“I don’t have any change” by Sasha on her couch


Monday January 16, 2017
11:03pm
5 minutes
Overheard on the 99

I want nothing more than to be a food writer.
To be paid to eat ridiculously delicious things
is some sort of heaven that I don’t seem to have
a ticket for. I try my luck at
buying my own dinner
and then writing about it
and sending it to that
cheap magazine you can find outside of
the dingy subway stations. They have the manners
to write me an email back,
“We have a food writer already, Maisie,
but best of luck with your future endeavours.”
It’s like somewhere between
buying my own avocado toast
and figuring out the adjectives best use
to describe hemp hearts
I got lost.

“preceded by chaos” by Sasha on her couch


Monday November 7, 2016
10:56pm
5 minutes
From a tweet

This is the war cry that you’ve been waiting for
It isn’t packaged in hand blown glass or bubble wrap
It isn’t dusted in icing sugar
This is a roar seven generations in the making
It’s messy and delicate and has a bad haircut
It spits and sputters and sighs low like a dog
It sings full voice when it’s favourite song
comes on the radio OH
This is the war cry that has haunted dreams and
subway cars haunted holidays and shopping centres
Wake up, it calls
Wake up

“the authors of our lives” by Sasha at her desk


Monday October 10, 2016
4:44pm
5 minutes
The Rising Strong Manifesto
Brene Brown


I’m sorry for my chin hairs – – –
my legs \\ my armpits \/
my belly >
“my” is pejorative
none of these parts are mine
TRUMP CARD
I laugh because the cry is too big for my one bedroom apartment

I’m sorry for the unpalatable opinions
on the table between us
swirling squash and shit and sex and
squash

My dreams of motherhood don’t betray my dreams
of taking over the world
with stories of chin hairs
legs armpits bellies

Shred the TRUMP cards and recycle them
Maybe they will end up
paper that you’ll write me a letter on

“imagining our future.” By Sasha at the UBC Learning Exchange


Wednesday February 10, 2016
7:08pm
5 minutes
CBC.ca/books

I imagine our future as orchids
as shooting stars
as bits of sand when
under a microscope
the whole universe

I imagine our future
can’t help myself
I’m a dream junkie
arm bruised with pockmarks of
maybe and when

I imagine our future ceilings
catching wishes in open laughter mouths
I imagine our future claw foot tub
warm water swirling down the memory drain
I imagine our future babies
All cheeks and nerve

“that time of innocence” by Sasha at her kitchen table


Tuesday November 24, 2015
11:02pm
5 minutes
from a poem by bell hooks

it was that time of gold
the innocence of maple butter
slathered on cheeks kissed by the wind
a typhoid of hormones
your fingertips a garter snake in
the zucchini flowers

it was that time of innocence
too much lavender incense from
the dollar store
chipped nail polish tea leaves
empty fortune cookies celebrated
leaving more room for our dreams

“guiding his life direction.” By Sasha in the TA office at Mary Bollert Hall


Tuesday November 10, 2015
1:17pm
5 minutes
From a student’s short story

When You teach me to remember
my heart’s on fire the colour of sunset
the colour of ash

When You guide my hand towards the future
my eyes are a wash of birch
and sweetgrass

I don’t want to daydream my way to glory
I want to get there step by step
with You at my side
and the wind breaking trail

Over Cypress mountain the new day dawns
You braid bread and whistle
I grind coffee beans and light the stove

“Well, I have my rights, sir” by Sasha at 49th Parallel


Monday October 26, 2015 at 49th Parallel
6:39pm
5 minutes
The Lorax
Dr. Seuss


There once was an old man named Fred
Who wished that he was dead
He asked for the poison
And he asked for a gun
So he could shoot himself in the head

There was once a woman called Bea
Who wished she hadn’t lived past three
She saw terrible things
In the house where she lived
And chose…
Not to be

There was once a doctor named Ted
He often had songs in his head
He helped his patients
If they wanted to leave
And always slept snug in his bed

