I will be your jailbreak.

6 by 6 by 6 by 6, damp walls are sweating and rocking with his seasick motion, she’s all eyes in the window, lowbrow and unseen. In a room that should collapse with one, cracking under the pressure of the pacing guards swagger, who spins keys on her finger as he stairs at her shoes. The woman steps closer and rips his jaw upward as if to be staring into the eyes of god, spit tracers fly and collect in his eyebrows as they don’t raise beyond a permanently neutral disposition.

The convictions rain down unproven and under investigated,
the case and trial ran through without witnesses,
to stand up for truth,
hammer slams as the guard,
laughs and slips bills into the judges hand.

the dusts rolls in easily, he’s humming something softly to himself as the light starts to catch more than just his hallow shadow. The first glints trace palms cupping black liquid from the wrists, which are ground away and skinless held together with metal which feed wounds with rust and iron, poisoning him enough to stay docile. He sits strapped back, to a wooden chair, chest puffed out and back arched turned away from the window where she whispers,
‘that looks painful, somewhat torturous, you must’ve been a murderer, in order to deserve this..’
she watches the chair shake and flip him right over as he tries to find a voice somewhere in his rotten lungs, landing in the shadows the light illuminates his lips on the opposing wall as he scream voiceless his innocence.

she breathes in timing with his chest puffing in and out, crawling through the window and sliding down to the floor, careful to step lightly around the victim on the ground to the boot clad silhouette clutching the key chain while she’s drifted off. One by one, the fingers are pried open, and hold only each other. The girl walks over to her prize, and props the boy back up, erected like a trophy. She kneels down, to look him in the eyes and holds hers arms around him trying to fit the key in a hole full up with scabbed over attempts at escape. And as his hands fall loose the guard becomes restless and in those few seconds she manages to say,

‘this is not the end of us,
but it’s the end of this,
all you have to do is turn around,
climb up and out and I’ll be waiting.’

the guard starts her pacing as his hands dangle there, he’s strong enough to beat her, be he doesn’t seem to care. He just looks down again and takes it as she grinds his spirits into less than nothing. he pulls his hands back into the cuffs, slowing clicking them together and with every notch they tighten the solution walks another mile away.

Invaluable, the inner speech of Vancouver eastside.

issue two.

this blanket is cold, this blanket is wet (good morning world) this blanket is, blue? soy milk missatisfaction, the flakes and berries made swirling mod logo that morning. swirling mod logos all over my floor, my blanket (my only one in fact) and my new roommate, who I'll tell you about in detail when I feel up to it. as you can imagine, waking up stained from breakfast parodies isn't the most pleasant start to the day. I shook it off, as I shake off most things that happen between nine and noon and watched the construction workers across the alley watch me roll out of bed in my white wife beater and camo underoos. I try not to wave, not to smile and instantly feel chill jumping down to change the five o'clock charlie song that is mumbling on and on about coffee (it's freezing, vancouver doesn't experience "summer") which is what I need in a fucking hurry. the clothes weren't important, same old I'm sure, tight jeans (tight rolled), black shirt, scarf or something, but the make-up was something to be noted. I'll just have you know, I fell asleep the night before reclaiming the wanky manson loving witch of my preteens, yes, I watched the craft. long story short, I always wanted to look like nancy, ha ha. laughing off the paint on my face, it was time to make for the busstop that lives on the corner across from a vegan's nightmare (and smells like nothing short of a washed up cemetery) it was time to wait for the #10 hastings. she rolled in quick, that rusting chariot of hairlice and smokers cough, the doors choked open and I slipped in, flailing my transit pass infront of heaving jealous eyes adding up how many colt 45s (or rocks of crack) they could get selling that simple paper slip. one seat was open and no one was behind me. I positioned myself beside one of east van's finest.
under bitter worn down teeth
slicked back white sparse hair
wrinkles more than flesh should allow
and an outfit to match
I real champion, a good use of skin. all this and reading only the comic section of the sunday paper.
'you can sit near me (pat pat pat) don't worry (nudge nudge) heh...'
I already am, and no real choice, with my recent interest in the (cough) interesting, I decided to ride this conversation out. bantering back I noted the comic reading and the faithfull grinning this man had a real passion for.
'I only read the ones with the little turtle (pointing down at a sad looking turtle loafing aroundon a rock shaped like a love seat in the sea) and the, (pause) this guy, what ever the hell he is (obviously a shark), so damn funny, shooting the shit in the sea...'
'it's a potato, they um, built a potato launcher in the sea'
I'm sure I said that whole sentence without a blink, as if it was a serious matter and I was solving the mystery behind the comic strip. the conversation goes numb, logically I ask the only thing strangers as of each other, the time. he whipped up his sweatshirt sleeve and shows off a fine piece of golden (fake or otherwise) matter that is rolling slowly without even as much as a purr.
'it's stolen'
'oh yeah? thats...'
'from a man, a wife and a kid or two he's got'
I shifted a little just out of instinct, which threw my new friend off.
'not a big deal, I bought it off a nice girl, a tough girl, who sold it to me, couldn't turn down the offer (sensing my disapproval) a shame, going home to the woman without 450 dollars and that fine jewel'
'I don't think he's have a woman after that'
'yeah I suppose not, one of those classy ladies, can't even say the word fuck without them running, took one to a movie the other night, sprung the bill on the whole show, popcorn, fancy seats, leg room (eyes hit the floor, maybe this is wrong of me, but he started to actual sound human) she hasn't called me back, not that I... maybe I'll pay her a visit today, fucking classy dames, never want too...'
rolling my eyes out the window and hoping not the hear what could have come out of that ghastly mug of bottom teeth.
'fucking pigs'
startled, paying attention just in time to hear.
'I've been in jail, those fucks, federal, the pen, done time'
'yeah (2 more stops) my mother worked in the system'
my mother also said to never give personal information to inmates, but I guess if that bus was our holding unit, we were just bonding brothers...
'tell her to watch out, those inmates are known for whispering sweet nothing into woman workers ears, (one more stop) draw them in, make them think...'
just back away and step down.

