Ed Said.

Ed said: the note of G, the color red, one earth day – twenty three hours and fifty seven minutes – are all born of the same harmony. C sharp and blue-green, one earth year – the same.

The harmony of sound and light and time and being all wavering at equal frequency.

The chakra a grounding force of connection and earth energy; the slowest vibration an earth toned root; the fastest, a tidal pull in and out.  

Ed said: the alpha wave, the awareness of you and me and the world around us – exists as an energy field.

So, let’s get lost, let’s fall off the hook, let’s touch the vibration, let’s get held in the sound: sound, which came before music, before language.

The simplicity of the echo of time: the mallet to gong a tangible vibration telling stories of settlement and struggle and triumph and change.

Deliberate and slow, Ed said: do you hear it, the hook of tempo? Can you feel it, the vibration of experience? Can you see it, the reverberation lapping like waves?

It’s the sound of healing.

xoxo,
M.L. H’art

Supernumerary.

We talk about pets and god and art and memory.

The philosophy comes easy and when he says to me, it’s like I’ve known you all along, I laugh but don’t talk. The words, they’re not tongue-tip close, and the giggle, it bounds up out of my throat before I can slap a hand over puckered mouth, lips quavering in a smile long ago forgotten on late nights alone when, through anomalistic months on repeat, from perigee to apogee and back again, the moon lit cracked floorboards of lonely bedroom late.

He says: you remind me of a song and make the morning better even without coffee and tomorrow we should do it all again because this is the way it’s supposed to feel and, ignoring internal somersaults shaking up breakfast, I say: please, yes, please, the words an awkward waver in a pitch of voice I’ve never heard tumble out of my own mouth, three syllables barely discernable, words stuck.

A slow fade into patterned bed sheet flowers where touch transcends talk, I am chameleon purple and blue and gold and gone so far. Behind inky night-cloak draping closed lids, dream and wake melt, puddling between bent limbs and rumpled sighs.

Puzzle perfect, loop to fit indent, a tessellated match made. The asperity of the past infinitely smoothes out in front of us, learned lessons of lost love shelved for another day, a rainy day.

The supernumerary of us exceeds expectation.

xoxo
M.L. H’art

Wahton.

Waiting.

in line, too long, impatiently.

Wait for.

your turn, the weekend, it.

Wait until.

The Call.

Hello, she says, hello how are you feeling? Have you been well? Sorry for the wait.

The wait: stationary readiness and the hold of expectation; a pause – please catch up! Be available, attentive and attending – be ready to realize the unrealized.

The result?

Inconclusive, she says. The results, she says, well, they aren’t enough.

You see, the cells, the ones scraped out of you, are diluted. All wet with fluid and inconclusive. It’s likely, she says, it’s nothing. No need to worry, really. But it’s always best. Best to get a second opinion.

Second opinion, differing point of view – an alternative solution.

Surgery, she says. It’s a possible solution.

Steady handwork, manual extraction, the deep sleep before the slice.

The excision, she says. It will be an excision.

Excision. Resection. Exorcism. Exorcismus.

Out, out foul spirit.

Swapping letters, Catholic school girl habits reaching for the rosary. Please god…

So, she says, we’ll see you again in just a few weeks time. Till then, just relax and…

…wait.

xoxo

M.L. H’art

Phasmotor

Driving the highway late at night, I collect souls.

Pushed between the crevice of rock and hard drop, I find Felicia: whitewashed wooden stakes bound with weather-beaten fabric flowers, a cross bearing the moment she steered astray, drunk eyes guiding bald-smooth wheels of the sienna-rusted Taurus right into the mountain wall, brains and best intentions sprayed across mother nature’s back step.

Atop the bridge ledge, Sam: a photocopied picture of cracked smile stretched across nicotine yellowed teeth, eyes dull, blurred colors ruined by rain – an ode to the last time he jumped, free fall open sprawl, toward the river rush of rocks.

Cassidy, a wilting blue teddy bear tied to the stop sign with peeling yellow twine on the highway one junction straight out of Hell’s Gate, her two year old body a rock through the windshield, papa asleep at the wheel but still alive to, each year and on the same day, strap another bear to the same sign to mark another missed birthday cake.

Rick, withered and sad – his mouth prune wrinkled, eyes crow-scratched – the catalyst of a four car pileup disguised as a picket sign shoved into soft shoulder ground, his name carefully stencilled in his wife’s perfect scrawl, reminding motorists of future tense to please drive carefully, to please keep hands on the wheel at ten and two, not up the skirt of the late-night mistress who’s name the wife never knew.

