Friday, 18 August 2017

My Chapbook is Now Available

After the months of hype, I am very, very, very happy to announce that my debut chapbook, Songs About Girls, is now available for your purchase and reading pleasure!
It is a short volume, consisting mostly of poetry along with a bit of prose writing, that ranges across the last five years in terms of time written.
I want to thank everyone who's every encouraged me in terms of my writing, those of you who have responded positively throughout this process, the various magazines and websites that have published my stuff previously, James and Stephen for providing blurbs and advice for the book, and my publisher, Urban Farmhouse Press, for taking the chance on me.

Please share with anyone you think would be interested and feel free to promote wherever you feel is appropriate. If you do have a particular connection to the literary world, please do let me know as I am new to this whole process. I am available for interviews or any other kind of public engagement and review copies of the book can be made available from the publisher upon request. In addition, if you have idea for book

Unfortunately as I am going to Paris at the end of the month, a proper book launch will likely have to wait until the new year. We had planned to do something this month, but there were a number of delays and issues with the publication schedule and the time seems to have gotten away from us. Rest assured, though, I do fully intend to have a proper launch, with signed author copies, once I get back to Ottawa!

I'm so happy to have been able to see this process through to the end and I hope that, if you do end up purchasing the book, you enjoy reading it as much as I did putting it together.


Tuesday, 25 July 2017

1 New Poem


When songs go slow,
city lights grow effervescent,

I think of Haringey foot traffic

When the sun swells and drapes
these little rooms in finery,

I think of gold harps
on green tapestries,

and of you.

Saturday, 22 July 2017

1 New Poem

Dull Rainbows

Rustwater clank of rattling awake,
these post-Soviet planned models of
worlds, with their grease wheels barely
touched to track in friction form;

A meeting in soapstone
centerpieces, town names tongued
over with untrained whiplash,

belying those dreams of a Judt
reader all the same.

Back with the tin can charmlessness
of slanting roof cars, there lies
the snow-bound winter wash of all
that’s being sung on fire escape

Ever-draining-colour copy
of old wounds we kept over-painting

with trinket-seller timing,

with flat-eared generator hum.

Sunday, 9 July 2017

1 New Poem

Still Bleeding

Second-hand pains, worn washcloth
in downcast river triage,
that won’t do so much from these
red-white blood rushes I get
outside of exact modulations,

When I don’t want to speak a
single thing more poisoned with
firewater wash and boot-heel echoes,
as I knew it always did with
the muddy tracking over grass carpet;
still committed, but dulled with click-clack

How I heard still the trilling of front
lawn keyboards, in the brittle whine-chant
of police sirens.

Two being one, as cheap kitchen shears
to rip and tear at bones, to chip
away at map lines,

But didn’t hit the same damp way:
firework pageant,

Friday, 7 July 2017

1 New Poem

Bigger Things

Something to say was:
you taught me the difference,
between peppermint-vodka stings
of sticking throat in younger

those ways I always thought
it felt for boys whose shirts
fit bitter, who sat more
still, could focus on time

Between all that and
stiff breach it feels to
not know what to call you
in tumbling digit-point,
except alive,

Alive in wan hues,
but without a word in
infinite scripts to call,

Making it so seeming bitter,
these half-spun living rooms of
faces scarcely held to minute
flicker of waxy imprint,

Marking the celebration of high holy
nationalists’ days, that scale so
far to stretch a sink water sky

Sunday, 9 April 2017

1 New Poem


It goes in dry lightning time,
the unroofed ambition exposed
beneath bombastic clamour of sky:

how I came in as a foundling
on brow tile kitchen floor,
how it begets the bunk science
of heartworm checks, copacetic
constructions for the dawn’s

call of bracketed faces chased
through myth mazes of foggy
forgetting; fallen, stippled daguerreotype
in the word-spent witching hour.

You absquatulated, rushed as
electric windmill swift, to
be but dank rumour again:

a cold tomb kind of place to go.

Thursday, 2 March 2017

1 New Poem

States of Movement

The glass still traces blood oak aromas,
a tilling kind of cross wind about cabin
planks: how you kept names in mind,

How little you brought up separations in
voice, the mild blankness of clock
faces, when we had nowhere to be.

This is racing to a kindness calm,
a criss-crossing shrug of rewinding
tapes that trace too much back,

Too much the literate piecemeal,
Monday nights with computation cracking,
spirals to same ends, as ever.

But I’m still here, still the light dust
of heavy airs, they find a long release
in, still pretending to float

Above the muddy-roofed buildings,
above the petty fading of shirt collar
kiss marks, diving back to cold ground.