Page Redirection

If you are not redirected automatically, follow the link to example


Winter day at bus-stop hands in pockets puffing smoke thinking ‘bout a bike I had as a kid in this very neighborhood, retarded boy named Ken used to challenge me to race wobbling from side to side as he rode making car sounds on that old fucking thing basket in front, “rooom roooom” “come on retard boy, that all you got?” racing down Garwood Avenue that crazy loon flying right by me up to corner then back and forth laughing like the world is all right and it’s there just for us my mother on front porch shaking her fist at me “beep beep” goes Ken, I’m thinking about this at bus-stop mid-day streets alive with furious wanton music, young woman shows up out of the darkness “hello” lights cigarette, winter day gray and shady,
“So who are you?” she says as the lights go wiry,
“Uh-huh, oh yeah”
“I turned 23 yesterday”
Old lady walks by well-scrubbed pink tragic like the sun she smiles at us young woman beside me we’re talking high-speed ‘bout local bands booze on her breath I should be going home on call for work security guard at downtown high-rise she’s smiling big black hair we’re on the bus going through little Italy restaurants bars cafes go by in a blur I’m telling her I used to play guitar in a band her green eyes light up “should have known” she says,
“Why, cuz I got long hair?”
She pulls a mickey out of her knapsack takes a swig hands it to me I decline, think about it, then I take a sip bus racing through The Osborne Village artsy part of town funky shops black clothes mohawk kids begging for money guy with glasses throws up on corner,
“Where you goin’?” she says
I explain the work thing gotta sit by the phone in case they need me, got an hour to kill she’s looking for CD’s, likes That Petrol Emotion and The Violent Femmes, going to that second-hand music place downtown lady on bus starts singing Old Man River I laugh alive in love, my friend beside me laughs too applies deep red lip-stick snow piled high on the boulevard cruising down The Osborne Bridge sweating in our winter jackets bus cramped and tired nippin’ vodka between the sheets my friend looking brave and thinking, she’s reciting a Black Flag song whistling in the wind, howling at the septic tank says she used to live in Toronto hates it grew up on Indian Reserve called Pukatawagan says Winnipeg really works for her, really like The Peg she says, guy snoring behind us, bus-driver taking crazy turns announcing each corner with lame-ass joke crowd laughing like derelicts my friend looks at me crosses her eyes sticks her tongue out I feel my ass-cheeks rumble, damn...
“Ever been to The Canadian Shield?” she says,
“Oh yeah”
Gust of wind gives Cocker Spaniel on corner a mouth full of snow few guys on bus start laughing shiny hair suburban nightmares my friend comments on them doesn’t like that type big fucking deal I say do you listen to Brave new Waves? Sure thing she says, new band called The White Stripes pretty good love that three chord unorthodox rock and roll...similar to what The Pixies did I say,
“No one’s as good as The Pixies” she says
Approaching downtown the drunks come out middle of the afternoon stumbling through parking lots and construction sites she digs it says life is about this takes another sip of vodka I join her people on the bus take notice driver looking at us in mirror let’s get off I say...heel-toe-express down the downtown streets chinese guy parking car reminds me of something I can’t remember my friend exactly same height as me short parka with hood tight blue jeans beautiful winter I’m thinking breath comes out in clouds we live one step at a time caught in the shit of things stick and move monkey man on high wind tears out brain things as usual he says, business guy walking fast briefcase dangling I point to a mall then past it to a small bar hungover mohawk-kid in front wrapping his jacket around him lighting cigarette,
“Let’s go there” I say,
“Juicy” she says....


"There is a constant poetic tone and musical sense in About a Girl. There are also some shrewd observations of great penetration."..."Nesca brings a largely unpunctuated and lyric flow of observation and thought. There is no plot in the accepted sense of the term although there is a progression in the relationship of the narrator and the young woman who ends up in the narrator’s apartment. In place of plot we have a studiedly precise description of a gritty life-style. It is a sufficient answer to pretensions and falsity in the dominant culture, sick with its material glut and fast food ethics. Through the narrator’s reflections we accumulate an unusually exact understanding of his aims and character. His life is not pretty and he may waver and wobble but he is grounded in honesty. He waves illusion away and sees life with a directness and acceptance that is refreshing and, rightly apprehended, renewing."


