Before, my destination


Somewhere before my destination

before the point of no return

and way beyond the place which once resembled home

a couple hours away from cheap motel rented solace and sleepful oblivion

I found a diner on the edge of a forever sunset

The endangered neon sign called it the Mile Post

It had all the attractiveness of too much caked makeup and cheap menthol cigarettes

Even the cockroaches outside were busy getting ready for the midnight grease shift

I knew I’d be in good company soon

This was a spot where the dreams of travellers had come to rest

A sanctuary for endless fantasies filled with steamy drive in make out sessions

Hot california winds spinning pinwheels of dead highway sailors

Drenched in three hour heated coffee and stale sesame seed bun burgers

A Formica fiddlers green, worn down by the thousand tanned left arms of truckers

Ignoring the youthful transplanted tourists who got their first taste of objectivity

They shed their cloaks of ignorance for strange desserts in the desert

Laughing too loud to realize that the best conversation of their lives had just crossed their tongues

They consumed without tasting

I found a wobbly stool at the silver chromed counter, and asked for the blue plate special.

They were out of powdered gravy mix, but at least they knew what I was talking about.

Cheap paperback turning hands delivered a menu and surprisingly cool glass of water

She asked me where I was from.

I said, it’s more interesting to where I was going.

Towards something closer to yourself? Or further away? she asked genuinely interested

-That’s the beauty of found places like this, the more shallow of company, the deeper the conversation.

I winced, trying to stretch out the penanced thousand miles of vibration out of my spine

Rubbing the tunnels out of my eyes until the green and yellow neon blob monsters rewrote my cones

I drank the local water, inviting the rumor powered nightmares into my lower bowels.

The blue plate burned the back of my throat, too many heartfelt burned words stuck there

I promised that once I got the answers to Where I was Going, and Where I came from

I’d send her a postcard

With forgotten 50’s fonts telling her Wish You Weren’t Me but I Wish You Were Here

And maybe a Scratch and Win ticket from the Shambala Gift Shop and Information Emporium

Because mailed marketing promises are cheap

It’s a convenient commodity to ignore where you once came from

She smiled, the apple pie is on the house

I asked her what the view is like.

On the house, does it ever get quiet up there? Could you see the endless stream of lights, blurring together in endless firefly vectors?

She said it’s like peering into an experiment gone bad

Four generations of people looking through their TV shaped windows

They like that TV shape, it tells them bad calorie stories they can eat

They drive mechanical horse and carts consuming oil and gas, farting climate change

But they can’t be bothered to stop

They are too busy in their own heads

Looking for that next spot that reminds them of where they once were

Not really seeing the flowers that cling to the side of the road

But driving over them, and not going anywhere

The view my friend, is too real, that’s why I read cheap novels.

I have to know what the enemy is feeding the masses. Before I feed them.

-That’s the horror of trapped places like this, answering those questions that keep you up at 3AM

There was nothing else for me to say. I tipped my hat, I tipped the cashier, and then I tipped my nose to that spot on the horizon

-That’s the place, not even bottled medication or drink can stop the inevitability of yourself

This place moves you, allows and pushes you

The escape from the old and haunted with a bus ticket

Paid for by snapping those chains, and casting off the anchors of regret

The promise of a new place to excite and fatten my spiritual wallet

Somewhere in the orange glow of Ra’s embrace was where I had to be

The Road, she came with me, not that place inbetween places

But that familiar exciting scary monotonous movement that stretches out your soul

And she smiled knowing what I didn’t,

not where I was, not where I came from

But who I was going to be, when she was done with me

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Fiction pending/Beat Poetry and others…


Currently I have 3 wtiting projects on the go, and skipping between them seems to be working for me. For now. A constant pressure to keep writing is being generated from skipping between the three of them. And I know, that cardinal rule, ‘Stick to one project, finish it.’ Think I have my own procrastination under control using this method. Not in the mood to write on Project A? Then pick at Project B, later on just add a couple of scenes to Project C. Wait, that extra bit in the outline for Project A needs to be added.

See what I mean? Currently it seems to work, only because none of the projects are under any type of deadline. If this was pay copy I was writing, this is what they would call disorganized. For now, it’s a writing workout regimen that seems to be working.

In other writing news, I did not make the shortlist for the CBC writes short story contest. Hooray! This means that you will be subjected to a piece that is (in my opinion) different than my other pieces. I wrote this up in the beginning of November, had a bit of fun with it too. Listening to beat poetry prior to writing set the pacing, at least in the opening sequence. As well, it marks off a sort of transition point in my writing. After this, I earnestly began to write and get a good chunk of my organic writing out of the way, let those words flow, but stick to an outline. It also marks off a spot where I actively challenged myself to write in a genre that I am not comfortable in.

And in all honesty, it is the one piece of writing that I hate the least. I am my own worst critic, but I have decided that the critic will still blab even if I have put my work out there or not. It’s not going to get read if I delete it off my computer, or dismiss the story idea out of my brain.

And for those of you who have not ever heard of Lord Buckley, it appears that Slam Poetry is alive and well in Canada. I attended a haiku deathmatch last night, did not participate, but was a blast when average people off the street (okay mainly the university) can do deadly battle using haiku’s as words. Charles Hamilton hosted up, smacking cymbal with kendo stick. And we were also treated to Khodi Dill’s amazing and brutally honest words on First Nations rights and lack of media coverage. (Just remember, the genocide will not be televised.) It was a lot of fun, and proof that not only poetry, but spoken word is an art that with the help of the indie arts scene and the internet, is well on it’s way for a comeback. Check your local area for Poetry Slam competition, you won’t be disappointed.

I’ve also been looking up more recipes. Explody bottle fun?

Fiction is pending, will post this week, probably friday.

 

Rest assured if it’s not posted up, I’m still writing,

Pearce