a. m. kozak

poetry

 

catching up

justin videochats me from sweden & drops casually that he’s been going dancing with women he just met, though it’s been two years & he’s not much of a dancer or woman-meeter. we arrange our lives how we want them to look, not to fit someone else’s closet.

 

justin agrees but mentions that he’s torn between what he sees on buzzfeed’s list of memes & proceeds to remind me there are no true representations, just chandelier fragments in a drive for complacency.

 

next time he visits we drop two tabs of acid & parade thru the blizzard post-apocalypse to the national gallery, stare up at the spider as justin points out the roundness of its thorax.

 

even if we walk on the side of elgin with all the construction at the NAC we’re safe on these streets, re-imagining stage directions to our first impressions of this neighbourhood’s transitions.

 

let’s drink back in the basement. we somehow managed to get the wine thru security even though the cashier’s nails were so distracting.

 

let’s remove the peak. all this emotion drowns me when i work so hard to keep it underneath.

 

 

where are we going

 

your skirt smells like lip chap & the car vibrates its ancient engine & the sun is down boots off while you drum on your kneecap & a rubber band twang stretches from your lips your muddy feet the trek thru the marsh to the car that's been stuck since summer started & the gas is running low & my patience running short so i smoke my last smoke & unbutton my shirt as you take your time with conversation position your knees this way that way bite your nails fold your foot & eventually ask what i'm so anxious for autumn is young can't you tell by the trees & there's tonnes of fuel it was filled last week & no one will find us they have no idea & i nod you're right & think i believe it as your words tumble between your mouth the fog on the windows i can't wrap the syllables & lose myself in the dirt on your feet the motion of your lips the smell of your skirt c’mon baby you say can't you feel the rumble

 

 

high school reunion

 

back home getting too drunk, eric drives to my parents’ house thru made-over streets & orange brick mixed-up memories. i talk too much & repeat myself & hiccup a bunch, & to be honest i don’t remember more than the gist of what we discussed.

 

emotions unbuckled in the passenger seat (our roles reversed) hold me hostage in a slight ruptured universe of almost-me & could have been & what if we kept in touch the past 10 years, what if i’d settled for less disappointment when it occurred to me no matter where i travel i can’t shake me.

 

what if i skipped over ottawa & what seemed safely far enough, what if i said fuck it i already know these streets & growing up can’t be replaced. i could’ve lived somewhere cheaper that wanted my energy more, somewhere i could’ve saved.

 

 

yeah i went to iceland too

 

anywhere more tourist than local worries my insatiable crave for authenticity, the one i know is naïve to claim as superior to middle class professionals. they click photos of their faces in front of landmarks they only recognized a week ago in the lead-up to a last-minute vacation in the off-season.

 

i get it: they project themselves in their surroundings so they exist in the language they speak, measuring lived experience in likes & thread comments.

 

once you see how everyone searches for a monetary solution to boredom in cities—the games people play on travel blogs or social or tinder profiles or however we market ourselves you say hey, i get it: we all want to be seen so it feels like we’re living.

 

i feel like i’m living most on strange streets i can’t pronounce just direct myself to where i think i can sleep.

 

sharing makes me less lonely, someone cuddling on the same ap who understands my over-analyzing ramblings.

 

these fragments are the drops i play with like water-colour to give the impression i can leave with a little more intention than some guy attempting to have a nice time with his children. desperate i try to leave a piece of my gaze that’ll seep into stone & remain witness to this place’s evolutions.

 

 

 

vancouver

I.

this city thinks it's the edge, ignores islands thinly scattered west: pretentious oration of the self (aware of temperate enclosure) -infused space to speculate, transmit otherwise (a dance thru a doorframe: instructional electric voice modules place-names & transfer hot-spots: a tonal refrain).

 

after sleep & not to mention work—a series of digressions itself—so few morsels build representation: always arrivals, departures, plans, energy shore-up for shake shake exuberance (a static vibration: frame within a frame: faux-fulfill expectations: lens extends to dream).

 

preparation for that which fades faster than a championship game after tedious in-season, crescendos to climax:

II.

horn-rimmed glasses girls face gastown writing poetry. kinetic signs advertise hipster coffee shop with 21-year-old managers. tattoos dance sporadic between fragments that regulars stack a few phrases at a time.

 

unload a roaster, change a song so loud half-shout disparate script. strangers sneak the drop of a tip, utter a nicety direct a gaze: space between counting change & every twitch assimilated.

 

another tidbit to assume the projection: every girl i see i'm tempted to approach faux-casually tell her i can see her aura blushing. scream move away with me, half-way cross the country, it’d be nice escape where only a mirror sees.

 

III.

toronto stares me in the face when i try to imagine originality—teal-tinged condos pervade even here. how to depart the centre when it concaves? (everyone’s an artist curated space free admission aps after six.)

 

familiar sneaks behind & massages shoulder blades: it nudges toward (re)action, injects into consciousness & latches what’s adjacent. repetition self-breeds. once-novel experience slumps to the background & orchestrates unsuspecting epiphanies.

IV.

darkness swells streetglobe halos, burns storeside windows: corrosion of another day not-according-to-agenda. expectations expect to grow & satisfaction blooms beside the corner-shadow.

 

a route leads somewhere though it's hard to change neurologically. yet always possibilities abound, choices still scream however limited. self-presentation speaks not definitive.

V.

tired of running yellow lights sprinting orange hands flashing caution—wait wait there’s much to speculate: hurry hurry stay on scheduled frames, yet to design time time time time time . . .

 

(raingutter seams crack intersections: potholes swallow transitory traffic pulling always a little further in the bubble of time concerned about time jittery time marathon time tearing time compressing time).

VI.

achieve separation from distraction but it's like bashing fingers to skirt a toothache. it's funny how alone you can feel when you try to be. maybe it’s not clarity but blurriest possible scenery i seek, so mind gymnastics new contortions to arrive at different dead-ends.

 

rush to pre-destinations while evening mimics tides built beside, unfulfilled anticipations drag day-trip to frown. always fail to capture traffic slower moving never still vibration of a city echo city busy city architect dynamite ripple.

 

 

a.m. kozak is a social worker currently living in Ottawa.