"...all senses are satisfied when reading this piece..."
Sara Calnek - The Projector

The Beautiful, Wandering Flow

"About a girl" is a book that will waft the stench of smoke and liquor right up your nostrils and leave you begging for more. It is so vivid, so real, that the true sense of a dingy downtown bar will invade your inner soul. "About a girl" will transport you into the world of a pub crawl that begins in the early afternoon and ends when the bouncer shoves you out the door.
The book is about two strangers, a man and a woman, who meet at a bus-stop. The story is told in the first person from a point of view of the man who describes their journey from one downtown Winnipeg bar to the next and all the fascinating characters they meet along the way. By the end, your heart bleeds rock-rhythim guitar and you feel an overwhelming urge to stop for a drink at the nearest bar. Written in spontaneous prose with sentences that go on for pages the book flows beautifully, free, rebellious and alive. The book reads like random thoughts - all thoughts, even the wicked - frantically scribbled onto the page, not one tiny detail overlooked. All of the senses are satisfied when reading this piece. This is a raunchy read, laced with profanities - exactly the language you would hear at any licensed establishment.
All in all, this book is an insightful view into a life of free spirits who live day-to-day and love every minute of it. It provides the reader with inspiring and uplifting thoughts combined with an urge to spark up a conversation with a stranger over a drink or two or three...


Sara Calnek - The Projector


moon calf

old man drooling buying courage to have just one t

ouch step out the back door for a cig leaving friend

and foes finding places where faces melt to some phony funked out trip

laughing lenny bruce groovy desiring some thing non-descript

superficial scene-scaping landing nodding kind keep moving

card carrying valley proud fractured mind club h

at worn low memorex eyes frequency flying with tuned-up ear

where the parking lot lovers artist and philosophers meet

where hearts and bodies fight for rights to mental containment

contentment knowing no one looks too long or too hard in face

 ambulance screams in the distance steel nerved unaffected

frightened only by the answers to the unasked questions

heavily lubed and primed from old man bargain drink shot specials

saints in some rock-an-roll choir unglued

and let loose poets stand silent watching listening to gun shot banter

capturing some feeling some moment some weakness emotionally

plagiarized aggrandized like only a lonely angel can

times slipping dawn's colour is spitting i announce 'i'm splitting'

'chitty chitty bang bang' kiss kiss goodbyes and 'alright til next

time' scene was supposed to fade into greys

blocking his goddamn rhythm sky's-eye bright still mocking as

it they he hauntingly pace my stride bang walls of skull

forgetting pictures written melodramatic dylan lyric bathed in obscene light of the moon

exposing secrets held closed stepping harder faster

to beat pink's yellow's orange's mournings

revealing the lines from story..."crying like a fire in the sun"

drunk and beautiful she laughs and cries in a single sound


...by February anyone with half a brain and any sense in them was sick and tired of the never-ending blinding snow and the freezing air the frozen sidewalks, the heavy clothing, the constant indoor living, the downright grim mood permeating throughout, the inability to go for a simple slow easy comfortable walk, but March was the beginning of a new world for us, for Canadians in general, it was the E chord hit hard and heavy, it was the final thunder bursting open the clouds and the sunlight blissfully coming through, it was the Mongolian Lizard Queen rearing her ugly head and lopping up everything in its way, it was Alice going for another final romp in Wonderland, it was me happy and willing as Steve came up early morning like clockwork and began talking...
how the hell I would tell my family about our sudden loss of income was another story full of its own mysterious viciousness, I remember thinking about how I felt 20 years earlier, young rock and roll fucker just starting out man, I didn’t have a family, I didn’t have any heavy responsibility blocking my way of thinking, I was living dirt poor in seedy places chipping away at being alive, in my memory it felt brighter and more in tune yet I quickly realized that wasn’t the case man, it wasn’t the case at all, I had recently been hit hard and heavy and the present looked shitty but I had never felt what Izzy gave me, I had never felt the golden glow of everyday smiles and let-downs, I had never experienced a woman seeing me for what I really was all lousy and insecure and damn determined to be happy, that special sensation of immediacy was still there and that rock and roll promise of forever-today rung as true as it ever did, I was a child running with the tigers in Bangladesh, I was an idiot-savant surrounded by numbers, I was so completely flawed I was almost holy, I was walking at three minutes to midnight and I was feeling no shame, everything went black and blue and the never-ending beautiful exploded across the orange colored sky, and on the corner of River and Osborne if you look real close you can see Jesus jogging on the spot, can you hear him my friends, can you see the flamingo sketches, does he speak to you, does he riddle his way into your mind and tell you about all the sadness early morning rain in my eyes I got the catfish blues, sun hidden behind everyday-clouds working-man doing the everyday-dance, I’m going home walking down Main Street bums are all out getting their early fixes feast your eyes on them brother, I stumble through the suits and ties the perfect hobo in disguise as full of shit as everyone else and just as ready to crumble, I think about poor Cora lying in her hospital bed, I think about the last five years working at the college and my good friend Bill...


rat’s nest rant

been thinking too hard on the knees watching the bleed, crimson purple orange
Hollywood Boulevard coastline tourists attraction two-dollar ticket tilt-a-whirl
kiss shit thrill seeking making time and money with nothing nobody
no soul discount flyer fucking buttered biscuit gravy political show
gunned dead flowers stripped to bare taken given down from the royalty of the underground
waiting for another to pay with whatever they be getting to sooth to smooth
forgetting your roses hats literature foreign accents Fellini-esque personal personality
bourgeois bull-shit photos that you and the hes and shes hive thrive
bought and paid for lives livers veins tits brains hammered too tight too tight to think trick
poor little baby’s wearing bronzed shoes…



through the slats of the fence,
I could see a street lamp
that I had mistaken
… for the moon.

