Heading Home

I found myself today on one of those crash course collisions with another human. You know the one—you make eye contact from afar, do the dosey doe but invariably end up sidestepping to the same side, as if you were a mirror image of each other.

It can go on for seconds until you stop, laugh (or are annoyed) and continue around. I genuinely laughed today. I wondered if we were magnetically drawn to each other by our atoms and why. What do we share together as two strangers that only the universe knows, prompting us to discover.

Inspired by What the…‽ Image by Etienne Boulanger.

Oh Claude

I’ve always had long hair, except when I was seven and solo-parented by my father, whose barber gave me the go-to ’70s bowl-cut. More recently, I wore it short when I thought it was faux-pas to have long hair over 50 and worse, long and gray. Then, with my growing indifference to everything, the mane flourished. Claude judged me—I’m trying too hard, wrote he. I was planning to home-chop it, when I ended up in a random conversation with a human on Bloor carrying a Gucci under her silver flow. 
     Leave it and love it, she said. 

Inspired by Being Judgey (or, Okay Boomer!) Image from The New Knew.

Ru

My man came into my life a few years ago.
     I first met him in Burlington. It was a long haul there, but I was told he was a “licker”—so enough said.
     He was dark and handsome. He played hard to get, ignoring me and jesting with his comrades. We did the coquetry dance in the sandbox. And I took him back to my place.
     His first move was shy and frisky. He showed me his cojones, with a trill.
     I’ve made a giant mistake (again) I thought. He’ll go in the morning.

     24 hours later, I relented.

Inspired by the Corpses’s latest writings on road trips. Image from the cover for the single Double Entendre, by Greg Spero.

In the Blink of an Eye

George was her first real boyfriend. Desperate to be in love, he happened to come along at the right place and time—a drunken house-party. They were complete opposites. He was a rocker, and she a preppy. She slowly acclimatized and even started to like hanging out in the McDonald’s parking lot blaring Whitesnake from the Camaro.

She retired Ralph Lauren for a white leather fringe jacket. She had hoped he was a poet in-the-making but when, on her birthday, he wrote a card that read Happy Birthday Angle, her spelling elitism got the better of her, and it ended.

Inspired by Cat’s Eye, Photo from CarGurus.

The Cop Out

Most happily, the holidays are over. The days are getting brighter and longer, and the brain-numbing cycle of Christmas music is over. The Mr. Hydes have drunk their tonics and morphed back to the Dr. Jekylls. It was my first time in years I did not shop locally. Too expensive, too woke and too tchotchke. Half of the time the stores do not shovel their walkways. I ended up at Yorkdale Mall in its cosy underground free heated parking, where I could browse in my runners with no jacket, cop out, and buy Aritzia for all. It was mindlessly peaceful.

Inspired by the new year. Photo by Aritzia.

Ooooh, Ahhhh

At an intersection in the hood, people are mesmerized. Jaws are dropping. Arms straightened out, fingers pointing. They are halting their cars, scooters and strollers to get viral photos.
     Standing in the street in clusters, gazing and smiling, in wonderment and disbelief. A site for their eyes to behold.
     It’s not the moon, a glorious pink cloud sunset or the incredible rich colours of the changing leaves. No, it’s a giant inflatable pumpkin. A Costco limited-edition private stock. Engulfing a corner lot and causing a seemingly stirring of the soul.
     Wake up from brain rot. Forget 67. Join a luddite renaissance movement.

Inspired by this week’s events. Illustration by Ross Hendrick.

Let’s Not Talk

My workplace wants to start a dialogue about menopause. Why? Purportedly because we need to de-stigmatize it. For fuck’s sake it’s not an EDI issue. I get it on one hand, but do I really want to talk about menopause and my vagina at work? Not particularly. Nor do I want my male colleagues evaluating my thermodynamics at the office or worse, thinking there is a cohort of us running around with brain fog unable to perform. Should we next talk about andropause and shrivelling penises? I can see the headline, TSE crashes in the wake of shrinking confidence.

