C. A. Winter Blog

 Sterile. Aloof. White walls and sleek design. Plastic succulents and LG keyboards. Stuck in a cubicle. A pig. A pig. A pig in a cardigan. Smile by the watering hole and head into my office. A raise. A raise. Something that makes my pain go numb. When will I get approval. Didn't see your Slack message. Lunch. A box. A little turquoise piece of plastic with a salad. Call it healthy, dash of ranch. A marathon of ranch. They eat. They smack. They reheat their ethnic food. Isn't even your culture, why are you staring at me. Leaving, peeing, sitting till my legs go numb. Boss is working round the clock to make sure that you're here. A man. A suit. A pig in a suit. Buddy needs to use his Rogaine. Floor is falling out from him. A chair. It's plush. Made of real fake leather. If only I was tall enough I could reach his chair. I have a corner cubicle. I carpool to work. I vape when the camera's turned. I sweat through my chair. It's mesh, and made for my back. There'...

 Two weeks of procrastination, low mental mobility, lacklustre ideas and an insufficient amount of motivation. Painting. Hours in front of the television. Imagining scenarios for different novels. Crafting fantastic inventions of the literary genre. Discussing world politics with strangers online. Jerking off. Using the bathroom for too long. Hot shower in the morning. Hot shower in the evening. A bottle of wine on Thursday. Monday there was vodka in the freezer. Tuesday there was less. Is this it? Lorazepam prescription lasting fewer days than last month. Remembering what the inside of a dispensary smells like. Car not starting. Fishing a pair of cables out of the closet. Pack of cigarettes pulled out of the glove box. Expired last year. Didn't know they did that. Cologne to conceal it. Hands scrubbed in scalding water. Wash away my sins. Tank near empty. Gas station behind me. Palms stuck under my ass at the stop light. Frozen fog on the windshield. Ex girlfriend waved from the s...

 Denying our right to expression is our greatest sin. We've sold our souls to the economy for convenience and have squandered our creativity. Bake the bread. Paint the landscape. Write the poem. Else I will see you in hell.

     I was out of town for the weekend and got back tonight around six. Drove in on the 201 and went for coffee in the downtown area at Starbucks. On the right was the moon in it's cheesy yellow glory. Ahead of me was the city of Winkler and all its charm . Slush-ridden roads, ice patches on the roundabout, lines and lines of fast food restaurants. Jimmy John's next to Wendy's next to KFC next to A&W next to 7-11 next to Walmart. Calorie Avenue. I felt like Tony Soprano driving through New Jersey after coming home from Italy. Disgusted with the filth at hand, unfulfilled by home. Horrid. I was filled with disgust by the place I call home. But why? Goodbye January, welcome to the most dismal time of the year. February, the month of love and ice. The time where dreams go to die and Christmas weight settles just above the belt. Somewhere between a cup of church coffee and a cup of over-steeped black tea, it's neither exceptionally good nor bad, flavourless nor enticing...

Can't sleep It's daytime Can't stay awake I'm exhausted When is dinner, when is evening, when is bed time I'm ready For tomorrow Doesn't bring anything new But perhaps A different menu * My mind wanders to the furthest Corners of the room Which activity can I do Should I stay or should I sit with my back Pressed against this plushy couch? To move Is it worth it? * Filtering, pouring, waiting, sipping This is my coffee we speak of In the morning I crave it In the night I avoid it Getting too old for such An exhilarating relationship This is my emotions,  We speak not. * Do you feel the prose? What about my craft Are you invoked by what I said? Have you stopped to think? I doubt you, More than you can ever know. This is garbage.  * A poet is a poet is a poet. Sitting with my fingers nimbly Putting nonsense into life Tap tap, tip tip Now I'm off to fucking write. *

Stimulus, I Pray to Thee     How exhausting is it to have a brain in this day and age? The loops of soundbites, the flashes of lewd images, the intrusive thoughts. I'm cooked to the core like a steak well done and my juice is gone and all that's left are fatty nuggets of info-dumping, melody-humming, soul-sucking, half-baked, trauma-inducing zygote-killing memories. I'm fiscally infertile for new content or consumption. They've ripped the virgin out of the olive oil and I need a cold press or a hexane bath to extract whatever's left of my humanity. Have you ever stared at a cold blue screen and read the words of utmost importance just for Doja Cat to play like a little lyre behind your ears? Have you ever focused on something you think you love, only for the thought of a thought of a thought to derail your total utter interest? Suddenly I'm on the phone again, suddenly it's been an hour, suddenly it's been a month and whatever I was supposed to do has fl...

I suppose on a surface level I'm irritated. My skin is itchy and my lower region is aching. Dull, uneventful, untouched. Constant. Where is this coming from- lack of sleep? No, I've slept well. Lack of water? I've pissed twice in the hour. Perhaps a lack of understanding of my own nutritional needs and a simple case of the 'ball pain.' Not much else to say about that. On a deeper level, I'm irritated with the state of life right now. I turn to my phone and all I hear about is how awful everything is. RIOT RIOT RIOT! If I turn off my phone, it goes away. Does the problem exist in the physical or simply in the universe? Like a rendering of a quest not mine, an echo of a life unrealized. Running the simulation with no overlap in the main story. My story, untarnished by whatever melodrama the WEF or ICE has cooking up. Am I a bad person for checking out when there's a tuning fork right on the fucking pulse of a violent clitoris? Is it wrong I avoid the feelings ...