George, the overnight freight runner whose ticking-time log book kept beat to a depleting savings account when, assets seized and family starved, his addiction to the red-blue-green glow of video lottery terminals became the last push he needed to send all 18 wheels over the canyon lip, his great descent a scrambled attempt to right too many wrongs – the only show of his sad life a bent guard rail, the broken headlight glass a monotonous prism catching moonlight.

Felicia and Sam and Cassidy and Rick and George and me, we drive all night. We wave to other souls hitching the long length of the one, the five, the two, the 97, the long trip home when, tucked beneath sheets thick with sleep, my own soul sighs and says: here, for another day.

xoxo,
M.L. H’art

Eleven Syllable Escape.

Passing you by – your feet sinking deep into downtown pavement, eyes fixed to shell toed shoes counting careful steps – I barely recognize you.

Thin hair drops in limp lines from scalp to shoulder, spreading greys steal strawberry shine from lengthy locks, locks which used to compete with the sun. Your mouth is exploited by sad lines, deep imprinted tears in sallow skin dyed the color of nicotine. Matte mouse eyes skitter about tired lids, the whites yellow, the yellow fissured with splinters of bloodshot stress.

You’ve widened since I saw you last, hips a spill of squishy surplus, button and jeans fighting to stay together.

Turning, wizened fingers wrapped in paper thin skin reaching for my shoulder, your mouth a cracked red raw O, you say: hullo, girl. How’s your pretty life?

A sideswept chasse and I miss your grip, my hesitant smile a defensive apology for your attempted touch.

Again, you say: how’s your pretty life?

I scrunch my eyes, look you over, try to find the you I knew way back when you used to smile and shine, your packaging still smooth and store-front sexy, your laugh like rushing water, gurgling, bubbling.

Good, happy: I say.

Fidgeting hands smooth a hand-knit tunic over threadbare jeans as you chuckle, the sound of desperation like wheezing sand paper. Yeah, you say. Me too.

You flick a fired butt, the ember grazing paper skin – a quick ignition close to setting you aflame, your widened rack a torch.

Awkward pause, a beat too long, and I think of all the things I’d like to say:

Remember when we sat up all night and laughed until the moonlight cracked to let the dawn in?

Remember sitting on the kitchen floor in the first apartment we shared, eating spaghetti off one green cracked plate, red sauce splashing linoleum only we were in charge of cleaning?

Remember the friends, the drinks, the parties, the fun, the fun, the fun – the fun that poured so easily out of you, the unstoppable, beautiful fun?

Standing, your shoulders a horse shoe slump, I cannot find the you I knew way back when; the hardened turtle shell is hiding the you who used to be and so I don’t say the things I’d like, but instead say:

Great. Okay, then. Was nice to see you. Take care!

Faux enthusiasm, an eleven syllable escape and you’re gone from my memory again.

xoxo

M.L. H’art

Dressed up in Awkward.

Held together by safety pins, I secure straps of an ill-fitting shirt to that ratty old bra I promised you I’d retire but kept because it goes so well under everything I own, regardless of the underwire protruding white satin, marking indents on soft tit flesh.

I fidget in a room full of strangers, tugging at fabric which doesn’t breathe in summer heat but instead traps sweat, pooling beads of insecurity at the small of back, bleeding through fabric shrink-wrapped to that unseemly swatch of small hairs collected at the nape of spine, a bunny tail.

Shoes, weather-worn faux-leather, stick to swollen pads trapped in pools of stench I’ll apologize to the cat for later when, at home and alone, I slip off the smell and wash toes outlined in sticky dark dirt under bathroom taps which drip-drap into the chipped porcelain sink I neglected to rinse the last time I perched on the edge of the bathroom counter, feet sunk deep.

Bumping the shoulders of these strangers, I order another drink and, with a mighty gulp, shush the rush running laps round my brain as I strategically balance the energy of a room off-kilter. I check my cell again and again and again to look real important, phone face casting eerie blue glow on heat-flushed cheeks, a trick of light making my face look less cordial, more gelid.

Like a lost puzzle piece, I can’t find a fit: shirt too sloppy, shoes too tight, gaze too long, laugh too loud.

Dressed up in awkward, I finger the hole in my back jeans pocket and pray it won’t rip wide to show the sheath of bubble gum pink panties, a little girl playing dress up in mom’s clothes, hiding the stuff of childhood under layers of makeup and lace.

We exchange pleasantries: the rehearsed social motions of hullos and well-thank-you’s and you-know-the-usual’s. You pretend you care because you caught my eye: an obligation to the too long stare when, after you looked away, you realized there was no one standing beside you to goad into conversation and so, without a runaway lane, you’re forced to suffer through the robotic dance: left hand motion hair swipe, right cheek lift half smile, gaze down 4, 3, 2, 1, and up, maintain eye contact, break left, side step right foot, indicate exit, half hug (right arm over left shoulder), two pat reassurance, turn, turn, turn and…cut.