Inspired by Pricks and Stones. Image by Marysol Ra.

Star Bright

Confidence is abundant without awareness of self. This is what propelled me into auditioning for a play in Grade 9. I had no talent, and was blissfully oblivious. Even my dad’s shaming raised eyebrows deterred me not.
     I rehearsed my dance routine to Lucky Star for weeks under the direction of my then 11-year-old sister. I didn’t get the part. But there was so much joy in creating the choreography and endless singing to Madonna; we still laugh about it today. By Grade 10, my ego enveloped me like an Alien from the Body Snatchers. I never auditioned again.

Inspired by Sibilance. Image By Dzmitry Habrus.

Jordy

Jordan was his name. Jordy for short. He had it in for me and I never knew why. I think he literally hated me. It wasn’t any kind of secret crush as I was called a bone rack back then. Too skinny. Too awkward.  One afternoon, he raced by me on his bike and launched a rotten tomato at my head.

It caught the side of my face and exploded. I tried to pretend I wasn’t phased as tomato juice saturated my hair. But I felt shame and it stuck for years. I’ve always wondered what happened to that prick.

Inspired by Jerry Maybee. Photo by aquaArts studio.

No Brainer

I watch my neighbour cut their grass. They purposely leave the grass cuttings on the sidewalk.

It’s odd given it takes about 60 seconds to sweep it. We can’t be that lazy. Maybe we just can’t be bothered.

We’ve grown tired, impatient, indifferent. We prefer ChatGPT to human.

We are promised AI will make our lives easier. It does everything faster. We won’t have to think!

Endlessly chasing time against the certainty it’s escaping us.

We don’t have time. We only have now. And in that now, we’ll have no brain.

Inspired by Rosehill and Dale. Image by That Lawn Dude.

7 Minutes

It’s hard to find good humans these days. I found one a week ago. She asked for directions to the UP platform. I walked her there and was about to turn away when she asked if we could ride the train together. I said yes. We sat, we conversed—not in an obligatory way but with genuine curiosity. We looked at each other, we listened. I walked her to the Via. She hugged me and I reciprocated. We didn’t exchange names, we didn’t have to. No, this is not a love story—just a story of humans without phones.

Inspired by The Oakville Pietà, Image by Frank van Hulst.

Maddie

Here you are my sweet girl,

In my arms, having taken your last breath.

Eighteen years you were by my side. 

A young mama whose babies were taken from you. 

I took you home as my baby.

You became my best friend, my silent advisor.

The stillness in my racing mind.

The accepting observer when I fumbled.

I caress you now,

I don’t want to let you go.

I slide to the floor with you in my arms,

And cry your name.

I gently wrap you for your crossing,

As must be done.

The pain takes hold, 

So pure, 

So necessary. 

Inspired by Lessons From My Dog. Image by 俊后生.

Here I Go Again

Paul was her first real boyfriend. Desperate to be in love, he happened to come along at the right place and time, a drunken house-party. They were complete opposites. He was a rocker and she a preppy. She slowly acclimatized and even started to like hanging out in the McDonald’s parking lot blaring Whitesnake from the Camaro. She retired Ralph Lauren for a white leather fringe jacket. She had hoped he was an artist in-the-making but when on her birthday, he wrote her a card that read “Happy Birthday Angle” her spelling elitism got the better of her and it ended.

Inspired by Doxymoron. Illustration by Roberto Atzeni.

6 AM

Happy is the serenity of the early morning walk in the park

Still dark

The quiet lays over life like a weighted blanket

The people speak softly

The dogs prance lightly 

The robins commence their rehearse for the dawn concerto 

The low lying paths

Damp and foggy

Feel intriguing and mysterious 

And get the heart beating

The top of the trail then unveils the breaking sky

Pink and gold

Streaking through the gray clouds 

The dead brown brush begins to shimmer in it’s light 

Truly, it is a spectacular place 

A new beholding every day

There to experience 

I am grateful 

Inspired by The Après Life. Image by Nathanael Kiefer.

