Tiny Sword

Your tiny sword
is a metaphor
that pulses with meaning
as you hold it
in your tiny hand

the tininess of the sword
and the hand
and the metaphor

My love for you
is a tiny sword
with a blunt edge

Sharpen it
my love

Sharpen i


Tiny Tree of Tininess

O tiny tree of tininess
how tiny you are in your tininess
and you mean so much so tinily
and you are my tiny tiny tree
and I love your tiny tiny roots
and I also just really like the word “tiny”
and will write it over and over and over:
tiny tiny tiny tiny tiny tiny tiny
tiny tiny tiny tiny tiny tiny tiny
tiny tiny tiny tiny tiny tiny tiny
tiny tiny tiny tiny tiny tiny tiny


Sumer is icumen in
lhude sing holy crap it’s hot
it’s so hot
the birds don’t land on the sidewalk
for fear of blistering their tiny feet
so hot
it’s possible to collect enough sweat in a little jar
to pickle an entire egg
so hot
people are posting pictures of cars trapped in snow
and mocking us for complaining about the heat
damn you
damn you to hell
along with the rest of ancient Mesopotamia


The stationery store is an insidious fairyland
an otherworldly carnival full of hidden dangers
oh look
it’s a tape dispenser shaped like a frog
I need that
I only have three other tape dispensers
none of them frog-shaped

and there is a ruler
green as poison
while my current ruler
is only clear plastic
I must have it
I must have
the poison-green ruler

and the scissors
O the scissors
the beautiful scissors
in packages of four

if I make it alive
through the thicket of art pens
and emerge winded
near the packing-material wasteland
I must still brave the erasers
and the hole punches
and the ring binders
and the tiny filing cabinets meant for index cards
and if I lay eyes on the coloured paper
I am probably doomed

damn you
stationery store
I do not need another pencil case
but that one is shaped like an orca
and is looking at me
with soulful puppy-whale eyes

Ode to a Dead Raccoon Left to Rot on the Sidewalk at the Corner of Church and Yonge for Fourteen Hours at the Height of Summer

You went too soon
little bandit of nighttime splendour
with your tiny clever paws
and your fundamental understanding
of your place in the vastness of the universe

When you cast off your mortal shell
and left it at Church and Yonge
so you could fly free as a philosophical disembodied space entity
or whatever
the people of Toronto paid tribute
with flowers and candles
and even a card

You were worth it
small swift arbiter of universal grief and madness
and though we are kind of sorry we mocked you
we also believe it was not mockery
but a celebration of your rich and giddy life
plus maybe a bit of sarcasm
directed at the city workers who left you to rot on the sidewalk for fourteen hours

Sleep well
minuscule champion of garbage-can-lid negotiation
and let the words of the city worker who finally picked you up
stand forever as your epitaph:
“Seriously, guys, it’s a dead raccoon.”

wise city worker
and so the world
turns on
into morning



Original story

Tiny Buckets

pitter patter
pitter patter
tiny buckets on my lawn
with the eyes
the eyes
the eyes
of horror

watch the little buckets
tiny buckets
eat the pony
why little buckets why
why the pony
my pony
the pony of my dreams

tiny buckets of my heart
make it end
make the lawn
all soft and smooth and happy