my city is still breathing
back in the saddle


Saturday, July 19, 2003  

so I still haven't gotten around to fixing the template.. sorry.. anyhow, I did get this nice little poem with the weakerthans email that I got last night that I'd like to share with you all.. I'm not sure who wrote it.. although I assume Samson. but really who knows...

Hypothetical

Say you wake up one morning without a language.
Taken away. Stolen by a monster from a childhood
fever for some small slight. You didn't eat your peas.
You find a pen, begin to draw a day of watching
shadows wander towards the door, of smelling the garbage and touching the furniture, pressing your face to the radiator, walking
with eyes open, eyes closed, living without naming. Unnamed.

Say you wake up one morning without time.
That stoner's lament, "Dude, it's just a construct"
You didn't anticipate that there would be nothing
to say. No "Busy," and a sympathetic sigh to reply
to the "How are you's that line everyday with possibility.
Crowds of helpless mutes stand beside their wrecked
cars at intersections, traffic lights pulse black.

Say you wake up one morning without a body.
You miss your hands like a dead friend.
You play their favourite songs, mourn all their potential,
what they held. Make a Missing poster for your heart
with a description and a photo and your phone number.
Find your ribcage full of topsoil in a garden down the street.
Transplanted yellow flowers peeking out.

Say you wake up one morning without the world.
The world leaves you for another, never returns your calls,
passes you on the street like a stranger. All you can
do is eat potato chips, cry, drink warm vodka from
a jam jar, and watch t.v. The National Geographic specials are
especially cruel. Secrets of the Amazon. Plains of the Serengeti.
And tearing up topographical maps doesn't make you feel better.

Say you wake up one morning, or be honest,
afternoon, without your constant fear for what you have.
The season is a verb, and a window is open.
The telephone rings to the traffic and birds. The clock
is broken, blinking, you stretch beneath a single white sheet,
and the world looks like it's about to say something,
but then just shrugs.

posted by kim | 3:18 p.m.|
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