This piece is written a little differently from my usual banter. I suppose I am trying something on for a while.

I missed you today


when I could hear the wind

whipping wildly outside my window

where you would hear the wind

against the ocean swells

where you would be kissed

by the spray and mist

and serenaded by gentle noise

when I listen to folk

and banjos

and fiddlers

like Oliver

I think of





I miss you whenever

I read lush

Prose. You always spoke with

Soothing eloquence. Your words were

Butter and chocolate, so rich

In verbose you were

Where I was not.

In speech I fumbled always

In script I was a little less dizzy

You were certainly

Poised in both.



A Window With A View

Do I look upon a wintry night?

From a window with a view?

From a frosty ledge with chattering teeth,

All snuggled up in wool, and wear?

Or do I look upon a wintry night

From a rooftop high in the city’s core?

Leaning against a chimney with sniffles

Of ice, dripping from my frosty nose?

Surely I am bound to see more stars

With the sky as my canvasing frame

rather than if I were looking through layers

of glass and window pane,

for what is a perfect night

behind a wall?

Nothing but vicarious meandering

And wishful thinking,

No frosty breaths or rosy cheeks

To conjure the season’s spirits,

What a shame to let the

frost dissipate in that way.



The TLC on Sherbourne and Nowhere

The True Love Café stood out. Though I had never been inside, it seemed to capture my attention. It was not particularly attractive on the outside, painted a deep shade of purple, with a giant heart scaling the front of its building. The inside, which I could only gather from looking through the windows, was just the same. Unattractive under dim lights (and probably more so amidst bright lights), chairs and tables could be seen in the presence of tall plants, sad looking palm leaves and house shrubbery. Not as appealing to the eye as one would think or hope for a place with “love” in its name. Only the outlines of figures could be seen, like shadows blurred in the background. A man behind a counter, a few people spread among eight or so tables, moving slowly, making their time last in beats. It seemed quiet to me, as though anyone on the inside could be sheltered from the city sounds, from the noises of streetcars rolling along the tracks, people trudging down sidewalks, bikes, cars, trucks, horns honking, dogs barking, hollering for apologies and yelling for the sake of yelling. It just seemed as though time stood still here, and that it stood quietly with a grin of contentment. I had never seen anyone enter the café, nor had I ever seen anyone exit. Yet whenever I passed by there were always people inside, perhaps just a coincidence of timing, or perhaps not. Though I admired the pace that seemed to be present among them, the folks inside always seemed quite unwell from where I stood. Why were they able to be so still, so present in their moment? Were they not flooded with the commotion on the outside? How could they not see or hear the masses that passed them by beyond the walls of the café? What content they must have. T. DM

Something or Other

I hated when the doctor was late for dinner. His square jaw and hollow cheeks made me angry, but his eyes and soft hands made me melt.

I felt them a few times, his hands. The first was with a handshake; a welcome into his home. The second was in passing; a mere brush of his hand against my arm in a hurried rush out the door. The third time I had fallen asleep in the library. The doctor found me laying on the rug, surrounded by papers and hardcover novels. I was barely awake when he stood me on my feet and, gently holding my hand, led me out of the library and down the dark hall.

I’m wondering if I should even bother taking this anywhere. Leave a comment or two and let me know if this intrigues you at all, so I know whether or not I should continue with this. Not too sure.



Loose Leafs of Paper

Loose leafs of paper are

desirable little carriers

of hearts and of spades,

and last wishes or lists and


of carriers of words, and

diseases that run rapid to

infect those who are not

savvy to contextual modes,

taunting logical minds.

Loose leafs of paper are

endless options to the

imaginative ones, with endless

hankerings for the rustic and

unexpected. They are a

catalyst for the inquiring

mind, whose overactive thoughts

are set loose among process

of elimination.

Loose leafs of paper are

the scattered remnants of

disorder, covering the writer’s

floor, after a mad surge of

anger or of genius.