eXist3nZ as a conundrum

the ignorant man full of wisdom


the warmongering pacifist

the vegetarian that eats fish

a heart full of hope doesn’t need to “wish”


the saint that sins

a LottoMax millionaire that practices minimalism

a sober alcoholic remains stoic


a destructive creationist

with chaotic orders of tranquility

that’s friends with a capitalistic Marxist


a sad woman that always smiles

while honestly embracing

senile of the truth


an environment polluted with cleanliness

the ephemeral materialist

a gullible skeptic?








Only fools and loners?

I was once foolish enough to fall in swoon with the silhouette of a lady. She was a tramp? Highly inebriated and lacking clear judgement. I devoted almost all of my thoughts and prayers to the idea of her. The temporary elation I acquired ignored almost all of reality.

Mainly, that she wasn’t into me?

To have a desire that is persistently unfilled. May lead to a broken ego? Ever forgettable I am walking down the street wearing nothing but a pumpkin. Avoiding eye contact because I’m an autistic adult not a conceded fool. Ever so aloof to only notice her shadow. Then fear the face it leads to is disgusted with unkempt bearded me with cheeto stained lips.

Trying so, to avoid any unpleasant misunderstanding; “I’m sorry. I thought ‘freedom of expression’ was a given here on this just land?”. That would include freedom to be a dumb mute. Freedom of being chastised from supposed peers. Jeering fools that may think I care what they have to say.

When I likely wouldn’t even give them the time of day?

“Do you have the time” (to listen to you whine?)

{no response, the eschewal continues}

[carries around pocket books in foreign langues to look like a tourist]

Responds only with that universal gesture of peace and love?

Mistreat others the same way you desire to be mistreated?




“Just keep smiling”. Is what she wanted to say to him. Say to me? Except he wasn’t already smiling. Why put yourself in social situations then remain obstinate? Maybe because he liked being around people but just wasn’t good at socializing. Like the other day at the green grocer downtown. There was an inked up plain Jane hovering nearby he could have at least said hello to. Maybe the feminist propaganda got the better of him.

“Why do MEN think we’re here for them?”, said the disgruntled womyn?

He couldn’t really tell is she was gazing with delight in his direction or if she just desired one of those plump avocados. That he just so happened to be standing in front of. His friend gave him some sound advice.

Just talk to people until you get used to talking to people. Then you may know the difference between a woman that gives you butterflies and just being nervous around people.

So he started hanging out at hipster cafes hoping that somebody would talk to him. However, nobody did? Everyone at the cafe seemly already had a clique. And most group of friends aren’t open to outsiders?

If you be friendly with everyone, doesn’t mean everyone is your friend.

He started feeling like that teenager with Downsyndrome he’d seen around to and chatted with a few times. The kid would hang-out on benches in public areas and try to talk to passer-by’s and almost everyone ignored him. Henry was the only one to acknowledge that person as a fellow human being?

There isn’t much difference between a restaurant and a jail house cafeteria. Sit at the wrong table and expect /r/PublicFreakOut ? Sounds like a fun social experiment?

Hoping to meet a woman isn’t going to make it happen. You have to put in effort to socialize. Like that woman in the car in the parking lot at the mall. He only realized she honked and pulled over to the side to maybe chit-chat when he was a hundred foot steps away. Why feel guilty for wanting a normal life?

The number one sure pathos to a good life is having a good life partner; are dating websites the key to finding this or an unwise shortcut?

Love is a warm gentle smile. A chance for fleeking minds to meet the ever sought after ideal. Like sunshine on a cloudy day. Does your nimbus part the clouds?

Maybe Henry needs some danse-danse therapy. Take his dancing shoes out of storage and find a dance floor and dance like there is no tomorrow?

