They just keep coming.
No matter how broken I feel,
No matter my pleas,
They just keep coming.

Sweat, cologne and floor dried liquor consumed my nose.
The strobe lights pounded my pupils, contracting and expressing in every strobe.
My arms rest against the formerly sticky counter as a I wait my turn to inebriate.
Our booth hadn’t changed a bit.

This world is unforgiving. That is the first ever thing Marco learned. He learned that the world we live in offers redemption to only those who can afford it and laughs in the faces of those who can’t. Marco was an interesting kid to say the least, in school while students were outside playing on the playground, he would sit back and observe each and every kid.

Like the Bow River, flowing North to South,
empty whiskey bottles fall from North to South in
an explosion of broken glass and blanket lies.
Whiskey flows and burns the throat, everything flows.
Flowing is the root of it, the singular truth.

My favorite depression meal starts with me
briskly snatching a cream-coloured ceramic bowl
from the bottom stack of mis-matched plates and tupperware,
collectable hand-me downs from the other Filipino families
spread across Forest Lawn to Falconridge and beyond,
buried deep in the back of the carob cupboard.

Oat milk in the Grecka poured into coffee,
swirled into tree rings, pressed by the scent
of maple macchiato mist arose in the air,
swans painted in latte art, held in a white mug.
My hands burrowed into the warm mug,
leading it to the maple wooden table,

To answer the specific questions being asked—of who I am within my origin, and describe my own history and place—is not plainly possible. In the 17th and 18th centuries, the people and storykeepers living on this continent for thousands of years were brutalized.