Posted in eavesdrop, Poetry

the xanax kid


I was only 10 when we lost him.
It fucked me up so bad that they put me on medication and
I’ve been “the Xanax kid” ever since.

Pop had heart disease, the diabetes, cancer…
you name it, he had it. He knew
he didn’t have long and would spend most of his days
rambling about how his last wish was to meet
“that son’a bitch from Philadelphia.”

Ma’ and I wrote letter after letter for months.

About a week before what would be dad’s last
radiation treatment, we finally got a reply.
He was going to be in town, he would arrange to swing by the clinic.
Except, he never did. Something about
leaving a water-bottle in his carry-on and inclement weather.

Pop spent his last 24 hours
watching Cast Away on repeat and weeping
into his favourite white shirt and I’ve never
stopped blaming Tom Hanks for ruining his last Friday.

His last words were:
“I hope they have subs in heaven.”


Posted in eavesdrop, Poetry


I heard someone
on the radio today, refer to that Right Honorable Cuckold
Justin Trudeau
as a “fine, upstanding example
of how a politician should behave.”

I say
there isn’t a prison cell small enough
for that crook.

Maybe an oil drum.

Wouldn’t that just be fitting?

It’d be a great place for him
to chill out and work through all of those
daddy issues.


Posted in eavesdrop, Poetry

small-town turds

I wonder if anyone else remembers Rory like I do? She was EVERYTHING. You couldn’t go to a protest without seeing her. Yelling, no, screaming at the top of her lungs about starfish survival rates and how fuckbois were ruining the social justice scene. You always felt a little bit lighter after talking with her. She had seen parts of this world that didn’t make sense to small-town turds like me.

Tom used to say that she was mucho mucho caliente, so much so that it made him itch. I thought we were done talking about women like that, but I guess he never quite grew up. I wonder how he remembers her?

Is there any shred of her humanity left in the back of his head or is she just the appalling stain that made front-page news?

It’s still the only time I’ve heard of one person needing two death certificates.


Posted in eavesdrop, Poetry

finals week

The last time
I wore this pair of underwear, I got fucked
in the ass so deep they gave me deferred standing.
Imagine that.
All I had to do to get a break from school
was explore the wilder side of campus life.

I actually don’t really know what to do
with all of this free time now. Work on my papers?
Who do I look like, April? Look,
we don’t all want to go
to law school and save the world from itself.

Some of us
just want to coast on our trust fund and see if that cute boy
from Kappa Sigma can go more than two rounds.


Posted in eavesdrop, Poetry

glass jaw

Is there a thing you do
that you feel annoys people?

Mine might be when I get caught for plagiarising.
It’s not like I don’t know how to write
an essay or develop an independent thought, which is probably
what bugs my profs the most. They’d love to trot me out
to their conferences, the model student, maybe wax a little
poetic about some school of thought that’s been out of vogue
for a few decades.

But it hurts my heart

to think about being a cog in the neo-liberal
North American university system.

So I cheat.

I cheat every chance I get because it feels better
to be subversive and get chastised, than get a medal
for being just another fuckboi.

My mom wonders how the hell I’m going to make a career
out of being such a shit-disturber. She tells me
that if I want to piss people off, I should stick
to my father’s tactics and shave my beard.
Maybe she’s right, but my chin
isn’t built
to take that kind of reality head on.


Posted in eavesdrop, Poetry

cat herding

I’ve got my eye on this event happening
in two weeks: competitive cat herding.

It’s happening at the Coliseum.
Tickets are reasonably priced and come
with a complimentary adult beverage. The craziest thing
is that these dudes are actually professionals, no joke.
There’s a league with legit divisions and a playoff
and everything. Someone told me that the winner
of the championship game gets a year’s supply of free vegetables.
I wonder how you score a gig like that?

Sounds like a good way to meet people
and take them to bed—as long as you don’t mind the scratches.