Posted in eavesdrop, Poetry

matter of taste

I’ve been thinking
about what it means
to only like white ice cream.

You say it’s a matter of taste but
I’m beginning to think it’s actually a showcase
of who you really are as a person. You say wholesome,

it strikes me that you don’t play nice with others.

You talk of simplicity, but you’re the kind of person
who wants, no needs their nuts,
and their caramel,
and a little whipped cream—
included free of charge, of course.

You tell me
that I need to relax, that we’re just talking
about opinions. It dawns on me that opinions
are great, if you have the privilege
to be able to hold onto them, to have them respected,

and that we aren’t really just talking about dessert anymore.


Posted in eavesdrop, Poetry


He was a nice guy.

Your mother seemed to think so. Told you
that you reminded
him of that song and when you asked
him which, he wrote you a new one on the spot.

A nice guy.

The kind who would take you
to your favourite Marché Fermiers, learn to make
homemade cheese with you on your weekends off together,
and never dispute the validity of the Oxford comma.
Talked about taking you to London or Calabria.

A nice guy.
Except he only operated at one speed.

No roots would ever take hold.
No cedar hedges.
No small cabin on the outskirts of town.
Just arguments
over who got to take the cats
and gin fueled cyclones grinning

“I never promised you anything.”

A nice guy.

Tumbleweed not oak.
You were just an outpost where he could rehydrate
before rolling into the next town.

A caustic reminder of why you always
felt better tended to by bad boys.


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 Non-Fiction, Poetry

timing is everything

I have only ever been to sex parties
that are positive; there’s no pressure
to slide it in if you’re feeling like a corpse.

it’s more about meeting nice people and
constructive discussions about why our dollar is really crappy.
That’s not to say that you can’t rip off
your clothes and get real “progressive”…if you know what I mean.

One time, this guy
I’d made eyes at across the room
at a few prior functions, just straight up tossed me into a wall.
He was aggressive.
A real animal.
Not the kind you would immediately
picture though, more like a
thirsty emu or maybe an iguana
with really dry skin: he drank me right the fuck up.

It got so wild I knocked out his fake tooth.
He didn’t even flinch. In fact, he never
even asked for it back—I still have it
in a leather pouch on my spice rack.

If I was ready to expand into different sectors
of adult life, I’d probably have his kid.
He really is just that good of a dude.

I guess this is what people mean by “timing is everything”:
I’m just not ready to restrict my bedroom to hockey pool transactions.

Even if his tongue is bifurcated.