ATAVISTIC BEDTIME STORIES Julian Jason Haladyn is a Canadian artist and writer. He has an MFA in Interdisciplinary Art and an MA in Theory, Culture, and Politics. Presently, he is pursuing a PhD in Theory and Criticism at The University of Western Ontario, where he teaches courses in visual arts. His poems and fiction has been published widely in journals such as Istanbul Literature Review, Laika Poetry Review, Elimae, to name only a few. As a practicing artist, he has exhibited internationally. Next Poem:....................................................................................................................................... Back to Poetry Index

 

Burrowing beneath the vessels of an ancient army
elapsed training sessions
turned into all night sleep over parties

U2 videos and a philosophical manuscript
read aloud

wall hangings with images of birds on them
blue herons perched

on my overdue English essay
on the remnants of modern culture
or a yoga mat

Loud banging noises escape from upstairs
we are all quiet as we
wait for the possibility of being captured

waiting silently in the bushes
beside a train

paintings hang with trays of food
containing bird heads

calming evenings with donated wine
from the Canadian embassy
diplomatic pouches filled with trick-or-treat candy

Compliments are traded like hockey cards
sold at garage sales in cardboard safes
without the combination

make-believe art exhibitions
with lazy embalmers
and atavistic mementos

imitation waves that topple the image of architecture
abandoned buildings where artists search
for prison cells

painted either black or International Klein blue

Statements grafted onto walls and posts
the prognosis is not good
but your Buddha will make it

lost on the fire escape in the middle of a rain storm
tour guides chattering about music videos
down the hall

uneven walls make it hard to remember
how I escaped

I wait for bedtime
so that the story will be over

Sneaking downstairs the memory waits for me
dressed in a cotton nightgown
with quotes from Arendt on it

another of those curious dinners
with someone else's parents

table set beside an abandoned YMCA
natural mazes where lost children get drunk

we used to go there during the warm summer nights

Behind cement walls we considered our mortality
left out to rot like the dead carcass

of a hunted prisoner
of an abandoned birds wing

surviving with only a number to call your own
flesh that is written upon
and enjoyed together

houses carried from past to present
lifted up like curtains to reveal
such a distinct noise

We could have died when that train passed
stoned and philosophically wandering

through time

I sit waiting for my name to be called

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