Journal Entry #2

Dear Miss Pube,

You arrived unexpectedly much to the horror of my sister who announced it to the family. Our single father rushed to the pharmacy and returned with a book on menstruation left silently for me like a surprise gift.

I expected you would have come up during sex-ed class, but instead, there were only unrecognizable diagrams of penises and vaginas narrated by old people. You grew into a beautiful bush, and then with the trends you were stripped away into a silky sand dune on an island oasis. Today you are a Mrs. Pube; wiley, wielding and wise.

Inspired by Tom, Photo from Pngtree.

February’s Cry

Early dawn breaks
Body heavy, eyes wide and too alert
Looking out to the bleak barrage of gray sky

Soothing sounds of Vivaldi, harshly interrupted
Black hawk down
Young lives gone
Families broken
In a fleeting second

Never mind the tariffs, turmoil, tyranny
Piercing twangy sound bites
Overreactions and condemnations
All too simplistic
For life’s true tribulations

The dark cold Potomac
Enveloped their innocent hearts
And cascaded fears into waves

Early spring sun will settle the river
And awaken their souls
They’ll make peace with the cherry blossom petals
Floating silently along

Quiet the outside and listen within
Humanity’s calling

Inspired by Sereni-tish. Image by Image Creator.

Gumption

As I sit here, recovering from a fracture and read my fellow corpses’ pieces, I find myself wondering what it would be like to be toothless. A one-handed Safari misstep results in several links to toothless blowjobs. Curious, I dare not open. It’s my work phone.

Called gumjobs I’m not quite sure how “gum” replaces “blow.” There was no conventional blowing in my Scarborough upbringing.

  If you’re an aging actor needing reinvention or a hottie who’s lost all teeth in a car accident, I can see how this can be a way to make your mark (without a mark).

Inspired by Gap Kid. Photo by Nina Malyna.

Tis the Season

Heading down for lunch, the elevator stopped on the 29th floor. Cal walked in. He had just come back from a Christmas fête.

We made awkward small chat about the weather, his kids, the busy-ness. It was a long ride down. I was holding my breath the entire time and trying to carry on a conversation, almost fainting. I wondered what he was thinking, was he holding his breath too?

     His bowels had aired a turkey-cranberry combo that followed him into the lift joining us. He didn’t look embarrassed, so in the holiday spirit I looked embarrassed for him.

Inspired by ASA. Image by Shutterstock.

Bona fide

The word boner came up over dinner with friends recently.
     It conjures up unique childhood, teenage and young adult memories. Grade 8 awkward slow dances to Stairway to Heaven. A variety of flasher encounters—men in cars with no pants, men streaking through parking lots and nude men in apartment windows. Countless TTC boners. Against arms, butts, close to the face while sitting on the old crowded streetcars.
    Maybe I’m depraved, repressed or suppressed, psychologically maladjusted, to find this hilariously entertaining. Or maybe it’s just the comfort laughter that women share of city life in the ’70s and ’80s.

Inspired by Keep it in Your Pants, Sailor. Photo of the Beury Building in North Philadelphia, PA by Dunning∿Kruger FX.

Getting Back to Her

She forgot how to have fun

She forgot how to smile

Moaning, griping, bitching

Tired, dirty wasted place

No one seems to give a shit

Busy buried in internet space

7 am

She wakes alive

Her heart’s beating 

She’ll do something different today

Baby, she’s running

And you’re holding her hand

She’s all glittered up and laughing

Masses of friends

Enveloped in joy

Gentle touches, grateful eyes

Dancing and singing

Throats parched dry 

Feet aching, backs tweaking

Don’t let it end

Cool damp air

Rushes upon them

Wrists twinkling with traffic lights

Wanting to walk forever 

She found herself tonight

Inspired by My Secret Garden. Photograph by Lars Van de Goor.