January 2014

Dinner For Stew  There was once a day, when I tried to dine, At a restaurant, quite the fav’rite of mine. I gazed at the menu, so many morsels, Many of which I had eaten, of coursels. I go there all the time.                                   So imagine my shock when I looked at the papers – Covered in catfish and carrots and capers – And saw a new dish, a fancy one too, That reminded me of something like vegetable stew… Only it had chicken in it. So I thought to myself, well come on now, How bad can it be? It’s food, it’s chow. All food is good; it’s delicious, divine, And soon it’ll be in this tummy of mine. Or someone else’s. It depends. But then I heard the …

Babyface –  A Poem for Plainwhite Tom You bought me a tomato on our first date. You were the first person I had occupied space with  who didn’t question my love of eating them like apples fallen from trees. You told me Autumn was your favourite season. You felt the greatest affinity with leaves and watching them float to the ground. You found yourself in the red and orange and every hue that represented fire and passion  and you just wanted the world to let go.. to dance with you in the street. There should not have been even a snowflake of winter in your bones. They moved with the fluidity of summer rain. No photo could contain your liquidation nor your patience in those of us that hadn’t yet mastered …

  Polyphony//If Only You were my modern day manifestation of the lyrics of “A Kiss To Build A Dream On” by Louis Armstrong. I sang it so much that it defeated time and my grandparents caught on and told me with twinkling eyes that it was their favourite song. So stop by and play me for a minute because the dust lays thick and I think that I’m trapped inside a time signature – four beats to the bar and some demi semi quavers to stave off fading age limitations and how old we are or seemed to be embraces timelessness – like music, age is redefined in the abandonment of time’s uses and improvisation, that’s the closest life gets to breaking free from our cages to stop checking our …

“Try it again. A little bit louder, Gavin,” called the director from her front row seat, glancing up from her meticulous notes as a scrawny teenager cleared his throat on the stage and looked about again with wide eyes. The older boys in the back found their marks and straightened their backs with an air of purpose, at the ready for their cues. The open air theater was absolutely gleaming. Perfect props were organized neatly backstage, even at this early rehearsal. This group of wayward actors were backed by indulgent parents with deep pockets in their closely tailored suits. “You need somebody quicker, and I volunteer,” a scrawny neck shot up in confidence. “Come back, Gavroche, don’t you dare!” An angrily rigid finger pointed at the neck accusingly. “Someone pull …

The Aristocrats is a joke that comedians love telling to shock other comedians, so it is extremely graphic and not for the easily offended. I first heard about The Aristocrats from the documentary of the same name, in which the producers went around to different comedians and asked them to tell their version of the joke. Here’s a link to the Gilbert Gottfried version from the film which I consider one of the milder tellings, although that could just be because afterwards I watched the Bob Saget version which is extreme to say the least  I was there when he told that most dreadful story. We were at St Martha’s Bakehouse sitting on a long table. Seven of us, Sean, Sarah, Jenna, Victor, Max, myself and Frances. If you have …

In a small dingy bar, people from across the town had gathered up after a day’s work for a moment of peace. The next day, many of them were going to elect the new mayor among the two nobles who had been contesting the position for the past 25 years. Both had held the post a few times and none of them had proved to be the better option during the time spent in the office. The haggard lot that formed the small crowd in the bar was not really interested in who comes to power as nothing was going to change and quite frankly, no one really wanted to think much about it. A few drinks at the bar, a few telling of stories was all they cared for …

“Tattoos,” said the woman, the glint in her eye ensnaring me, pulling me away from my cafe quietude. I was trapped.  She was beautiful, in an insane sort of way, her hair flung about as wildly as her words in the air. “Excuse me?” I asked, though I knew she would have continued even if I’d remained silent.  The Coffee Shop was bustling, a steady rotation of holiday shoppers flowing in and out of its doors, an ebb and flow dependant on local stores rather than the moon. I’d been sitting for an hour, trying to find the right frame of mind to write. I’d mostly been surfing various social networks in the hopes of finding a chuckle here or there. “Tattoos,” she continued, “tattoos are the problem.”  She was …

