Beautiful Things

Sometimes I’d hide behind my eyes

because of you

and I’d make a list

of all the beautiful things you’d do

I’s think about the curve of your beautiful lips

and the beautiful pulse

under your beautiful grip

and because of all your beauty

I stayed behind my eyes

until I was gone completely.

– E.A.

Never Forget

the rush of fresh air cutting into the polluted cab of a tan Oldsmobile

cigarettes given life by the dying light of another

songs that never end drowning the cusses of your parents

no seatbelts that cut the side of your neck

or keep you from letting wind rush past your ears

tall walls of rock that give legs to rows of pine trees

wide lakes to sit by while eating ham sandwiches

– on white bread, no crust, light butter

kisses on the forehead that leave red smears of affection

you shrug them off and secretly crave them when not given willingly

old t-shirts that smell like home

squishy moss under scabbed toes

tea-flavoured powder

lake water in your lungs

charred bass over fire

feeling like you will live forever under the clear skies

of Northern Ontario

never forget.

Summer Solstice

We beckon

across sun-burnt fields

with lips like red-skinned apples

to the deities of summer


we sleep in crumpled bags on the forest floor

we feel free

but we soar like leaves

following a guided current


we find peace

in the torrent

rushing through wide-spread fingers and toes

where blessings spawn deep

under crystalline grottos

with green frogs and mosquitoes


when we dance under ink stained skies

our bodies yield to the cries

of serenity

– that grows in rows between emerald fields

where the cicada’s song builds

in search of love


we witness existence

in a vast, wild land

where winds breathe

and waves kiss the sand

– that is why we take a stand

to protect it


because we worship summers

like the wombs of our mothers

for the gifts we are given

– and we know that

from first breaths to heaven

our lives do not belong to us

if not for them.









basking in the dark

you like to

smack those well polished lips

and adorn the colour of your hips

with shades of vitality

 – russet browns.

and you crave the crowns

of velvet-clad royalty

higher power

to reach all the stars you see.


but you care not for morality

or certain realities

you find only by idling.

hands – not poised for prayer

brush knots from your sun-kissed hair

and sweep messes

under a rug of ‘formality’.


then you stand atop it all,

with hips like leaves in fall

smacking your lips,

never wondering if there’s a difference

between what is right and wrong

but why would you if you always did belong?





nihilism makes wine taste better

Katie awoke from a dream. It was a nice dream about nice things. She didn’t want to be awake, she wanted to stay there. There, the world wasn’t a cold blue colour. The world was always bright, even when it wasn’t. Maybe the dream was nice because it wasn’t so real. Like watching a movie or reading a novel; the heaviness of gravity didn’t limit her bones and blood and skin from being sky-bound. She could use portals and light waves to see people she couldn’t in her world. People who won’t speak to her…or people who have died. Katie was uncomfortable in the real world. Her skin didn’t feel like her skin. Her blood belonged to her parents and their parents and their lineages. Her bones always cracked and ached. She was aging. She gained weight easily now. Or she craved more bad foods. Or she didn’t work out nearly enough. Or she just stopped caring.

Either way, the taste of wine has never been so satisfying – its sweetness reminding Katie that she would soon forget the perils of time; the flow of uncontrollable moments that may or may not benefit her. And with enough sips she would be asleep again. Dreaming of a world far away from her own.