Wow. It's been many, many ages since I posted in this journal.

As most of you know, I've been over at Livejournal under the same username.

What I am really here to ask... if there is anyone left here to answer... is that I am still incredibly curious as to what happened to furtive. If anyone has any ideas, please, let me know.

Other than that... I hope to see everyone at LJ.

if you linger a little longer
around the fringes of the flesh
you see the center of my body
stir the sources of unrest;

you may not claim compassion
or jurisdiction on my womb,
you may not speak of Living
while Fallujah fires bloom;

and you may not weep for innocents
or build fences around my bones;
you may not speak of godly hands
while the blood drips from your own.

http://www.marchforwomen.org/

because rivers move deathlike in winter,
carrying cold thoughts and all locked under

the tangled taste of spring water
reminds me of long-dried blood.

ten tears fallen for the cement
highway gone red and washed out
with embers of dissolution and decay:

ten tears fallen for rose-hipped women
clutching portraits wreathed in lilies
for a president to explain:

and a tiny voice behind the radio
crying loud against the wailing of the wind:

well, didn't you just
tell them what to do,
didn't you just
ask for it?

(hate to say we told you so.)

how do you portray pictures of this wounded heart
to set in stone against the hollowness of wooden floors
and the moreso cut-and-cornered sound
of footsteps amidst ruin

well at least you say
i could walk away

but somehow, the splinters always catch
my tired and broken soles.

because the day was not so bright, and yet somehow better than i know, i took the walk of ancient souls, and faced these streets alone. the earth-mothers are practicing, setting fleece and flax against the ending of the world.

and this, they call rebirth.

is this where one discovers most? alone against the springtime winds? is it faced with silence greater than the glaring hole within: to be alone beside oneself is the ending of my ways. the smell of rich perfume and the strangeness of the day.

because there is no shelter, you:

make red sun-mirrors on dead cement
rule the roads with clawed hands
guide children with warnings
writ large in unsheathed bone

orphans given fathers of beat
and battered blades;

forgive the rose-cheeked women.
who, sipping tea and speaking tongues
of silver and liquid gold,

as always,
they (we) do not know
how it is that shadows fall.

tell me one good thing about today
i'll send it back to you, postage paid
and postmarked for evidence
in the trial of failed desires

they'll put you on the stand to say
you were a witness to the way
i sabotaged and treasoned
against the joys that once transpired

(a moment for a mercy plea
the last you'll have to hear from me
i struck me down, beg to be let free
a moment for this mercy plea)

grasping bars of my iron will
prisoner to the bitter pill
i laughed through all my screaming
but the hollowness remained

i lost to what i fought against
never criminal by intent
but somehow i committed something
deadly just the same

(no contest
no contest
no contest
set me free.)

tainted like rivers soaked delirious
with the curse of blue eyes
given over to be mirror-like

i cannot hide beneath the lashes
and instead reflect the world.

(what you have is shapes, sound, and stillness: times like these i pause, forward-moving, to look back for grace best seen in solitude.)

a million fiery swords surround a sleeping head. a million passionate words for the paths of the rich undead. we called them zombies and laughed in sharp and sunny coastal air, the sweat of breaking rhythms and the smell of unwashed hair. the pleasantries of life aside, we unsheath claws and let them bite, let them slip beneath the skeletons that cloak us in whitened bone. the taste of love grows ever sour, a glass left for the funeral parlour, and you, my friend, still sip it until there's nowhere left to drown.

and in flashes lit best by floodlights, i rehearse my part,
to bare for once and ever the portrait of this vicious heart:

'until the end of the earth, i'd follow
that is, that is, that is to say
if you would bid me there.'

fingers pressed against a window, reminders why i walk away. leave safe passages between the spaces, i need sure footing just to make it through the day. we stab knives through plates of old ambitions and longingly, make shapes to suit our needs: destiny and desire, bok choy and aging creeds.

(i sit and bite my fingers, though my hands still smell like leather)

face me before the jury
and the jury beyond me

because you know,
my hands would round the shallow places
with fingers biting deep.

saw you somewhere. there were lights.
i'll recall you to shadows.
remind them of what shines.

these dead and dying paths of ice
will break apart you'll see
so please take a picture -

please take a picture of me

(and you stay four steps ahead of me
you run away, you hide
four steps beyond

alone again with all the things i never said
i suppose for you it's better,
i wish it was better for me.)

touch so gently against the belly, trace a circle round the flesh
with the barren blood of children fallen in the war;
tell stories fit for history, sing songs still fit for time,
built and ever shaped by tiny hands like mine,
with reverence, and not the least, with love.

good girls don't like politics. good girls want to stay at home
but we've raised fists against the world
since the day that time began.

Conan O'Brien is broadcasting from Toronto, the Jewel of the North, starting tomorrow night. TUNE IN AND TASTE THE GLORY OF THE MIGHTY CIVILIZATION OF CANADA!!!!! FOR WE SHALL SOON RULE YOU!!!

http://cwd.ptbcanadian.com/

( How Canadian Am I? )

i am awake when dionysus disappears, clutching grapeseeds for all the fruitless years, and still waiting for the beginning of what is yet to come. the sun slips out of weary hours, claims the dawn that smoke devoured, and stands in cold defiance of the wreckage we've become.

your feet are still alive and tapping, the fitful jerks of habit rapping, beating painful rhythms on the table and the floor. the bottle-wisdom stale and sour, we stumble home and leave our power, the fire that once transformed us into the chance for something more.

and yet, my friend, there's beauty still. there's heartbeats in this ragged will, even as your arms skew walls against the invading of the dawn. i cannot offer you desire, cannot fan receding fires, but in the place of kerosene, please accept this song.