Transistor of Time

“What the Hell?”, she thought to herself. “After all of these years, he hasn’t aged a day!”. Anka thought she was in a dream or time-warp having seen former lover with all the glorious memories that come with seeing someone we have previously loved – still love? This must be one of those waking day dreams brought on by being back in a familiar place after being absent for so long. The rush of memories from the tune of the subway warning bells, the smell of crisp winter air off of the lakeshore. She had met him at the same subway stop almost a half-century ago, and here this character was jiving to the same old beat, playing the same jazzed-up melody wearing anachronistic clothing. Since their brief but passionate romance she had traveled the world as a cosmopolitan citizen; achieved, accomplished, and experienced more in life than most could fathom in an imperfect world. Had the privilege to meet, greet, have brunch with, share stories with, some of the brightest souls and greatest minds ever to exist since the golden age modernity. Climbed mountains, crossed behemoth bridges, viewed fine art from Antiquity to the Renaissance to the pissant Impressionists to postmodern hipsters embracing minimalist kitsch avant-garde macaroni arts and crafts. Used the shitter at the most suave museums, sampled exotic cuisine and lost delicacies, swam with wild adventurous loving dolphins, saved the elephants from extinction, taught guerrillas how to fight against poachers; experienced the best that life has to offer. And he was still humbly but merrily busking at the St George interchange terminal with his bass clarinet. Only now there were break dancers on hover mats and the performance included an impromptu ensemble of make-shift instruments; bucket drums, oldschool digital-vinyl turntables, a chocolate saxophone, a kazoo, etc. “Huh, not a single grey hair!”, she thought begrudgingly with perplexity. In comparison to her self-conceptualized image herself he actually seemed somehow younger than she remembered but our memories are good at playing tricks on us depending on our mindsets. “How can this be? It must be his son.”. Was the thought from the rational centres of her mind. There he was all scruffy faced and greezy haired, the free spirited hippie she fell for a whole lifetime ago. He was playing the same riff that caught her attention decades ago when she still danced like nobody was looking but new everyone was because who would deny themselves a glimpse at such a beauty. She started to feel queasy, that youthful zest we lose after life sends us a curve ball, the tragic ironies that help us grow and be stronger for out next challenge conquering the unspoken fears of #terraincoganita hoping not to drown if we venture to close to the river of solipsism and get lost in the ocean of unspeakable delight. We all drink the same sacred water that once was the ectoplasma of the dinosaurs and fertilized the frog and fish eggs. All of a sudden the background clamour all the surrounding pedestrians became silent as a harmonica swiveled on a C# note, the ‘contredanse’ of the bustling people continued but she was frozen in time as she was now a few steps closer and could see the birthmark and scar. No natural creature passes down such markings to its offspring, even if he was a clone or imperfect replicant of what she had presumed was a man. “He was certainly a man by anatomical definition”, her inner commentary read aloud in soliloquy in the empty stage of her mind as she took a deep breathe remembering how he had comforted her with platonic companionship. She was now in a quiet duress in contrite contemplation of existential philosophy of reality. Had she just dreampt all of those glorious memories. She was now in tears and quivering as she seen what looked like a young lady with similar aesthetics as her younger self when she was in her prime scholarly years jiving to the music of life*. She tried to pinch herself to wake-up from the anomaly that was her guardian angle teasing her. Would you trade it all for one true love, or bask into the comfort of taking the path most choose to travel? She had the decision to relive that love affair or continue on in solemn resolution that we only live once and having the knowledge from the countless cultures she had encountered her intuition wasn’t all to curious of the idea of shifting time&space just for another chance to be young foolish and in love once again because at any age we can embrace whatever will make our hearts content and it is always wise to choose a new beginning without toying with the Fates.

Besides she didn’t feel like tasting his halitosis once again.

[Literature / Prose / Flash Fiction / Romance / General / Short Stories]


[commentary: This is from my old writing blog. It’s a second draft. I got the idea for this from one of those fleeting moments. A granny at the bus terminal gave me vague look of spooked familiarity. The setting is Toronto. I miss taking day trips there and wondering around.

The characters name was a tribute to Anka, Paul Albert – Canadian singer and song writer.]

A funny thing happened while walking home from decorum

While on my morning walk. This time from a friends after watching the winning Toronto Raptors NBA game (they are now eastern conference winners and have made it to championship tournament). I experienced the earthy tones of recent rain storms dissipating unto the mild humidity.

With fresh hints lilac.

Which I followed my nose to the blossoming scent of beauty. I hope the property owner is forgiving of foraging urban hikers. (I took a branch to enjoy the smell for the rest of my walk home)

I got a McCoffee and free newspaper. A special edition of the recent win.

