Drama On the Balcony

Last time I sat on my balcony, I heard a rustling from behind my chair. When I turned and looked, and saw what it was, I called Jazzy over. She was reluctant, but I persisted.

“Jazzy! Come quickly! Hurry!”

She ran over. “What!?”

“Kitty cat.”


“Behind my chair. Come closer.”

So she did. Nice and close.


She ran back into the house, slammed the door to her room, and stared at it from behind her window. Terrified.

The racoon seemed about as scared as she was. Wide-eyed, and completely surprised to see us. One hellova a thing to wake up to, I imagine – the sight of two perfect strangers with unknown intentions.

So there we were, me, Jazzy, and the racoon. I wasn’t keen on taking on roommates, and I kind of like using my balcony without feeling like I have to ask permission. So the animal had to go – it had to be made to feel very very unwelcome.

“Don’t kill it dad!”

I looked at Jazz somewhat stunned. Kill a racoon? Me? What kind of a dad did she take me for? I’m a big wuss when it comes to being mean. If only the racoon was a computer glitch of some sort – then I could get downright snarly at it. But this creature was furry, and had really big sad eyes.

I rattled some furniture about and the racoon just looked at me, with its head kind of tilted sideways.

“Leave!” I said it with an exclamation mark.

The racoon continued looking at me.

“Go!” Another exclamation mark.

I moved the chair the racoon was hiding behind.

“What are you doing! Stop it dad!”

The racoon made a bee-line for my bbq. Not the bbq! Dammit! I wanted to cook burgers later! I suddenly was reminded of my battle with a pair of pigeons back in Regina. At least this animal was silent.

I resolved to leave the racoon with no shelter, pulling the bbq to the middle of my balcony, slamming the door shut, and watching the creature from behind my window. Jazzy continued to watch from behind hers. Big stare off. With a racoon.

It was still there 20 minutes later. My tummy grumbled. Burgers needed to be cooked. And I wondered what racoon would taste like.


At first I wondered if I thunk the thought out loud, and my daughter was about to scold me. But then I saw it too.

The racoon was moving. Looking for a way out. It crawled down the side of the house and it was gone. It was really gone.

And then I cooked burgers.

22 Hours

Exquisite.  Treacherous.  Tranquility.  Ambivalence.  Admiration.  Passionate.

The view out your window whispers EXQUISITE thoughts to my ear.  You are here beside me, tucked gently into the nook created for us deep within a nest of pillows and red wine.  I can feel AMBIVALENCE coursing your mind, even as your skin inhales my touch.  Some part of you is away from here, where the confusions drain into a pool of enigmatic salt-water purgatory.

There are brief moments where you allow the TRANQUILITY of you and me to wash over the obligatory behavioural conditioning passing for past tentacles presently holding you stationary.  We take each others’ hand and leap blindly into the sky, free falling with TREACHEROUS abandon towards a cold hard reality.

If we could hold each other PASSIONATELY, if we could make ourselves like red hot meteor rock hurling into the atmosphere, maybe we could burn brightly through the surface upon landing.  Maybe we could evaporate the salt-water purgatory, or sear the tentacles, or scorch the obligations.  We could be the light.

We could, but we don’t.  Your eyes smile instead as I read yet another fairy tale about magic and bliss, and happily ever after.  You look upon me and those far off stories in tepid ADMIRATION, and I can’t help but think that someday soon, my special friend, you will become sufficiently bold to set yourself free.

Six Words for Jasmine

Ninja.  Potato.  Eraser.  Smores.  Blender.  Domination.

The secret to Eric’s DOMINATION over the world of POTATO smoothies comes from the mightiness of his nuclear powered BLENDER.

This was your conclusion and I found myself skeptical, yet by the time it was all over, you had once again proven me wrong.

Thank God for the NINJAS is all I can say.  Ten well placed dollars smuggled across the ocean in specially outfitted SMORES was certainly a clever way to engage them towards the clandestine endeavours you had in mind.  I had no idea that you were so well connected.

