What are you running from

She asked

Searching for the sinister

Mental illness



Offering the obvious, and 

Smiling somewhat smugly

She replied
The haters

They will try to rob you
Of your simple joy

Because they don’t understand
The should-be-nothing

Risen for some reason

Throws them all for a loop
And instead of being joyous

They feel threatened

And jealous
But the should-be-nothing

Just keeps on running

Like the free and beautiful wind
And with levity

Comes wisdom

And the little girl running 

Exchanges her naive smugness

Embraces her questions and Her Highness

Loves her no less

Invites her to the palace
Because HATE

Of course of course of course of course of course of course OF COURSE!!!

Is is just the most stark naked!

The most obscene!

And in this way

The most beautiful 


Cry for love. 
Do we play the lottery

And not go to work?

No, we don’t. 

But I still love you. 
It might do some good

But probably not 

It’s not enough!

But I still love you. 
Posting on Facebook copying and pasting a generic post about lonely people and the holidays and how we must offer a MOMENT of support and offer our THOUGHTS for those who have no family have lost loved ones have lost jobs who are down who need love especially at these times and copy and paste this post and make yourself believe it IT HELPS IT HELPS IT HELPS! BY GOD A COPY AND PASTE ON FACEBOOK SURE TOUCHES ME!
It might do some good

But probably not 


Oh how tender the copy and paste!

Oh how touching the post and the haste!

Oh how fake the sentiment and the ubiquitous things you say

On your self-fulfilling falsely-deficit-filling obstacle-making toward REAL goodwill-taking on the book of Face!
I was afraid

To respond to you, 

my well-meaning friend

But in the end

I did

Something much the same as this
And you said

It might do some good

And I vehemently disagree!
You see,

I am that one

You speak of!

No children,


Aside my so silently still sleeping phone

I weep alone

I read your one post

Amidst your million!

Of your dogs and home and family and friends and children!

I ask

Where is my invitation!!!


So I should be 


By your

Facebook annotation
I believe you thought it might do some good

But I’m here to tell you the opposite

Probably not!


But I still love you. 

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One thousand days


One thousand days
Mille jours
Since our fissure
Opened wide
Like the middle of a book

One thousand days!
How magnificent a measure
A kingdom of time
Since I sat and wrote
The first word, note
Since my heart broke
Or finished breaking
Or began healing
Some of all these things
Of course
These things don’t happen
In one day

But in one thousand days
A long, lonely time
Save fourteen precious people
Yes it hurt me when she said
I don’t read anyone’s books!
I’m not anyone, dear
But this isn’t about
That one, that her, that hurt!
It’s about the fourteen
It’s like I love thee!
This gratitude swells, it’s so deep

One thousand days
One hundred five chapters
The ramblings of my mind
The dancing of my thoughts
The sorting of my psychoses
The sanctuary of my sanity
My own little mental oasis
My private pride and joy.

One thousand days
Of holy scripture
Thousands of visitors
To the church of my mind
Church of the poisoned mind
Heavenly hours and godly times
And when you read my words
I am happy
Like a bit of empathy
My only legacy

One thousand days
Of mortuary
Where worry comes to weep
And anguish to rest
And turmoil to die
I wage and win these wars with words
The twenty-seventh
Of February
Two thousand thirteen
And on and on and on…

One thousand days
Ago one very special day
For little me
Girl gone
Woman writing
Secretly saying silly words
Unheard amidst the real writers
This secret, enormous, beautiful
Love affair began, it is
One thousand days

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62 to 67 of 100


It’s all contrived
That lumberjack shirt
That beard
Those obscure tattoos
Those thick-rimmed glasses
Your uniqueness is ubiquitous,

Oh, yes
Call yourself a nerd
And believe it
It always is
Search for identity
Generational puppetry


I understand about
I’m surprised but I’m happy
I understand about
I’m sad and I’m devastated

Like I already knew you
Even though it was never my dream

Happy for you
Jealous of you
I’m enviously supportive

You fade to black
I fade to black


You know what’s never in the photo
The phone
It’s a downright lie
One that can’t be helped
As it is also my camera


The paint
Once white
Now grey and and even black around the edges
Peels away
Chips and breaks
Lets seep through the lovely musty smell of wood real wood beneath
Weathered and so beautiful
Should not be painted over

Beautiful old window frame
Not old enough
So very old
Charming antique,
you see.


