I Want You (She's So Heavy)

It's time to let the day in.
But no matter how far back I draw the curtains,
I sometimes need the help of lamps.

Once the day fills the room, I will
fill it with what I please.

And when the day fades away, I will
await another turn.

The night no longer hides those fatalistic
distractions. I will
penetrate its melatonin-washed
obscurity with my flip-book
madness.

And whether I can document the movement
is of no consequence because
the time is now mine to keep.

The moon dreamed of the night I would finally visit her
at that vast sky of a window
which I pass by in short intervals of busyness.
In those brief obscure moments,
I sometimes accidentally see her,
mostly on that crest of colour
between day and night.

My mind balks at the sight of her
as I continue on my impulsive way.
I often take her into my half-conscious landscape,
and she blends in like a set piece.

Months pass, and the moon will do her work,
and I will do mine.

It was too late by the time I learned the summer had fallen ill,
and the autumn sighed at my indifference.

We just got back from a concert at the Air Canada Centre. It was a free concert performed by none other than the Tragically Hip (pretty much Canadian royalty).

It was put on by Goodlife Fitness to celebrate its 30th anniversary.

The concert was free, but you had to win tickets by contest or have them given to you by favour via a personal trainer. Either way, only clients, affiliates, and their families were invited to see this. (But I'm sure others got their hands on tickets via "other" means.)

The Hip rocked. As a Kingston boy, I was glad to see my kin do their thing. I'm both sorry and glad to say that this is the first time I've seen them perform live. (I've only been to a handful of concerts.) It's amazing how well they sound live. Downie's lyricism is nothing short of pure performance. And he didn't stand still once during the entire show, which, from what I've heard, is par for the course. Actually, his presence and movements...

In your preoccupation with entering the stream,
you turn your back on that which brought you here:
the worlds that would teach you languages that
can speak to those now flitting by.

Nothing speaks to you in this moment, and you cannot
translate the penetrating noise despite your best
attempts at filtering it out.

Sitting on the cusp between the real and the imagined,
you cannot focus on anything but how it's as sharp
as the point of a spear.

You give into impulses that pull in either direction;
you stumble, yet never fall.
You resist--and in that fool's tenacity, you insist
on being nothing,
a subject of neither.

It's like spending the entire Saturday at the end of the world
stringing speaker wire
while having no music to listen to.