The world long wondered what secrets lay beyond the high walls of Eric’s fortress.  You were the only one who believed in the mission.  Zealots claimed religious jurisdiction over the mystery of POTATO smoothies and their robes totally clashed with the season.  No one should wear white after Labour Day.  You felt strongly that something had to be done and you did it.

Like an ERASER to the chalk board, you made the zealots disappear.  Secrets spilled.  Mystery solved.  Nothing more to it and what can I say?  I’ll never doubt you again.

Six Words

Deconstruct. Shelf-life. Wood. Flood. Screen. Thirst.

I look inwards, deconstructing myself.  I look for motivations and imaginations of myself the way I should be.  Trying to see things clearly but these visions have a limited shelf-life.  Conflicting thinky thoughts take over.  I find myself beside myself.  Two beings.  Two stirrings.  Two desires for completely the opposite of things.

And then you kiss me and I feel wood.  It’s a plank across the forehead.  Dizzy spells.  Shaky knees.  Wood.  I breathe you in deeply and suffocate the me I was before.  Virtuous me drowns like a phantom memory.  Like something that didn’t really exist anyway.

And then I get to wondering, with all that flood of fantasy, excitement and dreams – was it really you?  Was that really me?

I look in the mirror for the truth into things.  Screen.  Opaque screen.  Nothing reflects back and I remember truth is merely a belief about certain kinds of facts.  Live half my life behind that screen.  I watch you undress behind that self same screen.

I close my eyes and I see you in dreams – but not those kind of dreams.  You’re wearing a Viking hat and riding a bicycle passed my street.  No acknowledgment from you that I’m even there.  It’s all pretty surreal and I get the thought in my mind that it’s all pretty surreal even at the most conscious of times.

With that, I figure so much of my conflict comes from imaginations of my own construction – and I simply thirst for more.


There’s a man on the top of the hill and it’s been so long since he got there that he can’t remember anything else about anything else except being there.

There’s a man at the bottom looking up, wondering what’s up there, wondering if moving onto higher heights of perspective will really be worth all the effort.

There’s a woman in the aether somewhere for both of them, and they’re pining for her.  Love raises them up.  Love drives them down.  Love turns their guts around.  Love sets them off to the highest bliss.

And nothing else really seems to matter.

Penultimate Nonsense

The fundamentalist grip upon ‘right’ and ‘wrong’, ‘black’ and ‘white’, ‘grey’ and ‘medication’ slips away when stirred with synergies of a nature that makes the practical functionality of a subtle hip gyration paramount to the infused sexual confusion overwhelming my ability to think with the clarity required to know what I’m even talking about.  I look towards you, stirring in my dreams, bookkeeping my books with a prudence and cool discipline reserved for naughty secretaries, and that time I spilled my coffee on the coffee shop floor looking down your shirt.  I therefore challenge you to a duality upon a plane or a train or a trip through a far away place, far away from this reality, and these obligations, and that particular problem over there.  One final penultimate trip with my finger tip and the skin rounding your hip, meeting in a place that makes the fundamentalist grip upon right and wrong, black and white, grey and the means by which we live.

Properly Considered Decisions

You and I are standing in a room.

ME: So… do you want to go out with me?
YOU: I’m not into ‘dating’.
ME: No.  I meant outside.
YOU: Don’t know.  I’m terrible at making decisions.
ME: The roof is on fire.
YOU: Yes.  Indeed.  That is a problem isn’t it?
ME: Depends on one’s perspective I suppose.  It’s certainly a negative from our point of view because we may burn to death, along with the rest of the roof and die.
YOU: Unless dying in a roof fire is one’s objective.
ME: Certainly.  However, dying in a roof fire is not my objective at this moment.
YOU: Nor mine.
ME: Good.  However, from the perspective of the person who set the roof on fire, said roof fire would certainly be a positive outcome.
YOU: Provided said individual who set said roof on fire actually set out to start said roof on fire.
ME: Well said.
YOU: I think I need more information before I can render a decision.
ME: The roof is on fire and we’re going to die if we don’t move.
YOU: It certainly appears so, however, are you familiar with Plato’s Cave Metaphor?
ME: There’s a fire in that one too.
YOU: Yes, but that’s not why I’m bringing it up.
ME: Sorry.  Just trying to hurry things along.  The roof is on fire and we’re going to die if we don’t move soon.
YOU: Would you like some tea?
ME: Tea sounds lovely.

