There are still so many things yet to be understood. That was enough to keep him going. He wondered if anyone else used the threat of self-erasing to get out of bed. To contribute breath to the atmosphere, a carrot of a noose of a song to guide them. Or was that a silent thing. He still knew nothing about the tying of knots, or how to play chess. They say it takes a decade to master anything like that. He wondered if suicide was like that. Was it a long chant that built a suit for you to die in or was it some one-off drug you did but didn’t think you’d die from? He still didn’t know anything about birdcalls or sailing. He’d barely been beyond the equator. His Spanish not even close to conversational. There was that entire run of Fassbinder’s Berlin Alexanderplatz,13 episodes to gorge on, and all through school he just never had the time. Maybe he could be a filmmaker. He had so many ideas. The central one like an umbrella stalk that held over his head a shade to protect from doubt or desperate measure. There are so many things to fail at yet. So many dances to make up off the tip of the night’s tongue, just free styling the entire night. He had a comedy routine that sometimes seemed pretty hilarious. He had 2\3s of Dickens to make it through still, and the re-reading of all the faves. There was a graphic novel element to his novel, and if the suburban work war didn’t deplete him entirely every week, he could try to chip away at them all, like Ray Bradbury would. He could fill a nail with rejections slips like King. He’d never seen a wild monkey, and they had plenty in Thailand. There was an old friend there, a punk rock wunderkind in her own life, and she would surely know something he needed to know, to know a little bit of everything, a little of everyone. His friends still seemed to love him. There are people in this life who have none of the things he had. His buddies belted out The Night they Drove Old Dixie Down, and their own songs, too, late into the night and he was always allowed to be there inside the incredible love of their craft and community. He’d never actually jigged a cod. And he had only looked so far at all the beautiful women and men. He hadn’t even tried to get the Tango down. There was that one night really with the ex-dancer, the one he’d dragged along with puppy eyes to adult high school every morning, down a perfect hill back home he hadn’t walked down in years. She was a forgiving partner. The world makes angels and demons. He hadn’t even chosen a side yet. He wasn’t even done looking around. He’d spent entire days in bed with her. He dreamed of her. People out there actually survive without that; without having someone to rearrange their dreams for them. There were men who lived in a video game or a virtual space. He hadn’t had record parties. And he wanted to. He still knew nothing about why In A Silent Way was so beautiful. And he had to take Miles in at least 100 more times. Burning Man sounded amazing. There might be someone in Ireland right now waiting to meet him. He wanted to walk th roads from his jobs and haunts and homes. this story awaited overdue reenactments, like return of living dead on childhood’s VHS. He’d never even needed to wear a bullet proof vest.
His list was still half undone,
yet he was.
He was.

You Were Coming From Jack

Football and English Majoring
aren’t so different.

Writing and sport at
the heart are about the kill.
The final paragraph
is a touchdown.

The spring training
like early term work,
and the drills are exams,
practice, rough draft
and research, the study
of other games, kept in

and then Victory,
followed by celebration,
followed by more hard work.

I can see where you
were coming from, Jack,
and I can see why you left.

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The Day After the Verdict: Is This a Joke?

Originally posted on my name is elizabeth:

Like many others, I have been asking this question for months.

First, back in August, when news outlets reported that Bob McCulloch, the prosecutor for St. Louis County, had a long history of siding with the police; that his father, a St. Louis cop, was killed on the job by a black man; that his brother, uncle, and cousin were cops as well; that his mother had worked as a clerk in police headquarters; that he himself had wanted to be a cop until one of his legs was amputated in high school.  His office would be responsible for presenting the case of Darren Wilson, a Ferguson cop who shot and killed Michael Brown, before a grand jury.

Is this a joke?

And then when McCulloch said he would let the jury of 12 civilians figure out what charge to bring, if any, instead of making a case for a specific…

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Kitty Chaos

There is a Black long haired cat.
Its name is chaos,

and it lives in my neighborhood,
and it meows back at me,
and I meow again and,

yesterday I imagined it was some historical
woman’s soul trapped and trying to
hide out from other soul-cats who wanted her.

Maybe it was Mary Queen of Scots.
Maybe Elizabeth is the orange tabby that hisses at her.

Histories jealousies and betrayals,
being re-enacted by neighborhood cats.
It would be perfect for the stage.

Andrew Lloyd Webber could compose.

New Horror Novel Out: The Dweller


My good friend’s novel. If you like great writing, check it out. If you don’t, who the hell are you and how did you get in here !

Originally posted on :


I have a new horror novel out now on Amazon that delves into my musings on perception, dreams and the spirit world—and just in time for the holidays! You should definitely check it out!

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Featured Image -- 1031

Toronto Star Loses Its Religion For Jian Ghomeshi

Political Control Of Canadian Press

Most Canadian news is owned or run by Conservative party figures. There is hardly a shred of independence from the current government remaining. The Postmedia and former Canwest publications were purchased by a group under CEO Paul Godfrey. Mr. Godfrey led the National Post, that was started by a handful of fellows from the Fraser Institute and he is well known as a Tory politician.

