Hi, I write things. Some of them are good. I wrote at least one of them with you in mind. Try and find it. If I did my job right, it should not be hard.

Whoever you are, know that you are not alone and we are in this together until we're not. Then, it doesn't matter anymore. The universe goes on and us along with it.

You are suffering in your own special way and for that I am sorry. Being human is a pretty tough gig when reality tends to shatter our worldview on the regular. Here's hoping that my words reflect some fractured piece and make the whole puzzle a little more put together.

The Philosopher’s Stone

This legendary formula of two parts,
Sought by the golden and the lead,
Is wrought by gathered celebrants
With alchemy in their hearts.

We start with the diamond -
The cutting clarity
And faceted philosophies.
He contains compressed secrets,
The carbon component needed
To form the living bond.

We add our reagent,
gleaned from the heavens
flowing elegant and beautiful.
Clad in billows of white,
draped in the gossamer of the clouds,
She is a lattice of storms
And radiates the wave forms of grace.

For generations, we have practiced this careful formula.
We take one part diamond,
One part ivory,
We gather in a sacred place
And we all watch the union.

We are honored to behold the transmutation.
In this crucible, we stand sentinel.
We are the heat and the billows,
The tinctures and the alembics,
The catalysts and the stabilizers.

We watch them combine,
And, in their reaction,
we, too, are transformed.
The old are reminded
Of their own formulas.
The young divine a glimpse
of an elemental happiness.
The broken are mended.
The blind revealed.

We are all enlightened,
as conjoined rings are formed.
Made anew.
By this legendary formula of two parts,
Sought by all men and all women,
Gifted now to those with love and wisdom.


I woke up with a cigarette clenched between my lips.
The smoke had become omnipresent of late -
a little bit of socially, acceptable cancer,
the kind you can joke about,
a little black lung tumour humour.

Later, I rolled up with all the guilt and pleasure
of a someone who knew better,
who could do better,
Like royalty visiting a brothel
Because old habits die hard
And there’s secrecy in smoke.

For the span of a cup of coffee
and a few puffed signals,
I was an incognito prince.
Doing what I shouldn’t

Satre Causes Nausea

Here’s a joke:
An European academic walks the silk road.
He encounters the Buddha.
The Buddha ignores him
And the scholar trusts his finger to the heavens.
“I have discovered it!”
“ The Om’s piece de resistance.”
Then, he flies to Thailand
and buys a night with a boy in a sarong
for a handful of Red Delicious.

I am sick of the existential escapism.
Your convenient abandonment of meaning
Your kaleidoscope of filtered philosophies that help you understand
By convincing yourself you don’t need to believe.
Here’s the rub, Hamlet.
Everything has meaning.
The gods just gave us the luxury to choose.

See what I did there? I invoked the pantheon.
So, I can hide my Judeo-Christian upbringing
And eat my Jell-o in peace.
It helps steady my nauseous stomach.


I plot my course by three stars:
and Alexandra.

Charlotte oscillates
With the energy of a frozen heaven.
Her hair, a weave of dust
Between my outstretched sextant fingers.
She slyly winks with a dark humour.

Edison is the sun.
His warmth creates worlds.
He bathes those who surround him
In compassion
And the wisdom of the gods.

Alexandra is the smallest,
but she sings an old song.
She may be hidden by her siblings' shine.
Yet, everyone hears her whisper.
She speaks softly to Cassiopeia.
She lightly strokes Lyra.
We all dance to her pulse.

All three form the constellation, Potential.
I look to the heavens and I see a future unrealised.
I see a distant possibility.
I want to pluck them from the heavens.
I want to cradle them in my arms.
In each one, I see an aspect of the universe -
The mother who birthed them.



Eos, you cognate of the dawn.
Each history had a word for you.
For you leathered the face of every priest.
You energized every holy land.
You illuminated all our prayers.

Why do we no longer write poems in your honor?
How have you become some post modern cliche?
You built our language as sure as our pyramids.
Should we not pay homage? Should we not worship you still?

You’ve been replaced by petty deities.
Human kings divined of flesh.
No wonder we darken the skies to hide from you.
Little wonder you wax scorching, inhospitable.