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Dear dear, I have described your eyes, but have I seen their sight? Have I watched them watch, held what they’ve held? Once, yes. We were biking to the Montreal waters, to be soaked by the sun. A train was passing. Giant curves of fibreglass and metal from a windmill yet to be constructed trailed … Continue reading
Dear dear, In nine months, I am happy to be the first to present to you a healthy, though squawking birth, a weird congratulation for the act of insemination of a thing that is meant to be more than a thing, a failed bird, a busted egg, an omelet if the bird-part sticks faster than … Continue reading
Dear dear, I read once from a great philosopher that at some point, all things become predictable. I believed he predictably said that, being great and all. I predictably continued on with the book afterwards, being grated and all he was not. And now, I predictably do the same here, writing to you about what … Continue reading
Dear dear, I adore you. I have to start with that common, misused, adorned phrase for sometimes, the most obvious facts bear repeating. Against the falseness, they barrel through. Against the swell of disappointments, they ground. Against me, I hope there is you, adored and yourself. I mean all of it. All of you. You … Continue reading
Dear dear, Kurt Vonnegut wrote that the best piece of all of literature was from King Lear. When the climax is winding down, and the characters have shown themselves to be vile, and there is nothing left to salvage, King Lear perishes. Among all the metaphors and metonyms and entire neologisms that Shakespeare could have … Continue reading
Dear dear, I am drunk and I am happy and I am in love. Most of my writing should be this easy breathing. It should wet your lips as you say the words. It should remind you that I want to wet your lips. But I get undrunk much of the time. I am not … Continue reading
On the stand is me. Much of the battered light beats shadows into my face. There is no judge, no jury. The room is empty, save for a sole typist’s typewriter that is blue on the exterior shell and a grey, hard metal on its keys. A faded wood from the Deco era panels the … Continue reading
You, Everyone knows there is no real thing as poetry, that it is effectively useless, that it fails in the practical like brushing one’s teeth or in stopping a man jumping off from the ledge, but still, during these hospital days, I think that too many are suffering from what is kept within a good … Continue reading
Dear, First, your eyes. The shape of the earth bathing happily in itself; stolen sunlight caught on a hot, giving solstice’s day just before the golden auburn tumbles behind the hills; years pocketed away into a little secret like a schoolboy crush; the wet world after raw rain when the waters learn how to kiss … Continue reading
Dear dear, Few things are as holy as holding the hollow lumen of a heart. Here, the beat does not bow. The only master is the winter of metal, the machine that stops the pounding of the meaty tires on that long, lively road. When I first shadowed cardiac surgery, I saw this sacredness splayed … Continue reading
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