its quiet under this blanket
i don't understand things like yesterday.
i don't understand, in the midst of confusion, who's specific job it is to pick out the ominous music they play in the background when they replay clips of people fleeing the scene.
all i can picture is the interruption - the break, the bullet in slow motion [pardon that unfortunate analogy], that exploding aquarium stillness of everything stopping. of secret dropped pen fervent look romances, of passionate dissection of written word passages, of cell phone text messages of tonight's party, of mid word conversations, "like, and then she said...", of cigarettes and that unconscious rush of water while hands are washed in the bathrooms..
will they remember, the exact interruptions?
and that girl who died. what kind of day was she having? who was the last person that she talked to? did she say goodbye to her parents in the morning? is her dirty laundry, still smelling of her, in her room somewhere?
what a thing to die. suddenly. by accident (whose?)
[all that remains to be said is sorry. to whom really? we're sorry it happened. we're sorry you were there. we're sorry for your loss. oh foreigners, my brother in my village told me, you people are always saying "i'm soooorryyyy". the exaggerated way he pulled it out in falsetto; what is the point?
and here i'm thinking, this is canada. it is my inalienable right to feel complacent, to leave crime to the poor neighbourhoods where i never have to step foot, to trust the police, and the law and the security cameras and here i live in this place where the fuse of anger is a sodden match at the bottom of a bag, found when emptied after school is over.
how silly of me. violence exists, its horrendous almost innate grip over us, that slow bleeding out of humanity from a person's heart until one day it comes that the acrid smell of phosphorus combusts with the heat of a road flare in your eyes.
even in canada. even in canada.]
i don't understand, in the midst of confusion, who's specific job it is to pick out the ominous music they play in the background when they replay clips of people fleeing the scene.
all i can picture is the interruption - the break, the bullet in slow motion [pardon that unfortunate analogy], that exploding aquarium stillness of everything stopping. of secret dropped pen fervent look romances, of passionate dissection of written word passages, of cell phone text messages of tonight's party, of mid word conversations, "like, and then she said...", of cigarettes and that unconscious rush of water while hands are washed in the bathrooms..
will they remember, the exact interruptions?
and that girl who died. what kind of day was she having? who was the last person that she talked to? did she say goodbye to her parents in the morning? is her dirty laundry, still smelling of her, in her room somewhere?
what a thing to die. suddenly. by accident (whose?)
[all that remains to be said is sorry. to whom really? we're sorry it happened. we're sorry you were there. we're sorry for your loss. oh foreigners, my brother in my village told me, you people are always saying "i'm soooorryyyy". the exaggerated way he pulled it out in falsetto; what is the point?
and here i'm thinking, this is canada. it is my inalienable right to feel complacent, to leave crime to the poor neighbourhoods where i never have to step foot, to trust the police, and the law and the security cameras and here i live in this place where the fuse of anger is a sodden match at the bottom of a bag, found when emptied after school is over.
how silly of me. violence exists, its horrendous almost innate grip over us, that slow bleeding out of humanity from a person's heart until one day it comes that the acrid smell of phosphorus combusts with the heat of a road flare in your eyes.
even in canada. even in canada.]