“How the fuck is no one high-fiving this guy? Look at him, look how awesome he is.”

“Oh yeah, that guy, yeah he just stands there all day.”

“What do you mean?”

“I dunno, he just stands right there in front of the legion with his hand in the air. People hardly notice him anymore.”

“He’s hanging. They’re all just leaving him hanging all damn day.”

“Yeah dude, that’s kind of his thing, I guess.”

“His goddamn thing is he wants a goddamn high-five and people are just looking at him like he’s the asshole.

“Jesus, why don’t you go slap his hand if you if love him so much.”

“Oh I love him alright. And you would too if your town wasn’t such a bunch of goddamn ignorant, non-fivers.”


“This guy is a national treasure. He should be in a hall of fame.”

“What hall of fame would he go into? The hockey hall of fame?”

“What? No… I figure they’d have to build a new one for him.”

“With a bronzed statue commemorating how he lived and died; with his arm in the air.”

“Yes! Man. I’d high five that statue everyday on my way to work, or the grocery store to buy bread for a sandwich.”

“Have you had that new oatmeal brown bread they’re making now?”

“Yes I have, and it’s delicious.


Tons of gray sweater this morning.
Standing on the sidewalk
our hands in our pockets,
except my other one
in your mouth.
I feel your mouth-muscles move.
Say the words
laundry hamper in italics
like that.
It feels like an accent
French maybe, or English.

“Spot of tea then?
Cheerio and right, right,
bollocks, flat, chips,
car boot sale” etc.

That is how I think some people talk.


I’ll have a table this coming weekend at Sappy Fest in Sackville, so if you’re in town for the tunes, come say hi. I’ll be at the Legion on Lorne Street, Saturday from 12 – 4. Unfortunately, I won’t be reading, at the reading.



We’re busying ourselves with your sweater’s broken zipper,
that is just very important right now.

While the woman across the street
feels the need to air out her perfect breasts,
in the late July’s afternoon sun.

She tosses her head back in the sunlight
and a warm breeze courses its way over her skin.
Satisfied, she closes up shop, and goes on her way.

“I don’t know” I’m saying, our heads still down,
“I think it’s jammed up right solid.”


Toronto based literary magazine, Taddle Creek are in town this Thursday at Happinez wine bar. Local Robert Moore will be reading with kind-of-local Jesse Ferguson, and some dude from Toronto I don’t know (Jason Kieffer.) Slideshow by photographer Ian MacEachern. Neat.


Did you know this is a thing? I’m not a parent, and the verdict is still out on how successful I’ll be when I am one, but I suspect the conversation I have with my child about this would go something along these lines:

Me: Hey so what’s all this horse shit about kids choking themselves out and dying?
Future Child: I dunno, some chick was doing it in class the other day, she looked like an idiot.
Me: Have you done it?
Future Child: No, I stick to heroin and meth during class.
Me: Don’t be a dick.
Future Child: Don’t accuse me of being one then.
Me: wanna go tie stuff to the cats?
Future Child: ok.

I actually remember a girl doing this in class once when I was in grade 7 or 8.
I think she got pregnant the year later.


An overnight train ride filled with retired bankers and bankrobbers;
there’s an air of familiarity between them all, but no one can quite pin it down.
This déjà vu train car winds its way between the green mountain trees
and my newspaper dutifully reports: train accidents on the rise.

My coffee cup rattles and clanks in time with the trains rusty wheels.
I wonder if they ever invented a rattle-less train, if it would lose it’s charm,
if the driver would have to compensate by playing it a little looser at the wheel,
I wonder if this explains airplane turbulence. I don’t think trains have steering wheels.

The train attendant is making her way down the aisle, stopping at each seat,
she stops by my side and asks me if everything is ok, and I tell her it is.
She has a face that you immediately want to be very close to for a very long time.
I don’t mean that she’s a kitten, but I don’t me she isn’t one either.

I imagine that there is a very grand mystery unfolding a car or two back.
I’m an extra in the twisting roller coaster of an Agatha Christie novel.
The grizzled detective only has a week till retirement,
and very accidentally stumbles into the biggest case of his career.

Mysterious murders, and guns, and torn pieces of a checkered over-coat;
snagged on the splintering wood of an aging train seat.
Everyone’s a suspect, and I raise my newspaper to my nose, and look around.
The kitten-tits attendant walks by again, and I eye her suspiciously.

