Rhadamanthine

Rhada
Man
Thine

 To the world’s

You are scum—
Always have
Forever will be.

Unflexible & harsh,
Sharp like
Mistakes
Plunged through delicate flesh

Paper-thin

Translucent skin

Scribbled
Sentence on—

Sentence—

Words strung
Like pearls around a neck;
Words come undone

A white marble mess.

 Sentense—
Bound punishment
Sanctioned pack-back
For the unforgivable moments
you built your secret world upon.

 A secret world

That makes you now unworthy
Of a human status—

 Unworthy to be
And call

Yourself alive—

 But behind impenetrable bars
Like lines of a barcode
On the purchase of an object—

You become the disposable one.

You are object
Reduced and defined
by the contents
Of your label.

But this is the world—
In you, in I

Exists another

 

A deep, cosmic reckless Power

Whose justice exudes Love
And whose wise judgment
Fades…

 Pale colours into horizon

Colliding and becoming One
With the brilliant hues of grace

 A subversive and

Beautifully scandalous grace.

 This Power
-          The quiet ghost—

Defies laws,
Bars
And rejection

 Opens up and unfolds into you

Already part of you.

 This Voice,

is the quiet one
Who mourned your secrets,
And ached for a revelation
Of flaws turned ugly under light.

 And here you are—

Sentenced and locked apart

But this Power

This Voice, this omniscient Presence
Pardons you

Freedom

 A release

An underserved yet richly encompassing love
That gives you back
the humanity that was once stripped away

 And who whispers softly

Through the thick layers of your shame:

 “I have made you beautiful again”.

 

 

 

The Beast

You found me
in the shadow of the Beast


Bloody and trampled
you pulled me from the rutted earth
and slowly dusted off the pain


Though we always sensed its presence
you taught me to live
as if it wasn’t so near


In its shadow was where we grew
where we became
And where we fell


In its shadow
darkness and cool became
a hiding place
from the world and from beyond.


Tragically you became my sword and my courage
the substance of lies
of which I thought were needed
to slay the One whom we could not name
or even fully see


The Beast was so large
It could only be experienced
in looming fragments
Fragments that would make the ground shake
that would make the sun disappear
Like an eclipse to a reality that both mourned and feared
Its presence.


But the courage and the sword
You became
could not take down the Beast: only love could do that.


You told me it was a choice, not a feeling
And I believed you…
Until I felt the feeling


And suddenly “Choice” became
somewhat of a Beast in and of itself
that grew in the shadows
along with us—


A miniature Beast
that wedged itself deep
into the valve where tender sentiment
once flowed freely through the heart
and to the body.

In Its shadows I hid,
fearful and waiting for escape
waiting for cosmic hands to intervene

And take me
Or It

Death didn’t happen—
It rarely does when you expect it.

So you taught me to climb
To hold strong
To hold tightly
And so I did

Instead of living in Its shadows
I reached for the Beast— its incomprehensible enormity
And climbed
The way you told me I should

I said goodbye
And left you far below
Behind and among the shadows
where we once met

I climbed
Until fragments became pieces
And pieces became one.

I climbed
And as I climbed I discovered
that each realm of this Beast’s impenetrable body
welcomed new mysteries
new fears and old miseries—

With every inch of progress
came a fierce longing to be safe
in the darkness of the shadows
I once knew as home.

I held tight
because of steadfast hope
and because of steadfast despair

I held tight as the Beast tore through forests
I held on as the earth trembled beneath Its forceful stride

I held
As my body
was clumsily and effortlessly
thrown about
Like a wavering blade of grass
in the midst of a storm’s wind

But there was no storm
There was no wind
Only the bitter force
of the Beast’s
rash and violent movements.

And then suddenly,
I felt it—
The sun
The daylight the Beast had blocked
for so many years
was now near


Standing on the Beast’s back,
I now hold my quavering arms to the sky
And cry out


Because no measure of courage,
No number of swords
No power of death
No feat of escape
Could have ever had brought with it
Such remarkable and unparalleled beauty

And here on the Beast’s ghastly and unpredictable back
I am somehow both grounded and safe—

Here on the Beast’s back
I have found a home away from the shadows.

like a lazy Cigarette.