warmed against the wreckage of disease
eyes with all the quality of need
save a minute for the sanctity of time
never ending and returning what was mine

and the flesh creates a sea we cannot feel
defines the world, does not define what's real
but stark, stood out like a wolf among the herd
i reached for all the hope of angry words

(and you, you're never more alive than now, you seem
to make the outside dead for all it means
but the walls will still close in eventually
in the end, my friend, just promise to break free)

but time still moves, we know we can't stay here
inside the breach it becomes a distant fear
four more taps to claim the right to breathe
your dying throes will always capture me

( lyrics by john k. samson / the weakerthans, winnipeg's true poets )

if you are aware
what has been stolen from you
(land, love and liberty);

if you are aware
of teeth bared at midnight
of silken-shrouded allegiances and of misdirection;

if you are aware
of flesh torn and bodies broken
in the name to which you were born;

never let the sirens howl
so loud you cannot face them,
never let the demons play
so viciously you can't beat them

because the future faith in better things
now rests upon your fire.

(godspeed now, and take your country back.)

(begin a moment wreathed in time)

it stands that you have walked the lines
fallen weary against the tearing kinds,
an emissary of our condition,
of the sickness that bears no sign.

black laid into blacker twists,
the gentle curve of weathered wrists,
the setting of the diamond is the curse upon the soul.

if this is what i saw, then,
you are more lovely than you know.

please do not go where the wounded wolves will lead you
do not stray where the flaming eyes can't follow

because as you do, you will walk that path alone.

Here's an interview with my dad from the University of Manitoba's student paper, the Manitoban. A basic introduction to his views on therapy, career, and life in general.

**EDIT** oops, obviously they changed the link, my father is NOT Dr. Lavalee, but Dr. Martin. Unfortunately, they have not archived the article yet... but when they do, I'll re-link it.

*applause*

it seems less vicious than described, this overtaking of the senses,
driven by the moments bathed in time, yet other than consensus

(shoulders set against another. breathing air just like each other)

made strong and silent movements to the shower and the door
promised in wry and wistful sentiments to meet me on the floor

(strands like knives catch between fingers. make the touch and let it linger)

and not unlike reality, you set damp hair evaporating
with all the grace of sanity, i just stood there, waiting

(light the incense, draw the sheets. return to where you promised me. touch my skin and mark my words: you will be the one to fall asleep the first.)

nights like this we set our own distinctions
the hollow halls of irish heroes lack a lustre
granted to the frail and desperate
being the heirs of a long-lost kind of rock'n'roll

and yet, and yet, i think i found it
wrapped somehow in the same word,
"probably"

osborne, star-lit, by grace of poised and waiting winter nights
with sound gone dim and muted against the thickness of the white

...i forgot how perfect this street can be. breaking silence in silent times like these

set against the rock'n'roll and the wickedness in me,
we curled up against the booth, amidst the revelry
spread loud and vivid inside the dire winds
stripping jackets from our backs to react to tales of sinful skin,
we plunge into the night-time like angels do. a choir
a host of young & disposessed (burning melodies like fire)

and at this point, you turned and said
(your voice recalling nights where we laughed until we bled)

what's been keeping you. & you're my girl.

(and you know, at that moment, it made all the difference in the world.)

it was enough, enough they had the Beautiful Ones
placed side by side in the photo
like a party spread for parched and aching thighs

i remember how i used to say,
"but look, how his teeth get brighter every day,"

and no-one could be more beautiful until the olive-skinned one
with eyes of Zion and the loping run
who made me feel fifteen again,
the stirrings of the dreams and fantasyland:

and how i hate this pitting of the wills. how i hate the trite and painted methods of the kills, but i must remember to set my channels soon. because in the absence of a warm and welcoming shoulder, there's no shame in the swoon.

between the stage and frail desire, between the rhythms that feed the fire,
between energy and transparence and the sound of throttling veins,

(still the same, still the same)

you know that when the dawn grows long, when daylight kills the evening song,
in other words when ashes fall, when the silence meets the seeker's call,

i'll still be there for one more show.

and that, my friend, is all you need to know.

attention, fighters
warriors and dreamers

"you now have three months to prepare."

(always call it down when it befits you the most: your benefit as Prime Minister, the leader of the host, but they really say this time that change is in the air. sometimes i confess to smelling it, but i don't believe it's there: we are the nation of the status quo. so whenever it may be and however it may go, i give my strength to those that may, to those with strength to enter the fray, and fight for the god-given right to choose. it is the only thing we stand to lose.)

you say you wanna ride, and you don't even see through my lying diatribe, but you will eventually. and the snow upon the roof that speaks of broken strings, make your music bulletproof when the wolves will start to sing.

and you say you wanna die, and don't you know i feel the same. raise your fist up by my side, smack your venom against my name. there's the devil that we know, and it looks like an hour sheet. still let's play a perfect show, and pretend we're not defeated.

(and sing, sing, confidently, you don't want to fail like me, and live, die, make up your mind, cause you don't want to bide your time and sing, sing, let the words run free, cause you don't want to fail like me)

(make effortless goodbyes seem necessary)

i'm becoming more in tune, more in touch, more aware, to sensations of the finger-feel of knifelike wolfen hair. you're a doll. you're a peach. what is not spoken is thus beyond speech: you cannot presume to know the best of me. i am inside the machine and i am fighting miserably, but fighting nonetheless. you can do more, but will you do less?

shelta: sing and let your voice be heard. turn away from swords of broken words, and remember that the future ends tonight. none of us are warriors. but you must always fight. i leave memories on the table for me and mine alone; we find life within our sanctuaries. they're all we've ever known.

(but really now, why can't you listen? won't someone please think of the children?)