“what he learned about fire” by Sasha at her kitchen table


Monday, October 19, 2015
9:49pm
5 minutes
Dramaturgical notes on My Ocean

What he learned about fire
standing beside his Papa in the thick of the birch and maple
fingers almost frozen from building up the kindling and scrunching the newspaper
what he learned is that it’s heat comes from the centre of the earth
it’s not the flint of the match striking against the small book
a bit of lint from Papa’s pocket
It’s the heat that inside all of us
waiting to escape
the kettle that sings on the stovetop
despite being empty
singing and singing and singing
until somebody listens
Standing beside his Papa in the stillness of the near naked trees
The brush starting to burn
reaching the kindling and the dried driftwood
always moving up up
Up
he is safe
He is the hand in his Papa’s hand
A spark jumps close to his left foot
A running shoe that once belonged to his cousin

“I know I wouldn’t change much” by Sasha in Buchanan E


Thursday October 8, 2015
5:18pm
5 minutes
Vancouver Metro
Thursday, October 8, 2015


If you were here or
I was there
the sun would still be setting
all pink and gold
If you were here or
I was there
the leaves would still be falling
all rust coloured bold
If you were here or
I was there
the crows would still be calling
flying towards the west
If you were here or
I was there
The phoebes would still be curled
together snug in their nest
If you were here or
I was there
the night would still be coming
breathing dark on the sky
If you were here or
I was there
winter would still be on it’s way
and I’d still be asking “why”

“When, Finally and inevitably,” by Sasha on the 99 going West


Tuesday, September 1, 2015
1:22pm
5 minutes
Bits
Louis Taylor


Let’s say that the grass was damp with dew
and the day was grey
like this one
Let’s say that Johnny Cash was playing from your
tinny computer speaks
like now
Let’s say that finally
inevitably
you put on your socks and boots and left for the factory
“Twelve years, Leila,” you say
“Eight more to go and I’m free”
Let’s say that I stand on the lawn
Watching as you pull out of the driveway

“But a song” by Sasha at her kitchen table


Sunday, August 30, 2015
11:13pm
5 minutes
from a poem by Roy Croft

The first song I wrote was about a tidal wave
A melody like gull wings
A sun high in the sky
We never see it coming
When he walked out the door he left it
open
Wide
A gust of wind came in
Bringing a tumbleweed of what might’ve been
Wide
Bringing tears
Salt stains on flushed cheeks

“the Moon moves into harmony” by Sasha at her kitchen table


Friday, August 28, 2015
12:12am
5 minutes
from the Gemini horoscope in Cafe Astrology

You’re sorry.
I can see that.
The star freckles connecting the sorry-dots.
A meteor shooting out of you all
“FORGIVE”.
All
“FORGET”.

The night’s are darker now.
The dark is longer now.
The longing goes from here to there and back again.
Snaking and weaving.
Circling and knotting.

Do we ever outgrow what we learn when we’re afraid?
How we hold breath like it’s fire?
How we squeeze tight?

“Then the chicken to fry” by Sasha in Pearson International Airport


Saturday, August 15, 2015
6:37pm
5 minutes
Women Work
Maya Angelou


I got a case of the Mondays.
I got a case of the Bad Days.
I got a case of Corona and a spliff from five years ago.
I got a real bad dog show.
I got chicken to fry.
I gotta undo a lie.
I got an itch that can’t be scratched.
I got a case of the Mondays, baby.
I got a case of the Sad Days.
I got a case of old photos.
I got a broken motor.

“Did you just say” by Sasha on her couch


Sunday March 16, 2014
11:27pm
5 minutes
from a status update on Facebook

When you come to my corner
You’ll find a plaid quilt
A green apple
A beeswax candle
And a pinecone.
We will
Most likely
Sing
folk songs.
We will
Absolutely
Howl at the moon.
There will be silence
Like a pearl in the centre of the present moment
And you will ponder
Becoming a monk
Just so you can live
In the heart
Of the pearl
Like the best kept secret
of the
Sea.