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

my dear hafez

I saw you today, for the first time since. Like old lovers,our eyes met; briefly we breathe the same silence,but you look away, faster than i can.

and I stand frozen on a sidewalk in the rain,as you ride bicycle down broken street.

In this moment, you try not to notice, me, or the pain i own,

street-lights guide you past.
In this moment, i try not to memorize, The ink on your arms; the colours, i saw in you.

but the waves on your elbow,once beautiful, now harsh; hide the secrets, you swore to protect...

they remind me, of my loss,of your sea.

i am somewhere, a spec, a memory, a hideous ache you yearn to forget.

pieces of me, float through you; yet i am here

grocery bag in hand, toes on concrete,
wishing you'd nodded, or waved, or at the very least screamed: 'fuck you'.

A Day of Curious Interaction

8:30 am: 30-something Taxi-Driver

The discomfort of his own silence, leads him to hum at a consistent and barely audible volume. He makes soft snapping sounds with his tongue, to replace the words he can't be bothered to say. I catch his nervous gaze as he checks his blind spot, and look away, to avoid the accidental intimacy of eye contact.

9am-noon: Pam, the Athletic Girl's Grandma

Her laughter reminds me of someone I once loved, so I keep talking, just to hear it more. She asks questions, I answer, Jasmine Tea in hand, wondering if her granddaughter, the Athlete, knows how lucky she is. We share stories, as I watch the world breeze by through her train window. I tell her it was a pleasure, and I mean it. She says, "it was lovely to meet you", and I feel it.

12:15pm: Norman the Grey-Haired Go-Bus Driver
He likes my suitcase and asks if it's a vintage collectors. I giggle with flattery and tell him I just like ugly things from Value Village. He says, that's fair. I push my luggage into the lower compartment with my foot, trying to avoid my dress from flying up in the wind. He waits, and I hope he doesn't see my underwear. I hand him my ticket, and he nods me in. Goodbye Norman.

12:16- 2pm: Dress-Pant Man with No Beard

He offers to hold my carrot-sprout juice from the Union Station, as I cram my over sized purple carry-on into the tiny compartment above us. He smiles, and I secretly wince. Happy with his kind gesture of juice-holding, I sit beside, rather than behind him. but weary of his naked beardless face and stagnate coffee breath, I keep my left leg closer to the aisle, than to him. We quietly exchange polite, yet awkward smiles, and I pretend to sleep for 20 minutes, trying to avoid the smell of his words. He tells me the weather is looking up, and I agree. He tells me he caught the 6:30 train to Aurora, and I sympathize with his exhaustion, plucking sneakily with my fingers at my roasted red peppers. He looks out his window, though I swear he's watching me through it's reflection in the corner of his eye....so i continue to eat my lunch with extra swift and stealth. He shakes my hand before his stop, and leaves. Dress pants and bad cologne.

2:20-4pm: Gabriel, the Nigerian Pharmacist from Newfoundland

Giggling, he enters the Go-bus, relieved by the fluke of having caught it, despite his watch being 1 hour behind. He shows me his wrist when he sits next to me. Our legs sort of touch, but I don't mind. After exchanging pleasantries, he gives me 2 and a half hours of career advice, as I nod and smile when appropriate. His accent is endearing, so I don't bother interrupting him, to explain why I don't want to work for the government or join the Navy. I like the mystery of my own silence. He tells me he met his wife on a bus, when he was in college. I notice his stubby fingers remind me of my eight grade math teacher's. I tell him I'm married too, mostly for the secret delight I get from referring to Andrew as "my husband", when speaking to strangers. He waves at me from outside, after we drop him off. I can tell he's giggling again, even as we pull away. Gabriel, the pharmacist who wishes he still lived in BC, will now visit his cousins for the weekend. In Barrie.