The Last Day, the First Day

 

The summer morning wasn’t quite warm enough.
And even though sunlight poured through my curtains,
it seemed to get caught in the wrinkles of my blanket
and lost between the ripples of my bed sheets.
The light slowly drowned, and
as it whispered for help from beneath the mattress,
I ripped the last breath from its lungs, and
inhaled its father’s aspirations.
There was only room for one of us.
The blood vessels in my eyes yawned,
as I opened them and gazed at the ceiling.
It reflected my thoughts as it stared back at me,
but looked away when it realized that
I was as dead to it as it was to me.

I got up only to sit back down.
Generations haunted from behind
as they covered their mouths, and
squinted their scornful eyes.
My father’s voice ringing in my ears,
but I try to drown it out like the sunlight.
The vibrations of his words are harder to smother,

“you’ll be dead to me if you follow through.”

I hear it over and over again until it is ingrained.
But I guess it’s time to die.
The artery of tradition that flows through my hair
is simply severed with a pair of scissors
that she holds in her hands.

Rootless        Dead

Her hands have killed me, and
they have killed God.
They have killed all.

But she doesn’t know that
it was my very last day, and
it was my first day.

I walked out with that unfamiliar familiarity
I was in a home that was no longer mine.

Is a Universe of Utilitarian Utensils Possible?

Is a Universe of Utilitarian Utensils Possible?
I’ve heard the one about rock, paper and scissors.

But what about the fork, spoon and knife?
I’m sure if there was some sort of alternative universe,
where spoons, forks, and knives had consciousness,
it would be difficult to integrate the three into a society.

Imagine if they had to live together in some sort of utensil city,
the spoon’s children spoons would surely get picked on.
I mean what is a spoon to do,
if say, Freddy Fork and Knathanial Knife shoved him into a locker?
They would call him shitty names like “concave face” and “big head.”
What would he do as a spoon? Could he do anything at all?
As a spoon, he isn’t very sharp or threatening.
Maybe he would just hold tears in his bowl-shaped heart,
and secretly curse them for being self-serving and shallow.

The forks and knives probably believe there’s certain etiquette,
that only they can follow.
The two would smile at each other in public,
but make insultingly dull jokes behind each other’s backs.

How could the three live together in harmony?
All the elders would contemplate the future and say,
“God forbid any young utensils have un-protected procreation.”
“We’d have sporks, spifes and knorks,” they’d say.
They couldn’t even conceive of the hedonistic sporf.

What would the morals of such a multi-utensil society be like?
Would they believe in the same God?
Would there be some sort of divine drawer in the sky,
that always has room for one more?

Such questions will be left un-answered,
As the universe watches silently.

G.P. Parhar is completing the fourth year of his Honours Specialization degree in Philosophy with a Minor in Creative Writing. He writers screenplays, poetry, creative non-fiction, and academic papers. His nonfiction piece "The Frontline: Homeless for a Day" was published in The Rusty Toque.