*A/N* I've been having such writing block that I've been trying just to let the creativity flow, so this writing style is a little bit different. And there has been ZERO editing, so if there are any really terrible grammatical errors or mispellings, please let me know. Critiques are more than welcome, as always!!!!

first, the lightest airs
of everest in a net of stars

and then, the chill of space
from the man on the moon
when he bends down to kiss the earth
below

also, the warmth
of cloudless, summer days
that sing its harmony
with the waving of trees
with the silence of wind

and finally, the chill
of the moon as it rises by night
and the smile of the winter sun as it sets
with its fingers to your lips
to silence every question of your fearful heart

from places known

He was never late, ever. Every Saturday at precisely two o’clock we met without fail. But today, on the very day that I needed him, he was sixteen minutes late. Sixteen minutes and twenty-seven seconds to be exact.

I slumped a little in the booth, then straightened and began typing in a nearly empty document.

Twenty-three year-old Tiana Black waited patiently—

I hit the backspace button, deleting the last word.

Once during a football season there approached a Godzilla who was mauve. His paraskavedekatriaphobia became his greatest apple sauerkraut. Unfortunately, Scales sung badly and cake ate his mother. Football also destroyed any signs of sanity. Nuclear parrots exploded and so feathers destroyed Manhattan. Digital clocks evaporated simultaneously, timed to bubble with frozen cubes of sushi. While underneath uranium, Superman plotted, finally, a scheme to incinerate George Bush.

Thanksgiving was always my favourite time of year. It meant that my family would take the long drive north to my dad’s parent’s farm, where we would spend the weekend visiting with relatives and enjoying grandma’s delicious home cooked food. My grandparent’s farm was situated on a gravel road in the midst of rolling fields of wheat and canola that stretched out as far as you could see. Just down the road to the right of them, was my uncle’s farm, and to the left, another uncle.

Of the world
and make your quest
as the old rivers run,
gathering tales
of old poets
'till your sail greets
the eye of the morning.

Then take down in your scroll
all that those wisemen have treasured
and guarded from moth, rot, decay.
Intoxicate yourself with all
the new things they will teach you
like a thirsty beggar
lifting an old bottle
of wine to his lips.

4
I fell silent as we stepped off the pavement, out of the cold, and into the chip shop. I wrinkled my nose as feeling returned to it, inhaling the delicious smell of salt and vinegar. We crossed the black-and-white-checkered floor between the rows of two booths on each side.
In I way, I think our order of coping chips was to stall the actual coping. Even the much-pierced girl behind the counter must have sensed the discomfort between us.

I'm in the mood for essays lately. I can't seem to write fiction OR poetry, which stinks...like...gym socks. Although, I'm not quite sure what gym socks smell like, seeing as I don't go to Public School and I don't have gym. Oh, well. And I hate socks.

I'm titling this essay "Gym Socks" since that's what Writer's Block feels like. :) Next time it'll probably be, "Summer Days" or something of the like, since Summer often exasperates me to no end. Unless I'm swimming in a lake. Then, it's okay.