I wish my phone had a better camera… or that I didn’t forget my camera all the time.

I wish my phone had a better camera… or that I didn’t forget my camera all the time.

creepin campus with my phone

creepin campus with my phone

Un mot vaut mille images.
Volkswagen Blues - Jacques Poulin

I know
the disconnect:
the buzz
of the dial tone.


I see myself
in front of me
in the shimmering air.

It wavers
as if the wavelengths have all slowed
Ripples in the water,
look like ripples in empty space,
smell like stuttering words
from the sky,
sound like the scattering
in my eye.

The noises swell
and stop
like the footsteps have paused
to dwell
on the walls
in the hallway.

They speak other tongues;
they sing in
that I can’t understand.

There is no one else.

I hold my own hand.

I can’t understand.

I can’t understand.  

I can’t understand.

Unreal. French is a beautiful language, and Coeur de pirate makes beautiful music. Doesn’t get any better.


You’ve made tea in teacups,
pulled them out from behind all the mismatched mugs
and glasses and placed them carefully down, one on each knee,
holding them steady, pinching your fingers tightly around those tiny little handles.
The walls are yellow and the bed is white and your eyes are
brown and wide and blinking.
The room is small and the light is dim,
but the silence is clear and the air smells warm;
space and sweetness.
My knees are scabbed,
but you don’t mind,
and the hall is empty and wide behind you,
but you hold your ground as time
meanders by,
the slow shifting of the shadows
projected of the branches outside
by the evening sun.
Seconds tick by, one by one,
and the window view darkens as dusk slips through
and it’s clear that I don’t yet know,
that I don’t yet see,
that I don’t yet understand you.

I find whimsy in my city

I find whimsy in my city,
where my path is predetermined by the sidestepping of my sneakers
around the broken glass littering the sidewalk
and the old wads of gum that have become a part of the concrete,
and time becomes a function of the passing of buses.

The air does not ring with the eerie chimes of carousels,
but the horizon tilts irreverently nonetheless,
and in the silent alleys where sit lonely dumpsters
and abandoned trash
they become part of the cacophony.

The sidewalk glitters with its silver-flecked greys
and abandoned change that waits to be picked up
and later left again in the cardboard boxes
of the old men with the blues,
as the city sings their music.

Power runs in wires high above wide green fields,
in the bowels of abandoned buildings and sullied streets
and in the currents of the creeks,
while its spindly fingers crawl the mazes of the city core
in black and grey and patent leather.

I find whimsy in my city
where the sky becomes gridlines of blue
around the upward gazes of skyscrapers
and the asphalt trickles, a sluggish river,
and time becomes a function of the passing of buses.

Luminato awesomeness in downtown Toronto.

Downtown for funsies.

Downtown Toronto