Madame Defarge pointed at the captured nobleman, a strong aroma of wine clinging to her like an invisible fog. The bloodthirsty crowd around the guillotine was a moving mass of screaming peasants, death on their tongues and weapons in their hands. “Down with the aristocrats!” Defarge declared, and the blade dro- “CUT!” Madame Defarge dropped her stance, slumping, and turned to look behind her, where the set suddenly cut off to reveal several cameras and monitors, a watching group of producers, and in front of all them with an exasperated posture, the director. “What?” “No, that’s, that’s not it!” shouted the director, and moved onto the set. “Can you hear what I’m saying? You are not acting hard enough.” “Well, how am I supposed to act?” snapped Defarge. She stood …

It was Grandma with me, and my cousin Nick. Nick is about my age. We walked through the familiar doors of the Club and after the $7.50 pot and parma Grandma retired to the pokies. It had been 45 minutes which I thought was enough time and so Nick and I went through to the gambling section. It was near pitch black though. Nick said he had heard something. “What did you hear?” “Down with the aristocrats.” “Down with the aristocrats?” “Yeah. Down with the aristocrats.” “You heard that from outside.” “Yeah.” A rat appeared through a hole in the floor, wearing the dress of a 17th Century Earl. ARE YOU DOWN WITH US!? THE AINSWORTHS! THE AINSWORTH WORTH HOW MUCH? WORTH BILLIONS! HEIR TO THE ARISTOCRAT LEISURE FORTUNE AINSWORTH, …

Ever since the invention of the cell phone, there’s a shortage of old fashioned pay phones around the city. They disappeared, dinosaurs of an age when we were stuck to a makeshift plastic barrier, pretending we had privacy to make our calls out in the street. The very last one in my neighborhood was outside The Vanderbilt on Exeter Street, only a stone’s throw from the apartment I shared with five roommates. Few people know The Vanderbilt it used to be a high society meeting place, a hotel where rich people used to have dinner in their restaurant and stayed in their rooms. These days, folks around the neighborhood just call it a flophouse. I used the last of my quarters to make my weekly call. Behind me, a car …

Down below the watch tower, the city of New Axe sharpened its focus on the task at hand.Dealing with the criminal element under recent ministerial reforms meant that the eleven houses of law in the justice quarter were working all 27 hours of the day. Hidden caches of gold and jewels from the aristocrats of Old Axe would fund this wave of change.  “Bring him in,” said Judge Soleus. As the hooded and chained figure entered the Stone Court of Traitors Circle, the jury become animated with discontent. “Kill him!” shouted one. “Hang him,” said another. “Enough,” insisted the Judge, raising his hands. “This will be a fair trial. Everybody will have a chance to speak.” Two armed guards stood watch over the prisoner on the witness stand. “What about …

  James sat before his machine lost in the lights, the repetition, and the plateau high of five straight hours of gambling. The reels came to rest, one-by-one, and for the seventh-straight roll he got nothing. His credit count cycled down to zero – a far cry from where he’d risen to over an hour ago. ‘Damn,’ he hissed to himself as he gave the machine a little kick. The Queen of the Nile’s face staring down at him from the headboard seemed to smile a little as he slid in his last twenty-dollar note. ‘Sir?’ Rubbing his dry eyes as they struggled to focus, James swivelled in his seat. ‘What?’ The waiter, a young woman of twenty or so, stood behind him. ‘Would you like another beer, sir?’ Despite …

“I can’t do this anymore! I can’t live this lie. I’m really not like that – you know I’m not.” Alexei sobbed.\ Fenn laughed quietly. “Always the drama queen eh? ‘Course you can. Been doing it for the whole season. Why would one more match make such a difference?” “Don’t be so hard on the Count!” her twin, Jesse said. “It’s gotta be taking a toll you know. All this hiding from the team and making out it’s because…” he paused to give the proper emphasis with added air quotes “‘the Count’ is a huge superstar who can’t change and shower with the mere mortals who make up the rest of the team. Whereas we all know it’s because… ” “Don’t say it! Please don’t say it!” Alexei begged. “Saying …

During the Republic of Rome the law was a central pillar of society. Court was not only a way to settle disputes but a source of entertainment for the masses. Advocates were not required to learn extensive pieces of law because the law was not written down. Instead oratory was relied upon and the jury could be swayed by whoever was the greatest speaker. Invective, rhetoric and emotive language were key tools to winning a court case. *** In the hot sun of the forum at the heart of Rome Aemellius stood in his white toga, confident of success. In his head he ran through his speech as he gazed out at the plebeian crowd eager to hear his words. When the magistrate commenced the proceedings Aemellius took a deep