I repeat this dance with 12 other partners – the motions more fluidal the darker it gets – when, after having shed the last of the reserve energy, I nod in your general direction, bid my leave and think what a relief it is to swallow the starry night on the long journey home and not ever have to tell you how discomfited it really was to see you that way.

xoxo

M.L. H’art

In Somnolent.

Holding sleep in the palm of my hand, I pull closed tired joints, each knuckle choking one more hour.

A hint of night light paints dancing wolves on white walls – the snarling silhouetted pack surging forward, pulling back: a sympatric shimmy, tree leaves making me believe I’m being hunted.

A sway in starlight and the man enters my room. He’s been here before, the stench of his dark trench coat a familiarly sticky scent of dank earth and rusted blood and dried skin.

The shadow bird perched on the closet door quavers: he has a knife, little girl. Be careful, little girl.

Heart knocking ribs, crouching under covers, arms clamped to wobbly knees, eyes pressed closed, sharp blows of breath heave heavy lungs – puffing away shadow puppets playing amygdala tricks.

A negotiation between conscience and imagination, the wolves retreat and the bird stops singing but the man, the man draws his blade. Refulgent metal catching moonlight, his silver sharp tongue licks slick shank.

On theatre walls of bedroom late, drips of backlit blood run a slippery wash over white paint, soak into threaded carpet, rise past dusted baseboards, spill over well-worn chair covers, splash into dresser drawers ajar, creep to the edge of the bed and, lapping at bare phobic toes curled, stain sheets, a blossoming claret bloom spreading over pillow shams, dying nightgown hem.

It’s been days since I last slept.

xoxo,

M.L. H’art

His Old Apartment.

In the back of the closet for 87 years, his life: layered between cling-wrapped bedsheets fresh from the cleaners ten years previous, four crisp, uncut sheets alternating green, black, green, black of Canadian mint one dollar bills; standing between big band pressed vinyl, a forty year yellowed history of National Geographic, heralding new age space age on spines uncracked, covers unbent; tucked behind stale liniments and powdered pill boxes with peeling labels, one pair women’s earrings – gold and emerald sparkling in dull light.

Photos, yellowed and peeling, tucked between unread book pages – scenery blurred by tour bus windows, landmarks and rayon-clad tourists crowding the lens, him riding a desert camel, a skinny sepia smile spread across youthful lips; a sock, tired and threaded, full and pushed to the back of the mahogany drawer, a numismatist’s dream of collected international currency: one coin for one memory; a single postage stamp floating on the shelf, glue dried and flaked, a memory of the shadowed sore spot lacerated on the postcard fallen to the floor, faded words: wish you were here, in cursive scroll.

The liquor cabinet, a passport: tequila, ouzo, sake, scotch. Etched shot glasses, engraved gold chalices, frosted martini glasses – dustbowl passages to old boys’ club deals, when handshakes and paper napkin signatures were the stuff of good business; bank notes and promissory titles on rice-thin paper, faded from forgetfulness.

A scratched mint tin with loose lid, inside the letters R.C.A.F. etched into the wings of lapel pins; a pendant, heavy with time, of a boy kneeling at an alter, the year 1938 inscribed; a locket, inside the photo of a man, young and tanned, smiling and sure.

A blue steel tool box housing crescent and socket and open end and monkey and pipe and torque and mole wrenches, original price tags affixed in place; unopened packages of screws, uncapped glue, unbroken seals on caulking tubes.

A fishing rod, a camping tent, a mosquito net, two kerosene lanterns – all forty years new, all unused.

The apartment: a front.

In the top drawer of the bureau, a stack of photos carefully tucked between the folds of a letter: the locket man in Palm Springs, in Greece, in Japan, in Hawaii, in England, in Vancouver, his beauty of youth a shifting timeline, young to old – the evidence of a true love kept in the back of the closet for a lifetime.

xoxo
M.L. H’art

The Jackhammer Waltz.

Machine gun rattle, the jackhammer bullies each one of my slippery dream thoughts hard into the spring-wet pavement. Sunlight vibrating the length of each rat-tat skips through the cloudy window. It is morning and I am red-wine dry. Smacking stained lips, the sheets shush and rustle as I turn over and over in the covers – a twisted game of hide and seek.

I share my first cup with the construction workers four stories down – leaning against the coerced chain link fence, it bowing under their weight, they raise their indestructible faux-titanium travel mugs their wives and girlfriends wiped out and refilled just that morning as a half hearted cheers when I step out onto the balcony.