You can’t opt out
That’s the thing
That’s what drives people mad
Some people

It’s this way
It’s ludicrous
All land
Nowhere to escape to

To try and make a go of it
Just you and your few things
Fishing rod, knife, flints
Live off the land

Because all land belongs
To some government

You can squat
For a good long time
Maybe a lifetime
But what kind of life
Technically without integrity
They will say you had no right
But it’s they who have no right to lay claim to land
All land!

I cannot say no
It’s not for me
This life
I must participate
We all must participate
Consumption, possessions, money, power
Even if that means…

You know.


Too busy
To crush hard

Too proud
To crush hard

Too afraid
To crush hard

Too dizzy head spinning wondering what else where else who else
To crush hard

Too promiscuous
To crush hard

Too stupid
To crush hard

Too blind
To crush hard

Too caught up in the facade the carefully-crafted profile the persona and not the person
To crush hard

Too afraid to too quickly engage to make the mistake of having heart break
To crush hard

Too engulfed by ego
To crush hard.

Too alone
To crush hard

Too full of dread and lost in the world wide web
To crush hard

Too bullied by buying too mowed down by media too minute on the menu too safe in saving face
To crush hard

Too afraid to commit a legitimate fear perhaps in a disposable single-use short attention-spanned society that can only be changed by our own actions guts courage to love
To crush hard


Publié dans Poetry | Marqué | Laisser un commentaire

One Demon Down

Until now I have called myself a weekend smoker, « such a light smoker, » and even, falsely, an outright non-smoker. Because I have always been a fairly and relatively light smoker AND, simultaneously, a marathon runner, I would incessantly debate in my head: what is the big deal? « You smoke so little you can still run Boston qualifying marathon times. » I would tell myself. Other times, like Saturday mornings, after a night of drinking and five or six cigarettes, I would wake up with the stink, the laboured breathing, the disgusting clots of thick mucous. In those moments I knew that even light smoking was toxic and stupid and disgusting and was having an effect. And in the last few years, those nights of drinking and extra cigarettes were certainly no longer confined to only Fridays or Saturdays.

It hurt my pride to admit I was a smoker. It hurt my pride more to admit I needed help. Accountability, for the most part. Apparently being accountable to myself wasn’t cutting it, and that in itself is telltale and disappointing. I made a pact with a friend who was in a very similar boat to mine. We both quit. November first. On the evening of November second, I had two cigarettes. I find it fascinating the fast-swaying seesaw of such absolute determination and then less than two days later, such absolute disregard for what I know is smart and healthy and in my best interest, to put it lightly.

Last Friday (the thirteenth) was my birthday. I had considered getting hypnotized to completely eliminate the minimal smoking I do. I decided against it due to cost and skepticism.

It being my birthday, I was also not accepting Airbnb guests for the weekend.

Then, two days before my birthday, I received an Airbnb request for one night, my birthday, and the reservation request was from no one other than a hypnotist from Ottawa who specializes in smoking cessation.


We chatted and worked out a free stay in exchange for the one-hour hypnosis. I was excited. Smoking, even minimally, is stupid, stinky and expensive (and delicious with wine, but alas, I digress). I was too doubtful to cough up the $500 for such an approach to quitting smoking, but « fate » has now brought me this method for free.

The hypnosis will work because I choose it to. There is no magic. It is more like a baptism of thought; a rite of passage. The formality, the ritual, the unique marking of a specific moment. Determined enough to out myself, wear my shame, ask for help. It is any and all of these things. It is ME.

I am now a non-smoker.

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55 to 61 of 100


Vagabond soul
This I must accept
I must remind myself
When my hungry heart
Searching for an anchor
Casts off once again
Crying invisible tears
Into a lonely sea
And my practical mind
Only lets me fly so far
Where I will always see the shore
Monsoon of doubts
I swim back
Infinite moon.


How a grown man
Speaks to a woman
And of course
The infinite
Fuck you’s
Forming storming norming performing
How it goes
But at norming came another hurricane
Again and again
And it’s all because he loves me
He explains
Heart swells!
Sweet girl
(Also ugly, dirty, short)
Sheds one last, sad tear
At seeing his bleeding foot
And still sharp tooth
Smart girl
(Still ugly, dirty, short)
Finally out of bandages.


