essays | fiction | poetry | photography | art
Zones one to three have become a long-distance relationship.
Underground, Hades and his sardine dead
reach their eleventh hour
My mother packed eggs sunny side up,
Spam slices golden-browned to perfection
tucked into my lunchbox.
and what does it mean
that her blood still sings
through the Old Quarter
of my veins?
The angel comes unbidden
on a Thursday morning,
knocking briskly, handing me
a pineapple and thirteen coral-tinted roses.
Through photography and sculpture, I question how the manipulation of behaviour and patterns dehumanises society.
will you give me gentle hand grips and the space I need
to feel sorry for myself?
the diver submerged for so long
we presume her dead
shark food
scattershot of matter sinking deeper than cameras
Because of the pandemic, we didn’t have any Olympics this summer, so I decided to reproduce the Olympic coverage in July by printing (screen printing) over selected pictures from the Montreal Olympics of 1976
Spread out before you,
whipped and bright coloured,
dripping with sauces,
a world of unimagined flavours,
untranslatable.
Through countless retrievals, our memories of precious moments lose their ‘truth.’
Below the wall the soil
leeches contaminants
from an artificial hill rising
out of the field like a wart.
the small hours are all about compost—
wanderlust of priceless larvae
& transcendent effect of unremarkable habits
Porridge 