“Morning boys,” I mutter, sticky morning breath swirling steam above the lip of my pink mug.

Skyscraper blue glass bounces stretched rainbows of Saturday sun across tired city streetways. A lineup trickles out the door of Money Mart, weekend tired warriors rubbing grubby mitts across crinkled foreheads, eyes squinting back early light, creased post-dated pay checks shoved into flannel shirt pockets.

Trundling traffic takes corners with less urgency. The lights shift slower. No one honks.

Like the sound of wind chimes tickling the backdoor of grandma’s house, the tink of green glass shimmies up the drainpipe. The calculated sorting of glass versus can has begun; the tchick-tchick of shopping cart wheels on winter-worn back alley pavement a race of rattled metal over uneven cracks.

Batonning the fan-belt crescendo screech, I conduct the moving echo of sirens cascading up and down, up and down. The concrete symphony swells and wanes on the dew-wet lips of wind, a compliment to the bellowing chorus of construction holler.

Keeping rhythm with the smacking steps of flip-flop clad feet, the song of spring has arrived downtown.

xoxo,

M.L. H’art

Bite my Thumb.

I toss the butt of my cigarette on the lawn of the Fort Knox Methodist Church and bite my thumb at God.

My mother – she did not raise me to be spiteful, but I am angry for no reason.

Frustrated at the sun shining in my eyes, I shuffle another smoke from my pack and fumble the lighter from my pocket as I cross an intersection without looking both ways, causing a white rusted work truck – gas cans and loose wrenches slamming to the front of the bed – to come to a quick stop.

I am immortal on days when the wind is just right and it’s not so cold and the perfect tune pumps through the cheap ear buds I bought on sale – the same ones that, if not sitting just-so, shock my ear drum with enough electricity to make me swear out loud on the street corner – the days when I understand, you and me, we’re not so different.

Of course, your past, it’s not quite the same storyline – yours is glossy pictures and sappy songs and saved birthday cards and glowing memories.

I am jealous – mine is cocaine hangovers and morning after bruises and tear-wet pillows and “I’m sorry” two minutes too late.

Your new girl, I bet she’s pretty – after school special pretty, all blond hair and cute giggle and pretend morals. I bet she’s popular – teen magazine popular, all Friday night parties and saved lunch room table and doting offers: “let me, babe.”

I bet she’s boring – wet cardboard boring, all uninterested in learning, experiencing, living, laughing. I bet she’s easy to please – bobble head nod: “oh yes, if you want to. Oh I don’t care, only if you do.”

The doormat I wipe my feet on.

**

Down on the platform waiting for the train, we are all performers.

I pop my coat collar and stand wide legged, straight backed and take inventory.

New shoes and old coat, he paces back and forth checking the time again and again – a big rush for the long wait when, at the end of the date, she’ll say: “let’s just be friends.”

Androgyny perched on the edge of the bench fights the urge to cross legs, ankles, fingers – stay cool.

Hardass twisting bent baseball cap left, right, 180, 360, he can’t remember which train’ll get him home.

Student, lonely nose shoved in book, salty fingers shovelling cheese chips between raw lips, nervous mouse eyes jumping back and forth and back again, she’s wondering if she’ll miss her favourite late night true crime drama.

The train blows in and we all scatter – our performance interrupted by life.

**

Shambling away from my stop, I walk head down against the wind. When I run into you I nearly knock you over, my shoulder a solid thump against your chest.

We head into the bar.

The awkward hello: a crisscross of words over the liquor lacquered table, the shine of our consonants bouncing off bar grubby pints. We are thirteen again – second guessing our intentions, wondering if he feels the same way she feels the same way I feel. I am inspired to walk right out the door and not look back because I don’t want to see your puppy dog eyes when I say the words: “it was just a phase.”

You and me, playing the game, we smile and pretend nice – we are sharing our bucket and shovel in the sand before lunch even though I want to push your face into the rotting shore seaweed and make you say “give.”

You hug me and you smile and you say: “I promise baby, we’ll always be friends,” smirking the same way you do when you tell your new girl behind closed doors I am the worst thing to happen to you since your wisdom teeth were pulled.

We order another round. I drink mine down fast, before you even sip the foam from the lip of your glass.

In the morning you’ll remember the fragments of my smell, the shine of my smile, the ratty shoes with the frayed laces I wore. You won’t remember my clever conversation, my witty comebacks, my biting, bitter laugh. You’ll remember the score and the fourth glass and the impossibility of us having such a good time.

I’ll only remember the awkwardness lurking dark and weird in the corner, the one I believe I created.

xoxo
M.L. H’art