A Broken Crow

this one will be mine. the dark, sleepy drive through the mud flats and hay fields, barren and cold these months. the seats smelling of dust and other bodies, and the wheels drumming a soft percussion to my warbled twang. the windows are marked with fingers and faces, pressed against the rattling panes, asleep through the churning machinery. i will not sleep. i will be a creature of night, prowling the cars for something beyond these self-reflexive murmers. these vehicles are beasts beneath us. a slick, aluminium snake that sparkles as it passes the water. it carries me while the rest of you are dreaming.

is it the chemical or the fire in my belly that makes these dulcet, basement tones sound sweeter than they should? cold fingers and worn strings and me laughing through the smoke. she sits beside me with the accordian wheezing in her lap. her voice is wet and husky and creeps about the room like a ghost. she passes me a joint and then a guitar and my old bones settle in to play a few songs before the sun comes up. i sing and my voices hangs in the air, thick and damp. the dust on the pipes glitters from the glow of cigarettes and i clench my jaw to keep it from chattering. i sing and their eyes glint like jewels.

if you were here right now you would tell me that i'm doing everything i can do. you would squeeze the back of my neck and scratch my head. you would be proud of me like you always were.


it all comes back eventually. i don't write for months. a dry year. and now all the words fall out of my mouth without warning. all those dusty pebbles that scatter. i've been up late every night, cradling my new guitar, writing clumsy songs for you. i've been scheming lofty plans for myself and dreaming of music. and who fucking knew, after so many years, that i would want to do this now? me and francine up on the stage, while ellis and i take the back roads. he's my beaten down war soldier and he knows more about me than my mother. my love leaves scars across the body. wherever we end up, i'll take you. enclosed in copper. beneath my skin.

so i bought this today.

these are baby steps.

when everything i do is the first time without you.
i can't imagine beauty or laughter or joy except for those feelings that twist inside of me.
there are steps in this dance that have to be followed for people to feel okay about me. i know this. and i wonder sometimes if it would have been easier the other way around, but i love you too much to wish this for you. because oh god i am so scared to be alone and oh god i am so scared to be close to anyone and oh god i am so scared of love and oh god i am so scared of never being loved like you loved me.

i'm so angry. i look around and all i see are the people that got to live. no one can make it better, because this life is brutal and random and short. i just want to see you. i just want to touch you. and when i scream i want you to fucking hear me.

holy shit.

it's new years day and i haven't stopped since i got here. wednesday, dec. 27th, i tagged along to the weekly jam session. i consumed. thursday, dec. 28th, i went to bunker's with mike and chris and shamus. i experienced the tom fun orchestra and casino food at three in the morning. i consumed. friday i went to the upstairs and then bunkers again. everyone in cars and the lighthouse choir. met up with the other mike, tom and others. (i would like to add that tom is a lovely person and not at all a narcissist as may have been suggessted jokingly in an early blog post.) i consumed. i consumed. i consumed. i got home and sang blind melon songs in the basement with jason and laura until four in the morning. saturday night. new years eve eve. i tried to take it a little easier. went to the upstairs for a song writers' circle. the music was beautiful, tortured country twang. i nursed a few beer and went home to another impromtu set of music in the living room until the wee hours of the morning. two guitars, accordian and spoons. this kind of shit does not happen too often in halifax, let me tell you. last night was the big one. a house party on union street with a ton of friendly strangers. i got extra-special sketchy and got familiar with whiskey again. i sang my heart out in the bedroom. i hugged everyone. i walked home across the train tracks with the wind ripping through me. today there is prime rib roast and the promise of a low key evening. i can't consume anymore. i've been consumed entirely, but man oh man, sydney treats me fucking well.

i'm coming home tomorrow night on the shuttle. i should be home soon after ten and then is back to work the very next afternoon.

mike gillis, if you're still in halifax the night of january 2nd, give me a call.