when she says she loves me

he says he loves her
and I ask again about her website
it’s just a way to make money, he says
it’s nothing
she’s smart – a business woman
a genius
her own boss

he says they’re going to get married on a beach
and run barefoot into the surf afterward
she’s the only one for him, he says

I ask again if he is sure
considering… you know… her

he says he knows how it looks
everyone’s been asking him the same thing
telling him to be careful
to watch out
she’ll break your heart, they keep saying

he drives on for a while, not talking
watching the yellow line in the road ahead

he says, the only way I can explain it
is in the words of a song:

“if you could only see the way
she loves me
then maybe you would understand
why I feel this way about
our love and what I must do”

I knew the song
it was big in the nineties
I couldn’t remember the name of the band
I still can’t

I joined in and sang along with him
as he drove

“if you could only see how blue
her eyes can be when she says
when she says she loves me”

she didn’t break his heart, in the end
not really, anyway


Amethyst in the House of the Sons of Erick

I don’t recall exactly what reason brought me to Roland’s house that day in the fall of my nineteenth year. More than likely I was meeting up with his sons so that we could set off on some type of mission of fun and mischief. Roland had raised three sons, and the eldest two were young men whom I happily called friends. The youngest was in the process of reaching an age I could tolerate and was showing signs of becoming just as fair and likeable a man as his siblings. Continue reading

Lester’s lot

the ballad of Lester Littlefield
wide-eyed night bellman is alive and thriving
the smell of parkade concrete
in warm and heavy summer night air
the soft thrum of adult alternative echoing
through the cavernous surfaces
of a hotel lobby
curling dumbbells in the long shadows
of an abandoned fitness centre
doing laps in an empty pool or soaking
in a hot tub under the lights of
office towers beyond a sky light


When I was eighteen years old, my wisdom teeth were pulled.

It was a fairly painless procedure in and of itself, as I was unconscious at the time of its occurrence. The maxillofacial surgeon’s assistant sat me in a chair and put a mask over my face. She told me that the gas worked fast and that I should try to breathe normally, then she left the room. Immediately, I began pulling the deepest and fastest breaths I could muster. I had never gone under anesthesia before, and I wanted to suck the biggest narcotic high off this rare opportunity that I possibly could. After a few deep pulls, the assistant poked her head around the door frame and said, “Um, I haven’t actually turned the gas on yet. Just relax.” My cheeks flushed briefly. Continue reading