- Roast turkey
- Wild & brown rice dressing in chicken broth with dates, raisins, spices & fresh roasted chestunuts
- Peas & butter
- Whipped garlic-potato pancake
- White-flesh sweet potatoes baked with cinnamon, nutmeg & maple syrup
- Gravy
- Apple pie a la mode
- Pumpkin pie a la mode
- A nice Italian red wine
Beat that.
I’m home
Home is my parents’ house in Halifax, Nova Scotia. It’s the end of summer, and the days are getting short again. It’s curious how people are consistently and constantly amazed at that occurrence, like fall is an unheralded event that catches us off guard every year.
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The office towers have their heads in the clouds again.
What do they talk about when no one can see their lips move, a thousand feet up and wrapped in gauze?
I bet they’re planning to make more money. Always talking about making more money.
Will you shut up? I can’t hear myself think down here.
The train is coming. Is that a paper cup that moved down there?
Yes it is.
No, it moves with purpose, a small brown package scurrying under the rail.
She says she’s been told there’s a chip bag with something good inside under the 23rd tressle.
Good news travels fast in small cities underground.
People sometimes encourage me to write. They tell me that I am a good writer, and that I should write more.
This, of course, is bullshit.
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The turnstile has two long scuffed divots that feet have worn deep.
Feet know instinctively where to place themselves for maximum effect and minimum effort.
Trust your feet: these skid marks have been worn deep by the work of millions of expert soles.
Don’t doubt that they know where to go, if you’ll only let them.
Geeks to the left, beautiful people to the right
It’s an industry event, get it?
Krystal to the right, Creemore to the left.
We got to get this party started.
Chronic skeletons saunter down the catwalk
Pouty and thin
“I’m so hungry! But I’m beautiful….”
To a coat hanger, another coat hanger is a beautiful thing.
In the subway, the blind guitarist looks at me, smiles and dips his head. How does he recognize me among the thousand clitter-clacks of like-minded shoes? Is it the new soles I have put on? I’m not sure.
I put a coin in his case for insurance: I don’t know what kind of magic a seeing blind man is capable of, but it can’t be weak.
The garbage-bag crows flap high in the treetops, effortlessly but vainly, trying to escape the limbs that detain. They don’t really want to leave. They know it. We know it. They know we know it.
For every three crows there is a dove, but they’re just as indecisive.