November. Redundancy. It’s almost night, I’m on the Q3 bus, coming home from town, and I find myself resting my eyes on a fellow passenger. For no good reason. (Appeal? Disgust? Too much of something? A disturbing memory? Fly open? Carrying a live hen? Humming to himself? Looking like my…

Good afternoon, sir. Hello. Are you one of us? It depends… Depends on what? You’re either one of us or not. Depends on who you are. We’re the community. We belong. Ah. Okay. So, are you one of us then? I’m not sure. Frankly, I’m not the belonging kind. Perhaps it’s just that you’re not privileged? Come again? I could cover you in soothing ointment. At no charge. Really? Do I look sick to you? You want me to brandish my freshly cut organic sabre at you?

opportunities abound. so do falling acorns, drawing the attention of patrons enjoying their craft draft. keys are still cut around the corner but you think twice before taking the subway south.

picking up her pulverised bones, neatly sealed in a plastic bag, raking in handfuls of sand on the beach and setting it all airborne — leeward. hearing your feet hesitate, saying ‘perennial’ for the sake of saying something, and allowing yourself to be hurt, to be forgiven and welcomed in a place where you probably don’t belong.

“So, you’ll see that, basically, all’s fine with Zak.” “Yes, my wife and me — we’ve read your report.” “Yes, so I’ve assumed.” “Of course, we did.” “Yes. Of course you did.” [beat] “It is my understanding that there’s something you wanted to discuss with us.” [beat] “Yes.” “Yes. So…

low hanging skies. depression. (atmospheric, too.) low hanging skies. all encompassing joy. canvas carryalls — open. supine on the hardwood floor. what a relief. questions and counter-questions. red is a colour with loathsome memories. red is no music, it’s mute and toxic. red is. low hanging skies. see how they’re gone.

missing? long overdue. lost? missing. (missing) long overdue. missing? lost? lost. lost, lost, lost! lost? missing. lost? missing. lost? (missing) long overdue. missing? lost. lost? — long overdue — (lost and paid for)

The first sounds in the morning. Clichés. Underhanded double entendres. My broken coffee machine spitting out malice, loathing and judgement of the sly variety. A caress turns into a twitch and I remind myself I must descale the machine before I get overwhelmed by the shadows around.

you popped in to say hello. for better or worse, with words only you understood. the day did not matter and no response was due. silence was broken, put to no good use. not once wished for — an accident — I seemed a good idea you might recall.