The Quebecor chain purchased the Sun Media chain most recently. Previous Conservative Prime Minister Brian Mulroney sits on the Quebecor board of directors.

Sun News is different from Sun Media, that was also restructured. The Sun News Network was absorbed by subsidiaries of Quebecor and its operations are run by Kory Teneycke, who is better known as the former director of communications for the current Conservative Prime Minister, Stephen Harper.

The CBC is a Canadian public treasure, but it was also realigned with and by the current government. Prime Minister Stephen Harper appointed ten of twelve board members as Conservative party donors.

That left us with the Toronto Star as one of few remaining independents, but they were forced to partner with the Globe and Mail to cut costs on distribution in 2012. The latter is predominantly owned by Bell, or rather BCE. The Globe and Mail was hit with additional controversy when Jesse Brown reported impropriety that led to the paper endorsing Conservatives.

Then the Globe faced controversy over its decision to run branded content, or what is more commonly referred to as an “advertorial”. This means a corporation or government can pay a reporter for positive coverage, that is written to appear like a news article but it’s really an advertisement undercover. This behaviour is opposite to the duty of a fourth estate, to hold its government account

This, and That Season

(and that)

I can hear winter getting ready to yell
into our faces, it powders and breaks
out in patches on car windows,

in splotches of fractal, untamed mandalas.
I can feel it coming to get me and
throw a snowball of ice into my brittle

and redder than usual face. To add soft
temporary white freckles to my burgundy
and hazel ones, to my orange ones. I can

see the dogs getting shaggier and their eyes
cooling, over-running then stopping for owner.
In the orchestral march of the stripped branches,

curling around the street like hands to a mouth,
about to devour the whole street, into the blinding
stomach of another dead, long and bitter winter.

She builds her army of men, fat but wiry, as
those in kitchen work lean into the stove now,
and the butchers add a layer, and grandmothers
stay home and do bingo on the radio, never winning.

I can feel it in my feet, too. Like a crypt-escaped
skeleton, I curl up when stationary without even
realizing I am doing it, I have no fascination with it,
I just watch it come in the morning, and after the sun,

It is killing me, this season.
The season, and All That.

autocrat rohtslov

ugly and sin worthy

i lay whats left of me

to the mime

and it sighs


back to me

i scrye

i shadow

and get jealous

we creep together in the sharp

edge of lies

we creep into the hope we might conjecture the obvious

cream above our diet

get ugly

get ugly with me

and stare into it with me

for i am but, the simplest child, of all your easy,
orphan thought

i am clasping at it


let me lay flesh and the ink that continues as a result let it be as easy a stroke of the name of mine as it possibly can, be


let me break it to you easy


we wasted our time making anothers rhyme

make me yours

and lets creep up together on it

lets swim out

easier, and

betray ours

it will mean

what it will mean

meaningful or


cry and wave with it

we are all

the wave

its intricate part its crescent

its crash






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BBC documentary exposes 50-year scandal of baby trafficking by the Catholic church in Spain | Daily Mail Online

Originally posted on Christian Spook :

BBC documentary exposes 50-year scandal of baby trafficking by the Catholic church in Spain | Daily Mail Online.

300,000 babies stolen from their parents – and sold for adoption: Haunting BBC documentary exposes 50-year scandal of baby trafficking by the Catholic church in Spain


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Up to 300,000 Spanish babies were stolen from their parents and sold for adoption over a period of five decades, a new investigation reveals. 

The children were trafficked by a secret network of doctors, nurses, priests and nuns in a widespread practice that began during General Franco’s dictatorship and continued until the early Nineties. 

Hundreds of families who had babies taken from Spanish hospitals are now battling for an official government investigation into the scandal. 
Several mothers say they were told their first-born children had died during or soon after they gave birth. 

Identity crisis: Randy Ryder as a baby being cradled in a Malaga hospital in 1971 by the woman who bought him

Identity crisis:…

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26 (Part 1)

Originally posted on A Homicide Survivor's Journey Through Grief:

When I landed in Halifax, instead of being greeted by my sister’s beaming smile, there were reporters asking me questions. I got a ride from my friend who dropped me off at the Dartmouth bus terminal where I picked up a copy of Metro News. It had a photo of my sister in the one shouldered, fuchsia dress draped in tulle and lace that was soft to the touch. We used to share all of our clothes and loved getting dressed up. Then I read the words paired with the photo. These were the only details anyone knew concerning her whereabouts. I felt warm tears sting my chapped cheeks as I made the pilgrimage to the Halifax Regional Police HQ. Two days of crying and wiping the tears away had irritated the same face that had been smiling just days before. A genuine smile or laugh wouldn’t emanate from my…

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