xo.jude.

Invaluable, the inner speech of Vancouver eastside.
issue one.

it's a wake up call I didn't want, numb legs caressing the crumbling strath/vaneast/drive (or whatever the fuck the kids call it) area about twenty minutes after waking up from my second, but only real, sleep of the day. I must have stayed in ball position for far too long, I swear I'm no longer made of muscles and bones, but charcoal sticks rolled in cooking jelly. Today was a karmatic failure, I could start with the morning when I woke up abruptly at 9:00 to a cat in heat rubbing it's rear up and down my leg, or I could tell you about trying to walk the few blocks beyond Fraser in a miniskirt and 3 inch heals, pointed toes, but none of these things are nearly as brilliant as my comming home to a locked door and a laughing doorbell with no punchline. Upon notice of this, the knocking began, and continued, after a half an hour or so, the knocking turned to pacing, screaming and kicking. red-faced and almost bare-assed (still in the miniskirt, high healed outfit) it was time for a more adventure-filled/obviously stupid approach: yes, it was time to flail my half naked body over the second story railing and gracefully land in the living room. Inspecting the area, the small fence bridging the stucco walls was aprx. 3 feet off the ground and 4 feet from the railings. without haste, using the pointed toes as rockclimbing picks, I snaked up the wall, bleeding from the knees, dangling from the forearms, this bitch wasn't giving up.

7 feet up wearing:
aviators
high heals circa 1980
white wife beater
60's micro mini
and pink blush

fucking karma.
hip power swung me over and into the living room for a crashlanding and a twisted ankle.
shortly after:
the toilet broke after puking up all of my breakfast into it.
my roommate's cigarette stash was empty.
and I started to miss contact,
It'll be a struggle coaxing someone to climb the 4 feet onto my top bunk, let along 2 stories into my balcony.

xo.

the ice in the fire.

voices voices, lude and swaying in some sort of awkward pattern. they step off beat but in time, somehow, somehow. crowds of them, stealing your eye contact claiming your words. a misconstructed cut and paste of your past, like a paper doll jacket onto their present. in a panic, waving my arms, I motion them to silence, in silence of my own. i had a flag up this mountain before the snow hit the peak, but the ambient echo triggered the avalanche of tone deaf sing alongs that freeze up my pupils and put me back in that audience where I don't belong.

for bri:

I think of the word morose, which by definition would leave you in the state you are when we talk. something slightly muggy in the air of caution, it's thick, makes you hard to breathe in. your text surfs into shore via oil spill, when the tied rolls back out in daily habit, there is a film of constant substance spreading from my western ocean to your poluted lakes. will the salt in the seas break you down, or will you spread the water? either way, both are a slow poison, and cancer has become the new red lipstick. together we've got this whole goddamn country covered, lets think of it as spreading love instead of cursing distance.

telephone tag:

in this slumber, I reign victorioius over knotches in white belts, and telephone circles. in this sleep, playschools are burnt down, children are cursing the names of their source.in this rest, the rest of them are writing off blessings and riding my name in self defence.try not to feed it the violence it deserves,stuff their heads in plastic bags,inlaid with capital letters,I AM NOT YOURS TO DESTROY.

is it fair to guess,
chalk it up to odds,
that your dice is one sided,
the coin is being tossed.
i'm left with a lady,
her name was luck,
till she smashed a glass mirror,
and her fate had been lost.

and her and I,
hold hands with bad endings,
gun downs, and death scenes,
blood, gore and rappings.
me and her.

(unfinished.)

the streets are over walked and underappreciated

lonely apathy,
lucky lethargy,
flourishing on bullet fast train tracks,
don't lift a finger,
this is paradise,
this is paradise,
well I crave misconduct.

this is the way I deal with you so deal with it.

I thought you were dead to me,
but I could still feel your heart beat through the body bag.

(goodnight,
I hope again someday,
I'll bury you beside me,
and sleep pressed against your grave.
goodnight, sweetdreams, goodbye.)

the fault of change

a little bit of laugh out loud, public protection from.
a little bit of haircut sway, public reflection on.
this is a girl who once wore a cross of golden judgement.
this is a girl who once knew the point of right and wrong.
and this is a city that leaves a bad taste in your mouth,
and this is a town where apathy is a precursor,
and positive change is switching to milder cigarrettes.