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Dry TiresCoffee ripples along the console. The Beatles belt Beach Boys background lyrics as the car weals its way down a gravel alleyway. Sailing over potholes in a perfect ten formation, the steering wheel's stationary as black plastic lid meets winter-chapped lips. Digital readout shows tee-plus-two-minutes til the bell rings. A still sleepy voice cries out for Moscow girls as the left blinker clicks over to a right hand turn. The car's rear end swings toward her so-called friends in the brick behemoth. It's time they all knew that she was not here to stay – they wouldn't always have her there to parade around, a side show for their debate of Tuesday night's sitcom lineup.
The car peals out a roaring protest as she flows against post late bell traffic to the blue beige and yellow bedsheet stifling the soil to the north. The sky's still shaking night from under its eyes. She takes it easy the first few curves, knowing recklessness would come, timidly, to the sole of her shoe. Corner to corner
Milk Crates Semi-FinalMilk crates stacked one on top of the other in the back of the van, covered in dust. Enough to obscure the license plate, dirty the windows, cake the tires. The faux Navajo upholstery, thinning and bare, stretches too far over the two front bucket seats.
Milk crates filled to the brim with priceless black rectangles labeled neatly with a mystery occupy the space where the backseats should have been. A binder locked into a secret cupboard in the driver's seat holds the answers. A rap through the door three times and the brim of a red baseball cap prompts the electronic locks to schlick open.
Gray dusty jeans and converse sneakers hang uneasily below a torn black sweater, with a logo for a band that no one has heard of. A cigarette pack sticks out from the sweater's pocket, rectangular and rough against a slight beer belly. A stubble-scourged face is the final mark of belonging on the new client. Silence lounges throughout the clean ritual, though the driver has never seen him before. Ha
No Vacancy at the Antelope InnNo Vacancy at the Antelope Inn
or, Senior's Benefits
There are no vacancies at the Antelope Inn
For three days out of every year.
People drive by and wonder
but never stop.
No cars are parked in front of the drape-covered windows.
Like that RCMP who moved away
Everyone knows why, but for three days
they all wonder aloud about it
with straight faces
For three days blue-haired ladies pass by
a lurid sheen on their lips, tracing the neon
"NO" with clouding eyes
Their slippers scraping on the gravel road
The octogenarians have a little more
swagger by the grain elevator
When they leave
the Antelope Inn.
plant sex watchers
finger Raphaelian curves, leaving the canola
aching in the field
Parents tell the kids it must be
(like that time the Fire Department's christmas lights
were on for a week in July)
When they shrug and turn toward home,
Mom and Dad eye the drawn cur
The War on TerrorThe War on Iraq was not a war that had been originally planned to be fought on Iraq. The War on Iraq came from the many forms of George W. Bush's "War on Terror", which was hastily thrown together after the tragedy at the World Trade Centre. The current problems the the world faces with finding justification for this war are the way the "War on Terror" mutated into the "War on Iraq" in late 2003, George W. Bush's ulterior motives for wanting to dominate and control Iraq, and conflicting and very biased sources for information on the war.
What happened at the World Trade Centre in New York City on September 11, 2001 was a tragedy that killed many innocent people. The subsequent "War on Terror" that was stated by George W. Bush, President of the United States of America, has also caused many innocent deaths, and justifying his self-named crusade has become the President's main campaign agenda since instituting it. The problem with his "War on Terror" is that after it started in 2001, it
Irony and Pierre BertonIrony and Pierre Berton.
I find it pretty ironic that right after I finish reading Why we Act Like Canadians by Pierre Berton the sponsorship debacle explodes in our faces. His book may be one of the most patriotic texts Canadians have – we didn't even give ourselves a bill of rights until 1960, and few of us know our charter as well as American school children know their constitution. It discusses how Canadians are willing to put their trust in the hands of government in exchange for more security. We trust our government much more than the Americans typically do. We're willing to give them more money in taxes, and expect that we will receive better healthcare and social programs for our risk.
Unfortunately this week we're learning the errors our government has made with our trust. The Liberals could claim they did it for the cause of solidarity - after all, they were paying off Quebecers not to vote for the
Personal Hells Revision 2An unnatural summer sat uneasily, a dancer with one foot on the other overtop a skyscraper. It had an eerie sense of belonging to it, the locals had been worn down to the point of just being used to their neighbour, the beast. No one took notice of the fourth of December picnics on the lawn. Anywhere else they would need coats and mittens, but in this city no one knew one month from the other.
A fog crept through the gutters laying low beneath the populace. It eddied around expensive shoes, nipped at the ankles of the everyday. A slow, deliberate wave of damp vainly trying to clean the sidewalks from grime and discarded bubblegum, only making them cling more closely to the city's framework of cement, asphalt and glass.
He kicked a stone, lying in the gutter, out into the road. It bounced and wove drunkenly until, finding its way under a car, it was stopped by the front tire of a car with barely any muffler left. The sounds of progress drowned out the whispers of people, shy attempts at
Personal HellsAn unnatural summer sat uneasily, a dancer with one foot on the other overtop a skyscraper. It had an eerie sense of belonging to it, the locals had been worn down to the point of just being used to their neighbour, the beast. No one took notice of the fourth of December picnics on the lawn. Anywhere else they would need coats and mittens, but in this city no one knew one month from the other.
A fog crept through the gutters laying low beneath the populace. It eddied around expensive shoes, nipped at the ankles of the everyday. A slow, deliberate wave of damp vainly trying to clean the sidewalks from grime and discarded bubblegum, only making them cling more closely to the city's framework of cement and asphalt.
He kicked a stone, lying in the gutter, out into the road. It bounced and wove drunkenly until, finding its way under a car, it was stopped by the front tire of a car with barely a muffler left. The sounds of progress drowned out the whispers of people, shy attempts at connecti
The WandererShe doesn't have a helmet
or any other gear for a dive
a worn hockey team logo is her crest
an insignia. She parades through the cement walk,
her subjects give her wide berth.
A satchel graces her sloping shoulder; not of anything mystical.
nothing, nothing but small treasures.
no one would care about them but her
knotting a garbage bag, she bends
a search for buried treasure
and puts something nondescript into the bag in her other hand
I hold the station door open for the weary traveller;
her smile bears the ascension of knighthood
inside it smells of sweat and beer
which may very well be
her only supper.
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