“foolish joy, greedy desire” by Sasha at her desk

Wednesday August 14, 2019
5 minutes
On The Brevity Of Life

drunk on his own smell it’s gross really i’m not sure about any of it any of the bullshit that goes along with an i do or a yes or a no is there ever actually a question or are we animals running around the farmyard the jungle the scent of another calling us down into the mud calling up to the balloon clouds unsure unsure unsure and then sure sure sure sure is the service of oneself the ultimate gift to the other crow calls that it’s a tuesday that it’s warm that the baby’s diaper needs changing i don’t know where i put my biggest baddest dreams the deeper we got into the earth burying our toes in the sand watching the horizon turn dark

“QUEEN BARGAIN MART” by Sasha on the Queen Streetcar going East

Thursday January 9, 2014
5 minutes
from the store by the same name on queen west

When you recycle memories
Sloshing them in the blue bin
You’re not doing yourself a favour
It hurts to see them like that
All mixed up together
On Tuesday morning
When you put them on the curb
Your parka over your pyjamas
You might laugh
You see that one your forgot about
The time you fell off the dock and thought you might drown
You were scared then
And you felt remarkably free.
When you’re walking away
The wind picking up your first kiss and taking it somewhere west
You catch a sniff of yourself
Aged six
Stealing a Rolo bar from the Queen Bargain Mart.

“how desolate the landscape can be” by Sasha at her desk

Saturday May 11, 2013
5 minutes
Naomi Shihab Nye

I’ve got flea bites all over my back, localized around my spine, as if the little buggers paddled down that bone-river, pillaging as they went. I run out of my room, glancing each way, hoping no one decides to escape the peace of their bedrooms, or to go for a glass of grapefruit juice, at this very moment. I look at my naked back-body in the long mirror in the hall. Quick. There are probably over thirty bites, each one a tiny monument of reddish-pink sadness. What a metaphor. What a reality. I had decided to liberate Bijou and allow her to be an Outdoor Cat. It took lots of leashed visits to the park and to the Variety Store for sour candy or cinnamon gum. She’d gone out on her own for the first time last Tuesday. I watched her with my binoculars, usually reserved for moon-gazing, as she ventured into the neighbours yard and then into a bush, out of my sight. I spent the rest of the afternoon praying and teary. She came in at dinnertime, when I called her, strutting like she was a saucy lady of the night. Bijou had never had fleas before. She was one of those poised and prissy felines, I’d even trained her to use the toilet with one of those kits you can buy online.