Rainy Days and Bakhtin

god i love the rain today.
i should be thinking about Bakhtin,
and all things heteroglossic,
but instead i am thinking
of you and me
and this room,
and everything we could create here.
i am thinking
of getting out of here,
and not having to be someone
on the street
because today it is slippery
and today it is paved
with people whose heads are down.
and they will not see me
whether they are looking or not
because the wind will pull their
eyes in other directions.
i am thinking of deadlines,
and of how i will make them,
and of how i have ever made them.

i am thinking of kingston bars,
packed yet lonely,
where there is noone i can trust,
and i wonder if i can trust you
or if i ever will.
i am thinking of you
being present far more often
than i assumed you would be,
and of why you do not want me.
god i love the rain today
because it allows me to set aside
my sadness,
or at least blend it with the background
here.

the voices here are endless,
and they stream in and out
of my words,
and Bakhtin,
he would oppose me,
because this is not unitary as it should be,
this is heteroglossic.
and i say,
there are many examples of this here,
and in other places,
just as there are example of sadness
in all the strangers on the street,
in all the people bowing their heads,
and reflecting their soul in the weather.
but then again we have learned to bare it,
and we have learned to live through it,
because in a place like this,
we don't have a choice either way.

NOVEMBER 16, GOODNESS GRACIOUS

there are drops on the window.
they are small and many,
and i can see that they are wet,
and that if i were to wipe my hand
across them
they would smear across the pane.
they distract my eyes
for some time,
before i notice the storm
about to brew in the background.
i am nervous about going outside,
about fulfilling this obligation
this morning at 6:47 am.
it really is an obligation,
you know,
because i don't know
if i'd survive without it.
the tree limbs outside are long and skeletal,
and they stand stark against the sky,
which now that i notice it
is not a normal stormy sky at all.
it is lavender,
i was going to say another colour,
but it is lavender,
the colour of my best friend's
favourite flower,
that used to grow in my backyard
(or was it the neighbour's backyard?
either way, i thought the tree was mine).
it is strange that lavender,
something so peaceful
could mean something so dangerous.
this room is white,
and it is stark like the tree,
but in a different way
because it is bleak.
and it feels almost medicinal.
my teeth look white in the mirror
and i am pleased,
because they must be white
if they match the colour of these walls,
and that means the money i spent
on whitening products must be working.
i almost feel like i am naked,
about to feel the spitting of hot water
against my hallowed skin
but then i remember these obligations.
your daddy is running out of money
because he has a sickness
that is soaking through his limbs,
saturated in his body like the drops on the window.
what would he say if he were here?
what would he think?
he would think,
this room is hollow,
and so am i,
and this room has little comfort
to offer,
and he would not think
of his teeth against the wall.
when i walk outside,
expecting the wind to throw me aside,
and the storm to grab my throat,
holding back the breaths i want to make,
i am thrown aside instead
by the stillness of the morning,
and the brightness of the stormy sky,
lighting my way
even though it is only 6:53 am.