She sits on a bench at High Park.
It's an alluring fair weather day; her hair shines, competing with the sun. The ancient blue; the waving leaves and flowers; the bird's flapping wings; the atoms of every thing: they are all there, eager and ready to volunteer a kiss on her cheek. How tragic it is though! For she won't even gaze at that collection of Grace That looms, zealously, over the shell of her hands. She stares at her I-Device with once dreamy green eyes that are now revealed dull and unfilled. She's bit the cursed apple; Her soul got trapped Into a 4.7 inches sapphire glass display screen. She's become a mute, a ghost, an animated version of her current self: a Facebook profile. Any passerby would be able to witness Her severe state of affliction: she can't updated her newsfeed and her battery is at 1%! However, despite the angst She knows everything will be fine: for as any reasonable person like her would do, she's downloaded a trendy app called Save My Life. the application will automatically set an ambulance on its way As soon as her Slim User-friendly Pocket baby Dies. The app's developers claim they have the best paramedics on market: They will put you on a scretcher; make sure that you are working properly. But, obviously, not before putting your Smartphone To charge.
0 Comments
It was late Saturday night at McDonalds
and most people were happily drunk or sadly sober and everyone stuck in that moment either were too busy laughing or deliberately ignoring her: the misfortunes of decades had weighed her spine, made it bent and folded. It found support on an elderly walker-- she had embedded plastic flowers and balloons on it; “1 dollar each” she would tell me latter. Her voice was sorrowed yet it carried a tender undertone as she said under the tip top hijab: “I’m so hungry”; “what’s your poison?” I asked. As she replied my first impulse was to think of the yellow baby chicks dying almost instantly, their shapes tossed into a very much efficient machine to transform them into cheap meat. However, just as naturally, spring blossomed out of my chest-lodge when I bought the resulting clumps for a few bucks and passed them to that 68 years old Muslim lady who lived in a shelter and who saved my night by giving me a hug and saying “I love you” twice. The two of us:
laughing into each other’s ears so we wouldn’t have to hear the immigrant blues. All gloominess would volatize as long we kept sauntering south on Yonge Street. Thirty degrees of sun; we'd share a plastic bottle filled with rum as we walked past pubs, clubs, tim hortons and 420 stores. We wouldn’t ever enter them; we could be broke, anonymous and dumb but we had our own doors and our bond was the master key. we'd just need that adopted sidewalk to keep babbling about black holes and bad hoes and the fuckedupness of the countries from which we had left; We'd trace the Torontonian line Jorneying through subject to subject, corner to corner; our enthusiasm driving us on and on and on; Mr. Deep couldn't help but throwing “Ooolalaaa!” to every pretty girl around. We wouldn't quit the chuckles as we went onwards; paving our common ground; down, down, down, down in Down Town. , The Great Great Great
majority is born with the ability to do that and still you were the only one from which I could actually learn how to hang a smile on a soul. I fall fast asleep to my back pressed against it, so I can pretend I still have your bosom p h a g o c y my bones. t i z i n g I had no idea how crucial it was to feel your late-night embrace. I thought about leaving it as a blank page;
you’d read the title and then read nothing. The moral of the history would be that I could actually write a whole book of blank pages just inserting titles like In Absentia I, II, III,IV, (…), so on and so forth, and if I were famous and influential enough I bet my wrinkly balls that some people would still buy it. I might even do that one day but the immediate truth is that I’m still poor and unknown in the past and you’re still ( ) and ( ) in the present and in between us there’s an ocean of I’s never born. No God
no Dog no care no dare no stage no cage no friends no ends no sides no trends no tide no pride no ID no IP no wait no reply no time and plenty of slime: It is stuck in the present by gravity, centripetal force and organic glue as evolution continues. |
|