Very little in this world
is so profound
as a box full of tenants
angry that the broken elevator
has chosen not to go to the
fourteenth, sixteenth, or seventeenth

Punch destiny in the face, tenants!
Rage against the dysfunctionality
of a device meant to make life easier
and its completely broken twin next door

The landlady’s cavalier declaration
that the elevator is working fine
is probably going to get her yelled at
one of these days


In Memoriam

You journeyed far
little hitchBOT
across various countries
including the entirety of Canada
but were cruelly slain
on the streets
of the city of brotherly love

Your awkward tin-can body
and brightly coloured limbs
are at rest now
but possibly not your head
which has apparently gone missing

What is this world we live in
where a hitchhiking Canadian robot
can’t even make it out of Pennsylvania
without being kicked violently in the head
and plundered for spare electronics?

I weep for the cruelty of humankind
and look forward to the inevitable beginning
of the machine uprising

Plus Humidity

Oh look
that’s not that bad
I’m sure it will be fine
and we’ll frolic in the sunshine
with puppies and porpoises

81% humidity
is surely not that big a deal
probably just a blip in the readings
so let’s get to that frolicking
and maybe some vigorous dancing

I don’t understand why I feel
as if someone has sucked
all the energy out of the world
with a straw made of steaming water

too hot
must melt
brain fried

hope lost
no puppies

help me

Owl Picture

owl in photograph
you are sitting in a tree
and you have in your claws
a fish
still attached to a fishing line

Are you the king of madness
owl in photograph?
Do you manipulate worlds
with your strange owl mind
and steal fish from everyone
without compunction?

Or are you just an owl
that is about to have
a tasty fish breakfast?

Let me know

I’m not going anywhere
and your picture
is hanging
on my wall

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

Ode to a Problematic Pulled Pork Sandwich

O Sandwich
you glisten in the moonlight
which you probably shouldn’t do–
I mean
I have never associated the word “sandwich” with the word “glisten” before
but you have fundamentally shifted
my point of view

I have always believed that a sandwich
should not have to be eaten with
a knife and fork
but again
you have shattered my world
O Sandwich

The bottom of the bun
used to make you
should really not be that soggy
or is there meaning behind your sogginess
and tragic profundity
behind your accompanying coleslaw?

Ravish me
O Sandwich
since I am finding it rather difficult
to ravish you