Everything has turned to nothing
It doesn’t happen in a moment
Except the last straw
Weighs the same
Is the heaviest


There is no
Dear, God!
For crying out loud
There is only
Dear, Christina.


I judge the damage
By the enjoyment
The guilt
I judge the damage
By the opinion
The religion

I give my name
At the coffee shop
Where I run in for a quick espresso
I give my name
At the restaurant
Where I dine for an hour
I give my name
At the park
Where I sit and read and breathe
for a few peaceful moments
I give my name
Like a debutante
To all the lovely strangers
Who take my order
And prepare my coffee
And share kind words
Human moments
Except the stranger
With whom I pass an hour
Under the sheets
Fulfilling a need
Just another need
For this one we must
Not say our name
For this need
We must feel shame!

I judge the damage
By the society
Where I happened into
I call it damage!
Only here
To make this point
I do as I please.


Thank you for bare feet
On my balcony
In November
Thank you for five drinks
Instead of ten
The wisdom of ageing
Thank you for one cigarette
And not I don’t know
Hope, belief and perseverance
One more drag
One more little shiver


Pourquoi tu rigoles?
I am not laughing

Pourquoi tu souris?
No reason

I think
The most fascinating thing
About ageing
Is the ever-increasing
Diversity and complexity
Of thought
If you’re lucky

Or if you choose
To be aware
And if you are old
But not so old
That the breadth and depth
Of thought
Begins to short circuit
Or fade
He said
And laughed.

It’s Mademoiselle
I said
And smiled.

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It all started this morning. I was on my way to work. I was walking across Spadina on College. The light was just turning red and I was not quite at the curb yet. The car there (fine, yes, it was a taxi) was not looking and started to advance on the soon-to-be green light for him. He stopped abruptly when he saw me just in time, and in reaction to his near hitting me, I made a slight gesture with wide eyes and my hand, indicating « Hello! Look! » Nothing obscene or angry, just a little « what the Dickens » hand gesture. You know what he did? He rolled down his window and told me: « Hey! Be happy! » Hey. Be happy. ARE YOU F- -KING SERIOUS RIGHT NOW!? I saw red. I said « Yeah. I AM happy. I’d just like to live out my life, thanks. » And I walked on. So that was the first thing.

The day at work was fine. On my way home, I had to catch the shuttle bus (again) because the subway (still) wasn’t running. No biggee. I get home. I need to run 12kms. I am training for a marathon. I had woken up at 4am this morning to run before work but it was TWO degrees and I bailed. It was supposed to be much warmer in the afternoon but instead it was flurrying and gross. Fine. The gym it would have to be. So I get my sweats on, take the damn shuttle (again) up to Yonge and Eg to go to Badlife Fitness. It is STILL under construction. They literally have the treadmills facing a construction wall. I looked at the front desk guy and simply said: « I can’t do it. » And I left. I got back on the damn shuttle and came home. All this had taken almost an hour. I now had no time to run on a treadmill or anywhere because I had plans with a friend. I am really seeing red now!

Then I realized. F–k. With this shuttle bus business, it will take me forever to get to my friend’s house, the show we were to attend starts at ten (an hour I am usually sound asleep by), I won’t be able to drink because about an hour after arriving I would have to leave to come home again since I have work in the morning. Plus I’ve been up since 4am. Plus work will be really busy tomorrow because of the Toronto Frickin’ Marathon. Damn runners! Plus I am just in a fowl and frustrated and defeated mood because of the weather and the shuttle buses and the cab driver and because I didn’t run AGAIN. Ugh! I hate to cancel but I just know my friend will understand when I relay all these horrible facts, right? Wrong! CLEARLY YOU ARE NOT BESTIES WITH A GAY MAN!

I call, because cancelling by text is cowardly and lame, and relay my sob story. The stress is clear in my voice. His response? Silence. I say: « Well thank you for being so understanding. » He says, with zero sincerity: « No problem, enjoy your night. » I then text another long apology as I do feel bad for cancelling although he still has another girlfriend he is going with. As I am writing, he writes, and I quote: « Let me do you the favour…whatever you are writing to me you can not bother for I won’t read…and your excuse is sad and pathetic. Enjoy your night. » Sad and pathetic. THIS IS WHAT I AM DEALING WITH, PEOPLE!

And you know what? I don’t freakin’ care! I don’t care because I simply CAN’T care or I will lose my freakin’ SHIT! I see red! I see red!

