Frustration

Another night in another smoky bar, music and beer and boys grinding, flirting, strutting. And yet I get lost on the train again, the hunger clawing at my brain with the neon signs in the shadows where I missed my stop, and the throbbing continues. Hard and fast in the night with a stranger. Why do I expect the stranger to care? Sometimes I want it raw, and other times I can’t understand why they won’t hold me; they, the faceless number of midnight encounters. I try to make them meaningful, but sometimes it’s just a fuck. Meaningless in the morning, but focused in the moment.

It hurts to be alone on the other side of the world. Crying silently to yourself when the moment is quiet, and hoping nobody saw. You feel weak. The world is twisting and twirling out of reach, nothing is for certain, feeling depressed. What have I to say right now that would make any difference in the world? It hurts, that’s all I know and I’m tired of it. This loneliness is back, it never goes away. Twisting into fantasy with every passing day. I think I’ve been here before. The lyrics flow like I wrote them yesterday.

Do I know what I’m searching for in the darkness, when I look out across the water and see broken pieces of the moon swimming away? Or when I stand in a quiet moment and look down on the park from above, see the black birds fly like a mob, see the plastic garbage caught in the trees, see the millions of other apartments with millions of other half-hearted lovers like me? What do I know? That love is elusive and tricky and can’t be found in passionate sex. And yet here I am.

Gay Vancouver

There’s four days till Christmas and it’s raining in Vancouver. I’ve got a boy on my mind, and sushi in my hand. A smile and a lingering kiss are on my lips. Last night’s sleeplessness was worth it, so I tell myself as the tiredness creeps in. Traveling by skytrain, bus, walking downtown in the drizzle with my rushed breakfast and leather jacket. This is my winter of twenty-two.

The streets are not so wild in the morning. They are tame and boring. By day, Davies is a gay ghetto, with convenience stores and foreign food restaurants along the strip. Rainbow flags are plastered on every door front, but I find them meaningless. By night, the music in the clubs can be heard, the swank restaurants are calling, the dance floors are dancing to the beat, and I’m there. Buying new underwear with confidence. Knowing I have the power. The city feels like I own it, it’s there for me. Adventure.

I meet up with friends, Starbucks it is. People-watching. People-judging. Shooting the breeze, who slept with who? Listen to my ipod, this song’s the best. Oh my god, that’s horrible! What did you do? You should just forget that guy, he’s not worth it. Did you see his penis at least? I’m a graphic artist. That guy’s looking at me. Ya, I’d fuck him if I didn’t look at his face. That is so not a woman, I see stubble! I want to move downtown, but I need a job. I really like your shirt, where’d you get it? My underwear’s riding up, check it out, Ginch Gonch. I’m so horny you guys! I ended up at my ex’s last night, sorry.

And the rain keeps falling, and the boys keep passing by. Pretty soon we three join them, back on the bus, back on the ferry, back to the island, away from this gay hub. We’ll dream and plan our next Vancouver adventure soon.

Idiot Room-Mates of Last Summer

And the red rage burns in my head as these bastards play their World of Warcraft and rustle in the dark with flashlights waking me up. Death metal is not music. Quit pouring your god-damned ice-tea, if I hear that gurgle one more time I’m going to scream. Stop crunching your Doritos, close your mouth. Slap some more of that aftershave on, won’t you? I love the sound as you pat and pat and pat every single day. Oh yes, and don’t forget to use the hairdryer, it’s better than an alarm clock. Please don’t close the blinds either over the window, bright burning sunlight in my eyes is the best cure for a hangover in the morning. Stupid idiots. Don’t be such a fat slob; you’re stinking up our room. Will anybody clear the garbage, or am I the only one? Let’s not even talk about the bathroom, with piss all over the floor, shit stains on the bowl, and nasty black marks in the tub. Is it so hard to close the shower curtain when you shower, or do you prefer water on the floor everywhere? I’m going to unplug your laptop so you can’t watch the stupid show 24 anymore dubbed over in Korean. Speak English. Don’t be so mad at the world. Respect me.

