Maybe Sundays are better for getting anything done. — I’d like to abdicate more responsibility–but my daughter asks me if I think I’m handsome, so I say I’ve been called beautiful more often–she scoffs and stands on her hands in the pool because she’s a fish regardless Of what I look like. I try to capitalize on the time…

Flash fiction — It was the end of Spring, the warmth of summer already coursing through the air. The elm trees, not yet burdened with their full green, standing as the sentinels of this place. Already, traffic seems to slow, the endless construction season beginning as people start to hightail it out of…

Planning to leave something behind — Caught a glimpse in the rearview but nothing’s tattooed on my back, though I’d been planning to leave something behind — I erase the moments that I want to keep ignoring, chewing through the clouds and snow and gravel heaps that give me a chance to hide from my personal…

No end to the end — Steal this need from me — sharp points, pictures, dolls — the threading of a canvas through the fingers. Come, reconfigure desire in its new ugly dress, the one that’s been on the hanger for years, never worn. The sentence eroded before the eyes of cigarettes and empty wine glasses…

“I had to keep my heart to myself in case I infected someone.” Winterson — I am no longer very interesting. Once, I cruised along consuming: alcohol, late nights, words, people…my hands were tangled in new hair every day, then I’d take a well-worn walk along half-brick, half-asphalt Portage Ave and go close down the patio. Now the only hair I ever grip is my…

On the 30th anniversary of my father’s death — It’s probably because we’re at the third decade since my father died that I’ve been thinking about him a lot lately. Last month, I wrote a piece reflecting on some of those last experiences I had with him. I’ve felt it’s kind of strange how close he still feels. …

Grow something beautiful from the cold diamond — If I am going to cry, let me weep tears of Life — grow something beautiful from the cold diamond — the teal course of pain — all the lost learning from stark brown buildings buttressed by a lot of Hope — the fingers you touched even without meaning to…

Orange and grey and lavender — It’s all orange and grey and lavender. And I know — I do know — that if those same colours were wreathed, mapped the explosion of veins — a large badge on a body we would think it something ugly, something wrong. But in the sky? That can captivate almost be-head…

Ekphrastic prose poem — Either your back is turned towards me or your face is the sky. Soldier, I say you’re wandering away into the geometry of world-wide heat agony. A lover left behind in a white jacket, cold rifle barrel stock pushed against his groin shakes you into a theme of I must…