The rain beats down on the side of the train and I stare out into the black.
The loneliness is thick on a ride like this, and you can almost touch it.
I look around at the oriental carpeting that seems to be everywhere;
like everybody’s waiting for the drummer to set up, but none ever does.

The bankers and the robbers have agreed to sleep on it for now,
and I decide to join them.


Amy says:
 doctor’s aren’t supposed to die, right?
Jordan says:
 uh, what?
Amy says:
 I just read that someone on facebooks doctor passed away
 seemed a bit ironic in a way
Jordan says:
 like the inventor of the telephone who doesn’t have a quarter to make a call?
Amy says:
 similar, but more real
 you know?
Jordan says:
 well mr. ring ring thought it was pretty damn real.
Amy says:
 but you don’t have to have a quarter
 you have to die
 have to
Jordan says:
 well maybe he broke down and didn’t have cell phone and died.
Amy says:
 you’re not getting my thing
 that i’m saying
Jordan says:
 aren’t I? or am I getting it EXACTLY.
Amy says:
 why would he need a quarter in that situation?
Jordan says:
Amy says:
 you said like the inventor of the tele, not having a a quarter
Jordan says:
 yeah, to use the telephone. but in case you got hung up on the quarter thing, i changed it to being stranded without a cell
Amy says:
 again, you don’t need to have a cellphone
 you need to die
Jordan says:
Amy says:
 but he dies from his car breaking down more
Jordan says:
Jordan says:
 so what if a telephone pole fell on him
 and he died
Amy says:
 that would be ironic
 that is in the same relm of humor now
 person invented the telephone, died from it. person curing other’s illness, dies from it
 person that invented electricity, get struck by lightning?
Jordan says:
 person who invented hockey gets hit by a puck
Amy says:
 person who invented hockey stick get hit by a hockey stick truck
Jordan says:
 while looking for a quarter
Amy says:
 and he’s a doctor
Jordan says:
Jordan says:
 guy who invents bingo gets killed while walking in a row of 5 people
Amy says:
 man who befriends goldfish, sufficates in plastic bag.
Amy says:
 are we done here?
Jordan says:
 man who wants to play a trick on his kids rents a ghoul costume from roy’s costume outlet which smells like red candie and mayonaise. Upon wearing the costume and scaring his kids, (Anthony, 2 and seth, 5) they freak out and start beating him with 2×4’s until he falls, he can’t scream because of the costume and can’t work the zipper on the back to get out, so dies.
Jordan says:
 Also, he invented the 2×4.
Amy says:
 i wasn’t feeling it until the last line
 it would be like if i died from being so awesome
Amy says:
 cause i invented that, you see


Hey dudes.
Updated the site design again. Gonna try to update more often too, which I say all the time, but maybe for reals this time?

Heading to Sappy fest at the end of the month. I’ll be at the zine fair selling books, and at the shows listening to Jim Guthrie and the felice brothers, and Julie Doiron, and Rick White.

October brings the Halifax Pop Explosion. I think we’re heading up on Saturday for THAT zine fair, then checking out a show that night. (Hopefully The Hold Steady…) I think we’re going to wait and buy tickets rather than a bracelet. I may or may not regret that decision. woo!

Talk you to TOMORROW.

I’m working on a novel.
It’s like The Passage in that I’ll get a publishing deal before it’s done for $3 million dollars and then sell it to the movie companies for another 1.7 based on the outline alone.

The way it’s unlike The Passage is that it doesn’t really exist at all.


She’s eating crackers and I can’t even look at her, I’m so mad.


Cracker crumbs all flying around all over the place. So mad.

“WHaH” she’s saying again, with a higher pitch.

I look at her.

“Those are MY crackers,” I blurt out. “There I said it. Yeah, that’s right. Those crackers you’re eating, they belong to me, and you’re just double fistin’ em into your big dumb cracker crunching mouth. It’s like… it’s like you have a little cracker holocaust happening right in your face, and you’re just following orders, and I’m just sitting here watching it happen.”

She stops chewing, and looks down.

The guilt settles in almost immediately. She’s got a mouthful of my crackers and now I feel bad about overreacting. Your standard cracker crime fallout.

She swallows what’s in her mouth and hands me what’s left of the crackers.

“I’m sorry.”

The regret is instantaneous.

“Hey look, I mean, you can have some, I just…”

But she’s gone and the door shuts quietly behind her.

Probably went to steal some cheese.