The Journey

Do I know where to go, where to flow?
The current moves so fast and I am lost again
Are you my friend?
Show me, love me, help me, know me
My journey through the dark
Pink sunset beaches
Red paths beneath the haze
The crashing surf of destiny
That’s where you’ll find me
My ship sets sail and waits for no one
The salt spray pushes the sails
And I’m off on the crest
Pointing towards opportunity
Flash green dolphins leap nearby
To cheer me on, they are friends
And the tears fall like so many diamonds in the ocean
Flickering and flashing in my underwater world
Where the air turns silvery and strange,
Dividing the two seas
The ship sails on above, on due course but I’m among the dolphins now and they share with me their secrets.
Flipping and turning in the deep emerald waves, the seaweed pillars betray a submarine palace with purple and orange jewels pulsing and feeding.
This world fascinates, yet above I see the white foamy trail of the boat
It’s leaving me, I must catch up
And breach the silvery divide
Airborne again, dripping and trumpeting
The journey continues towards a shore as yet unknown
I feel comforted by the enchanted sea and my friends of the deep
I fly now with the birds, soaring and flapping, diving from the highest mast to watery ripples, skimming a wingtip and watching the bubbles appear
This is freedom in a sense, yet I am bound to the ship and it’s destination
I must not lose sight of the ship
Even with shores as yet unseen
But I imagine that those shores will be pink and red in the sunset upon arrival
Waiting for me at long last to disembark and feel the wet sand again in my feet.
I will have returned.

Xibalba

Walking in the dark along starlight paths, the mist swirls and billows in the rusty light and I smell the wetness of the rains. Rays of lightness and darkness emanate from the prickly silhouette of a spruce, caught in the mists and vapors. The air is cool and the lightning is now far off. Above the sky is clear, yet not clear enough. I can see the stars but I know that there are many I can’t see, they are drowned by the streetlights. And a yellow one, Xibalba, is it? A dying star surrounded by a great yellow galaxy, where the Mayan gods go to be reborn.

But I’ll not be floating on a dying tree in a sphere towards this star, this is not my mental journey. My place of solitude exists underwater on a great coral throne, which I float above cross-legged in contemplation. The throne itself is curved, and consists of corals of dark green, purple and blue. The corals are intertwined into one living organism, on which I rest and cry and love. The throne is luminescent, and there are small fish which flit in and out of existence. Flash fire-orange, ice-white, star-blue.

Aside from the fish suspended around the throne, there is darkness. The lights surrounding me pulse and I dance to their rhythms, swimming and twisting in response. It is the music of the cosmos. Dark green and silvery seaweed lightly fans me.

I feel as a god must, as if the world exists only for me. But I know that it does not. I am just a part of something larger, something which I am not meant to understand fully. But I begin to understand, as I visualize the smallest organics and the largest galactic walls, and realize that they are one and the same. Such a resemblance. Existence repeats itself. And there are so many planes of existence, of which I only begin to touch in my dreams. But this underwater throne is my place of solace, solitude, solidity.

Rush back to the misty paths and the wetness under the stars. Down the lane in the glow and shifting of the gases, I hope to see a figure. In this elevated awareness it seems only right that he should appear. I’m not yet sure who. And I paused to consider the dying yellow star and the lure of black wilderness against the lighted paths and ease of routine. Should I return home, head down, plugged into electronic music? Or does the wild intrigue?

And I made my choice known by leaving the lit path and following the yellow star. Looking up again, I see the smear of our own galaxy arc across the sky. I am still afraid, I tell myself. I should like to envelope myself in this beauty and continue further into the wild, yet that’s just it. I’m still afraid. There are cougars and wild things out there, and I am alone with my thoughts. One day perhaps I won’t be afraid, and will continue on, and receive my reward. This spirit is clinging to this body still. One day it will learn the benefits of release. I know it.

My Eyes

You can’t call my eyes blue. They are tinged with green, maybe of the sea. They are wistful and grayish-silver sometimes, just like my hair can be. I look into my eyes and I see longing, and wanderlust. Sadness and mystery and daring. A hint of yellow marks adventure. They are confused yet probing and deep. They change color. Sometimes they are deep greenish with blue if I’m feeling creative, or gray if I’m wistful.

My eyes change with the seasons and the weather. They change like my heart. They have stayed the same over the years, but have grown wiser. They are not so round and full of wonder as they once were, but are more angular now with some knowledge of the world.

I don’t think about my eyes often, but people complement me on them. They are beautiful, they are deep. I thought they were functional. I never realized that they reflect myself to the world. My eyes see many things, but sometimes forget to look within.