We sit down at the table.  Two steaming mugs of tea magically appear.  At this moment a shirtless man walks into the room.


You roll your eyes.

ME: We’re trying to make a proper decision about when to leave this room because the roof is on fire.
SHIRTLESS MAN: Yeah I know.  Set it myself.
ME: On fire?
SHIRTLESS MAN: Yeah.  It was fuckin’ cool.
YOU: Why did you set the roof on fire?
SHIRTLESS MAN: (annoyed) Cuz it was fuckin’ cool.  Wanna go out with me?
YOU: Outside?
YOU: What?
ME: No.  We’re going to stay here and make a proper decision about when to leave because the roof is on fire and we’ll burn to death if we don’t leave soon.
SHIRTLESS MAN: So… do you want to text or something?
ME: Me?

He points at you.

YOU: I have made a decision.

The River

Freedom found herself struggling inside the confines of expectation and status quo, so she ran away.

Insecurity met her with every misstep through a brand new unfamiliar world.  The faster she moved, the more it grew.

Freedom ran for dear life.  Insecurity closed in.  The more Freedom fought, the more insecurity found her, and the more she suffered.  Turning to blind desperation, freedom jumped to a ravine, where a raging river swept her away.

She found herself being thrashed about, kicking, flailing, fighting, drowning, and desperate for air.  This was more than she could handle.  Too much was beyond her control.  She felt the end coming, and in that moment, The River whispered, “let go,” so Freedom let go.  She surrendered completely and The River took her away.

Suddenly Freedom felt herself being carried, compassionately by some kind of force, wrapping itself around her in loving embrace.

She found the deepest drawn breaths.  Nothing could sink her.  Nothing bad could touch her.  Not only that, but she found with the slightest turn of her wrist, the most effortless bend of her knee, the subtlest arch of her spine, she could move at will.  Working with The River’s might, she could navigate and meander at will.

It became a game.  It became fun.  Freedom found herself creatively plotting courses through and around the most dangerous of obstacles rushing towards her.  She became bold and daring, and the more she dared, the more powerful she felt.

In time The River deposited her upon the soft white sands of a secluded beach.  As she basked in the Sun’s warm rays, Freedom turned to the River with gratitude and said, “Thank you for carrying me.  Thank you for your warm loving embrace.  Thank you for your protection.”

The River shrugged simply, as river’s are known to do and said, “Don’t thank me my dear.  That warm loving embrace you felt, came from you.”

Not Thinking About It

It’s only prudent to note the sexual confusion swimming about my brain.  It’s not that I don’t know which team to play for.  My problem stems from not knowing which pursuit to play.  I wanna fuck all the beautiful women out there and then my head and heart intercede.

I’m worrying about hurting myself.  I’m worrying about hurting someone else.  I’m trying to be high minded righteous and all I get is nowhere further down a road that makes any sense at all.  There’s a ghost in my past who haunts me and I dare not think of her for more than some minutes per day.  But then when I’m musing ‘bout others, she’s suddenly in the room with me, clouding the objects of my desires.

This thing clearly hasn’t run its course and of course I clearly need to keep running.  Moving makes me feel better cuz standing still, hoping, waiting, and watching is no way to live.  So I live my life moving, constantly moving, and the only thing that makes me feel better is not thinking about any of it at all.


Chloe with your vowels and consonants all pushed together.  Do you close your eyes at night to see the dreams about yourself looking back at yourself looking back at yourself?  Whose skin are you in this time?  What places do you imagine yourself being?

I caught a glimpse of you in passing.  You were standing at the window, thinking about the next big thing.  I could tell you were thinking that cuz I was thinking the exact same thing.

It’s just a matter of closing your eyes and jumping blindly methinks.  We always land on our feet.  Just never where we expect.

I gotta run now.  Got a ferry to catch.  I’ll pass you on the way back.