Wait a second! Yes. I do see red. Red wine! I pour myself a glass of Wolfblass Shiraz.

That’s how I see red. BITCHES!

Publié dans Uncategorized | 6 commentaires

46 to 54 of 100


I love you,
You said
As you *touched me
As you drove your *car
Deep into *the night
Your sincerity
Arrested me
The world stood still
What else is there to say?


I miss Paris
I ache
I miss Paris!
At twilight when it is just my friends and I
Drunk and the streets are quiet
At midnight when I am by myself at the piano bar in Montmartre
Early morning when I run along La Seine
Leaving Chacha Club and walking home in bloody heels
When I am rushing to work at La Chope
I miss the awe and humility
And the vortex of beauty
Bullseye me
Little me
And the laundromat
Late at night
As the sewers flow
The veins, it’s blood!
I miss the loneliness
The lost
The romantic what if
Is now the nostalgic what was
Even Barbès-Rochechouart
And so, so very much more.


Think about
How you light a cigarette
In the wind
Turn away
The wind has more power
Face the wind
And put your hand up
For shelter
And you ignite
I am not!
Telling you
To smoke cigarettes
I am!
Telling you
How to win small wars
Big ones,
Smokers, etcetera,


Of course
You get through it
Life is like that
And their judgment
Only comes once a week
But his love
Comes all the sweet day long.


The linens
Remind me
I am old
At least
I am ageing
They are actually kind
In the morning
Their folds and ruffles
Upon my
Worn but not weary
My once rebel know-all soul
My now delible manuscript
Empty and full slate
Empty before
You never knew what I did
Empty before
I had no words of wisdom
Full now
I have humble insights to offer
To guide myself
Full up
Of all those standstill days
I cannot hide
What I have done
Who I’ve been
For so long
Even then
But now the linens
Have found their way
Into me
My inevitable
Give me hours
I shall still
Go unnoticed
Not so long ago
My nightmare!
To be unnoticed
Now the fragile but still
Sustainable dream
Not a nightmare
A nightmare
Not at all
A nightmare
Worth it’s weight in
The trade of
Young naive stupidity
But one day
Clearly it is coming
Like I never knew
The linens may be kind
Will the body, the world, the young
The bones,
The shopping bags on my arms
That leave carvings
Much longer than before
The earth sucking down
On my ass!
When will they win the war they waged
Way back when
When I was young and untouchable and forever young
And did I mention


Restless spirit
Journeys paid for
By the heart
Penniless heart
Blood and tissue
Precious currency
Barren soul
Empty inside
Smile alone from Montmartre.


Not to topple
High heeled madness
On concrete canvas
Pretty as a picture
But you’re almost falling
And your toes are bleeding
And you’re as graceful as a walrus
You grimace
As your struggle
To balance
And your toes pinch
Like your wallet to pay for those ridiculous stilts
Whoa, catch your balance
Good save, oh the allure
Silly dumby prototype relic
Smart is pretty
Strong is pretty
Memo is tacked
Beneath your stiletto.


You haven’t gone
From zero to hero
You’ve been purified
From monster to human
No hero
Just a beautiful, messy person
Who acted a way
Because you felt a way
Both wrong and right
An emotional human being

I have no mental illness
Aside from the bruises
And scratches and moments
Just me
A fellow fallible human
The facts haven’t changed
I simply understand them now
See them in a different light
A softer, kinder, smarter light
And I, too
Offer up only the same damned facts
With fleeting yet increasing bitterness
When will these questions go away?
I know the answer
The only question is
Can I endure your fleeting bouts of
Volatility, hostility
So that I may
Continue to have
Your sweet love
So very sweet when it is sweet

Oh, Love!
Accusations are poorly dressed admissions of fear, my dear!
My dear Love.
You don’t make it easy
Oh, Love!
So hard to make promises
But there’s no love like your love
And for now
I’m still here.


Friends, lovers, don’t always last
Two days ago is not the past
If no response is welcome, don’t ask
I’m disappointed, estranged again,
above all aghast
The pendulum swings and out you
It swings again, you love me fast
In shock, dismay, I stumble back
You’re a different person, sweet man,
it’s a fact
I tell you with love, it’s not an attack
One sip, a tragic happiness hijack.

Publié dans Poetry | Laisser un commentaire