Noticed a security guard doing their job likely politely asking loitering vagrant on undisclosed corporate property to vacate the premises. Of course this jovial bloke was a tad grouchy for being woken up from their slumber. Echoing explicit mutters of discontent which muddled my peaceful morning trek.

I don’t understand why people would choose to slumber on the doorstep of a bank. There is a greenspace maybe twenty yards away. Not that I’m for non-permitted urban camping (hobo encampments). However, I haven’t had the misfortune of not having a pot to piss in.

Thank goodness my many irresponsibilities as a millennial adult have not lead my down that road (yet?). I have been known on occasion while returning from a night of over-consumption/indulgence of intoxicating nectar decided to slumber beside train-tracks or other off-the-main road/path (greenspaces). If only to avoid a potential confrontation from my vivid imagination. (I’ve been ‘jumped’ before and have since decided against walking around alone after dark)

Maybe the solution is creating affordable housing with locally sourced recycled materials?

Maybe some people choose the lifestyle and thrive in degenerate behavior which leaves them at the short end of the stick?

Maybe this message will self-destructive?

CV2 2 Day Poetry Contest

Arrg! I’m very displeased that I  missed the registration deadline for CV2 (The Canadian Journal of Poetry and Critical Writing). I’ve entered this contest before and really enjoyed it.

“This annual contest challenges you to write an original poem in 48 hours — with only one catch. The final poem must include ten words that we provide. These words are released at midnight CDT on Friday April 19th, 2019, leaving you 48 hours to use each of them at least once in an original poetry composition.

Prizes include cash, publication, and a copy of the issue containing the winners, not to mention a whole weekend of wordy entertainment.”


I guess now I’ll be socially obligated to spend the long-weekend with friends and family. Or I could just lie and say I entered the contest and camp-out in seclusion like and addict. There are worse things to be addicted to; like conformity?


I like apologizing to friends that call and invite me out; “sorry busy writing”…



Always read the fine print

Writing a children’s story book is on my writing goals list…


I was just about to submit a story to this “contest” to write a children’s’ story book of 500 words. When I read the FAQ I realized that I misinterpreted the competition criteria.

It’s a competition for children. *Not* a competition to write a story book for children!



… oh well, back to Submittable to try and find another contest to submit to.

Two dead lines five days and unlimited coffee

I’m two-thirds done the Malahat Review Long Poem Contest. I’m going with the minimum ten page submission of avant-garde stream-of-conscious nonfixed verse.

Lack of any stanza or form ain’t poetry?

CBC Music is humming in the background. Radio II is my preference with the night stream streaming whilst pretending to be productive at whatever cafe I happen to drift to. Trying to keep clear of university town.

Is the ideal cafe quiet or lively?

Too quiet, and I feel obligated to buy more than just one coffee an hour. Too lively, and then me wants to join the reindeer games. Which is wholly yet half-hearted frowned upon?


If I get writers block then this five day binge is going to stretch out like that freak chocolate accident. Very sad to hear about the local stream being polluted. As if the water shed isn’t already a clogged pore. Unsightly blackheads, bright yellow smile, like the sun peaking threw a cloudy mid-afternoon. Through the gloom, yoga may save me?

Do you like getting caught in the rain?



Subsidizing Writing Careers Would Benefit Us All

“There are hidden costs to a career in writing, and ideal technology is one of them. Owning a Mac laptop is not about status and bandwagons for me. Having a workstation that is both aesthetically pleasing and fluidly functional is important to my writing process. It may sound silly to some, but the sheer pleasure of writing on a beautiful machine is a force that drives my work sessions. Well-crafted tools are revered in many professions and, I would argue, inspire us to do better work, whatever that work may be.”



Malahat Review Long Poem Contest 2019

I had the fortune of meeting Sonnet L’abbe when she was in town a few years ago as poet laureate of local university. I subscribe to her twitter and found this contest to enter. It’s due on  February 1st, 2019. So in the mean time you’ll find me in .random cafe’s being an extroverted hermit writing away, and hopefully not too distracted by the hipsters?