Words hung from my lower lip,
Like a lazy cigarette,
And I breathed out smoke
Because we wanted to watch it spiral
Above our heads.

We wanted to watch it dance,
Like a seductive ballerina
Made of Winter breath.

We wanted to dance alongside her,
Desperate and hurting as we were
We wanted to follow her
Until we ourselves knew
The music only she could hear.

This is why I breathed smoke-
To hear the ballerina’s song.

You asked me to hear it.

You asked me
To slowly exhale into your mouth,
So you could taste
the way smoke smelled.
So you could swallow any secrets I might know
Or hold
So you could hear any imaginary music
That a Winter breath
Might catch.

You asked me to exhale,
Into you
So you could breathe me deeper than before,
So that your lungs, could become mine
As smoke floated,
Like an Unholy Ghost
From one pursed lip, to the other
Like a poison
But with purpose.

I watched.
I watched it pulsate through you, like a thick, heavy
dark poison
I felt as it coursed madly through your already aching veins

In mere moments, your eyes began to see
The ugliness my body hid
beneath thin layers of skin

And now, as the smoke escapes my mouth
The very rhythm of my pulse
Becomes almost too painful to hear.

You scream out,
Because I am made empty
And You have become full
You scream out,
Because you cannot bare
To see, or feel
The creeping burn
Of my smoke any longer.

You ask me to leave,

because the balerina has stopped dancing

and the only music left to hear

is too dreadful to remise.

You ask me to leave
Because I have made your insides
Filthy.

And I have,
So I Do.

Of Insignificance among other Things: Part I

When I'm on airplanes, I don't believe in God.

It's not an intentional disbelief, but rather something gradual- a creeping state

I merely find myself in.

God is in the airport,

and then I leave.

I

Leave.

I leave in the sky and

that's when

he stops existing...

when he has never existed at all.

And in those moments,

the moments

that make my airplane ride a journey

I feel

I become

I am

insignificant

and small.

Land is small.

Home, buildings, places, spaces pass

things

we build and hide in,

work and run from

they become smaller.

Everything is

smaller.

In planes I feel

meaningless

until we land

until foot meets land

until

God meets foot

I am

meaningless.

September 15th 2009

Vomit sat stubbornly in my throat---a sit in--refusing to reconcile, I sat, hugging my knees in a tiny phone booth, in the Union Station. Hiding away in the only small public space I could find. We said goodbye. Still the puke refused to leave-- but I did. and it hurt.

When I grow up...

