Room!` Thomas would always stunned-ly remove himself, shying away in a frenzy of disgrace and reserve.

***

  The can dinged again and Christ this time sneered, though Tristan had already written all of this down.

He was thankful that it had happened and considered himself a good fellow.