I'm a writer who works from my home in the city. There's an apartment building behind my house that gets an eavestrough cleaning once a year by the loudest machine ever known - for two full days. This year I escaped the hellish noise, taking off to a log cabin in the lushest region of Southwestern Ontario to swim in a springwater conservation, sing Hank Williams for the shimmering wood ducks, and pick-my-own strawberries for picnics where I drank chocolate elderberry wine. When I came home, I… Continue

If I could fill the empty space, now, with flowers from my friends, like a constant funeral for time spent without achieving orgasm, I would not miss the sex.



Accepting my addiction has allowed me to see that the man who I want to love needs not love me back, and that wanting to love him is love enough.



So he will never love me. He who has been taking space in my favourite memories, untouched, for a decade. He who has avoided me, annoyed me, serenaded me,… Continue

Deep pine boughs shelter the grief. Having once held swinging, clambering children they now support the tragic body of adult being. Come in these woods to commune with the healing birds because it points the right way and the sun circles in the spirit. Here my heart starts. I will meet death or anyone here to sacrifice myself for my protectors, the pines. There is no duty in the forest that serves a human first.

As I sat down for a leisurely lunch with my friend Nicki, a disheveled man, wrapped in many tattered layers, ambled drunkenly through the restaurant, carrying an old guitar case that thudded hard against my chair when he passed. Suddenly I heard a broken, long-winded, and confusing melody being poked out on the piano behind me, and I turned to see it was the man who now appeared to have masses of oily, matted hair and beard. After a while his musical musings turned into the soft, hesitant… Continue

My adored, my desired heart. Pursue me, ignite me. Array the light of my soul among the wedged corners and knarled nooks of our living home, appearing as the dust of a white peach left on your fingers when they slip along its cover. To sleep where you are breathing is the final act in the longest possible play, entitled 'Love For Loving Ever'. Onstage my essential part is to stay beside you, looking to the watching gods like a rose when it lays upon the day-sky, to a reclining robin. Spring's… Continue