When I was little Shannon, I had a very very detailed vision of what Grown-Up Shannon would be and look like ( In fact, I held onto this vision from pre-school 'till highschool...maybe even later). In this vision I would, undoubtedly, be a highschool teacher. (All part of the plan, until last Fall). Notably, according to my early-aged goal-orientated -life-plan, I would officially be a grown-up upon graduating teacher's college at age 21, where merely weeks after graduating I would score a full-time position teaching Creative Writing to disgruntled and justifiably angsty inner-city (and culturally diverse) kids. I'd make my students call me the French word for "Miss", because i thought "Mrs." was too formal, and I liked that "Mademoiselle" reminded me of motzerella, and as a kid, I was really into my cheese. Twenty-One= real grownup. Everything would come into fruition then. And I'd have come into the peak of my physical maturity- the image I maintained of grown up shannon partly stemmed from a drawing I did of myself in second grade entitled "when i grow up". I'd be tall. No shorter than 5"7. (I decided I'd take after my Dad). I'd have satisfyingly ENORMOUS breasts. No less than a D or E or...F cup. (This buxom prediction was based on the fact that said picture, was the first time i ever drew boobs, and so they turned out massively disproportionate but the image always stuck with me. and i liked the face my 7-year old crush made when he saw it). I would have long silky calves that would be accentuated perfectly by the high-heels i would wear EVERYWHERE to EVERYTHING. and my long straight brown hair would, upon adult-hood, transition to dark-black. Why? Because when i grew-up, I would become a real Italian. (This was during my "im-going-do-deny-i-am-metis-phase"). I'd wear tight pencil skirts everyday with a tucked in cream cloloured blouse (that i'd secretly untuck and peek down when in the washroom, to admire the final state of my lovely lady lumps). I'd drive a bright-red car; a fire-bird. and wear red-lipstick to match. I'd be married, to a man with brown hair- who'd wear sweater vests to all our dates. I never saw his face. Only his hands. All of this would have happened, had i played my cards right, close to three-years ago now.
My vision was to take a sabbatical from teaching, at 23. ('cause after nearly TWO loong years of teaching you'd need it) and sell all my possessions. (As a kid, I invisioned this to be the moment that I parted with all my toys officially). After free-ing myself of all earthly goods, the plan was to leave my husband for a year, or so, and travel to Ethiopia to wet-nurse sad orphan babies while teaching them about the good lord. I would have went all the way to become a nun at this point, but i was a fairly sex-obsessed child, and couldn't quite commit to a life of Chasity. (I would have amaaazzzing enormous D or even E cup boobs, that would be totally wasted under a nun's habit). Anyway, after winning all Ethiopians over to Christ, I'd spend the rest of my life as an old lady (30's) in Calcutta- shoe-ing away flies from children's faces and sharing food. Eventually I'd return home to my husband, maybe have a few kids myself, live in the country, have a purple door, drink red wine with every meal and teach my son to be gay, but that was so so sooooo far in the future, I barely thought about it beyond those minor details.
It's kind of funny that I am at an age now, I am "Future Shannon"- the grown-up. Apart from marrying a brown-headed husband, (who, unfortunately, refuses to wear sweater-vests to all our dates) nothing else has really come true. My dream of teaching fell down the drain when teacher colleges/schools became flooded with students and sustainable jobs were less and less. I fell in love with feminism. social theory. and 1960's-lesbians- switched my three-year English undergrad degree, to five-years of gender-studies. Spent my first year as an 'adult', semi-un/underemployed. My boobs are a B cup. My calves, short and thick and sometimes I don't shave. I'm not Italian. The word "mademoiselle" still makes me happy, but somewhat guilty, as a struggling vegan. I don't know how to walk in heels- and got married barefoot. I'm too poor to fix my free bicycle, let alone own and drive a red-firebird. (My G1 licensee also expired, about 2 years ago...). I wear red-lipstick, from time to time, but only to be ironic, and pretend i have lip-botox. My height took after my mom, not my dad, and I can't pull off pencil skirts. (however, i do still secretly look down my own shirt sometimes just to remember whats down there and giggle). I didn't spend this last year in Africa or India, nor have I mastered wet-nursing. I still think nuns rock and the likelihood of becoming one is still rare. And Sometimes I still dream about having a house one day with a purple door, drinking red wine with every meal, and maybe, just maybe, raising an ultra-feminine son. It's interesting thinking of the woman, your childhood-self created of and for you. It's weird when you realize, to former-shannon, you are future-shannon- a grown-up now.
I'm glad I'm happy; even though my path deterred away from that second-grade drawing- I think childhood self would like Andrew, my community, the fun I have, the places and people I love, the things I've done and the ideas I built myself around. I think in her own little way, She'd approve. bra-size and all.

Places I have Bontched

To Bontch: The Act of *puking, *barfing *throwing-up *blowing-chunks *vomiting * *upchucking

1) Spaghetti in Dad's Garden
2) Projectile vomit, on the walls, in a fancy historical building in Venezuela
3) Directly outside the doors of A&P (teen-boy standing near by turned to his friend and yelled, "Hells Yea" when he saw the force & quantity of my jerk-sauce bontch)
4) Pineapples, outside of the "Purple Door", at a NewAge Store on Barrie Street. (I wilted their front shrubs)
5) Todd's Espresso, in Todd's toilette
6) On a poster of Usher (i was laughing so hard i puked)
7) Almond milk, through my nose, on the floor of the Men's Washroom at Tim Hortons
8) At Miguels house (5 to 6 times)
9) On someone elses' sleeping-bag
10) Outside of Brendan's bedroom door (twice maybe)
11) Lime Green Matcha Latte, at work.

12) the court-house parking lot (three times)

13) in the corridor of the Sociology Department
14) in a stranger's blue box