A portfolio of fiction, non fiction, poetry and other loose words. Its cool to not care. Kiss me, deep and long. Your apartment was so dull. It has been awhile since I wrote some of these. to read more of this series, click here. For your consideration, by. That is my own,.

Sunday, February 3, 2013. Small Things are Big Things. Friday, August 27, 2010. If you race fast cars, one of the risks you take is that one day you might cop it. Kay Petre is often associated with the 10.

Male bear - leg 4. But for a cold breeze that blows. Th sun up th backs of mtns. not much of a sunrise. Just a pop of chilld light over th horizon. Behind th buildings and across th street, over th train. Tracks and around here in every direction. Th grassy hills roll upwards to become steep forests. That climb and climb up. To end in rock faces and snow-capd summits. Way th hell up there.

Monday, July 27, 2009. Things that happen in subways. Sitting and counting the names of subways while on a subway line, late at night I looked up to the discovery that I was the only one in the car. Peering through first one end window into the following car and then the other end window into the preceding car I determined I was the only one in three consecutive cars.

So i guess this is a place to put thoughts, work and expression in all forms. Spots that have nothin,. Nothing to do with liver. With metallic salt rusted cadavers. Beat of red flashes and sticks. Tail pipe snapshots only a blurr. I wrote this finally for. As in the self that needs. Somewhere - but in your head.

Sunday, January 10, 2010. Not feeling the difference but knowing choice just the same. Hazy sight, sticky smells, floating bodies suggesting chance. Hands reaching for the one you came with. The fashionably rough help with wet daydreams. Too intoxicated to stand but willing to offer temporary warmth. I meant to leave altogether.

Sunday, January 3, 2010. This is not a poem,. The poem is elsewhere,. Look here no more,. Tuesday, December 15, 2009. Waited for the bus in the. A dim reminder, cracking. Trees, crunch of snow. Packed into ice, 1. Meadow, the few cars that. Pass, all focused on the. Road ahead, bus arrives,. I enter, cold and waiting. Sunday, December 6, 2009. Motionless, a fear,.

Saturday, January 23, 2010. North of Quesnel, with steady hands. A lumberman falls another tree. With this wood he longs to build. A house, to warm it, stand upon its roof. And know the strength beneath him,. Shape a cane for when his back. Has weakened, a chair to sit in,. A table to work from. To carve a birdhouse from the. Smooth heartwood of these trees,. Whittle a family in perfect proportions,. Toys for the children, a night stand. One in each hand, if.