Kamikaze White Noise

can’t know if it was something that was said or the head vices with voices
synapses misfire line between reality and dream and memory blur
parts that can’t let go white lines on the highway (scream?) mimic down-trodden 
or “happy” children of three
faces on the bus melt  ugly? or pure?

mouths move and still say nothin’
phones ring, music plays, the motor hums, breaks squeal plaster a smile and keep moving into the noise
on the mainline, with innocence slipping and not coming anytime soon
shoelace broke and stranger’s thigh is pressed too close too hard

gurgling coffee and turning off, blocking the insignificance
knuckles whiten pulse quickens tongue sharpens it’s a heartache heart attack of conscience

foolish pride, thank you for calling
won’t you call back again?

dependence on “things” killing the dream of art for art’s sake
nose ring is sore and there are knots in teenage girl’s blue hair in front of me drank two too many and ate a yellow rest against dirty cool window getting so strange

wanting to describe every one everything every sound

 tick tock tick tack 
bang blame vroom

 painting THE thousand word picture
puzzle pieces lost and misshapen

finest years i’ve ever known

sheltered from harm and cold
perched on worn 70’s era public transit’s finest clutching back-pack

envisioning blue eyes with the healing powers of morphine protecting thoughts I will never defend and
the pilot’s voice announces

and the soft drone

and the soft drone
and the soft drone

…is maddening. 




When you look out windows at night
through smoke-clouds and tired eyes
and everything shines in that orange streetlight glow
and the rain-soaked skyline’s barely visible in the gloom,
when the distant-lost wander the streets and hatred abounds and the steam from your hot drink hangs
in the air,
when you recede in your mind and all things
when you reach back to happy times long-gone,
when the deep dark heart of Saturday night
cuts a swath through your brain,
when you realize some of the things people do just ain’t right,
and that some of those people are just
like you,
and the soft drone whisper says something ugly,
and that alone smile forms on your lips in the quiet
when the sidewalk drinkers bend their elbows
in the rain,
when me and you lost forever meet under the boardwalk,
when happiness sits coldly just around the corner,
when puff number 23 feels mad and brilliant and the words come easy,
when the lost and righteous find something to do and touch themselves in all the right places,
the moment shines bright,
for us,
for you,
and the long cool night is alive
as you realize
that everything -
tastes better
after midnight

When the rain is heavy and wild
you walk the streets shining and grey
the music soaked through gleams deadly
moments torn from your sunshine-memory
and the sweetest smile -

you think heavy glory under the brick-house awnings
water pelting away up-top,
that high saxophone hangs in the air
then the piano eases its way in,
and the barroom tremors cling like shadows
their gloom making it just right -

another one for me, jack, you
say in the wild of the moment
another sing-a-long beat happy rumble,
crazy young girl in the deep throes of your night
she’s doing it on the bathroom floor baby
blissful and tragic and forever laughing –

the unreal happiness sets in with long easy bursts
you crouch low brain washed down in somber yellow
teeth bashing an uneasy truce
and what a sad-beautiful sound it all makes
don’t it?

when the rain is heavy and wild
you walk the ragged streets
soaked all the way through with that
forlorn music
torn from your best sunshine-memory…


he wrote for her

 ... mama loved her drink her new man and her mustang daddy? daddy thought life was nothing more than black & white still photos framed in pain and willed his girl the same  but, she had a wicked smile with a face "that would let her get away" dark eyed lovely in a constant home grown hazed old-soul stare heart led by childish themes with a body of a woman statuesque beauty surrounded by bleached-out black-lined friends "so, you think he really digs me?" "sure, he said he did." walking the pitted gravel road through the dark, light a "red"  looking cool calm unaffected focused on the mission ahead the quarries where the bare-chested duded-up-for-Saturday-night -chevy--boys, proud and posed on their chevelles and cameros waiting on the parade of rawboned and frilled kittens to purr freak show everybody drinking rolling and racing quarter miles always keeping tabs on the latest victims of the blue hearts club constant carnival ride 'tilt-a-whirl' style funny-mirrored laughter that ‘venom never burned in her veins’ she had no head for games angry hard faster-than-the-wind love tanked engines burned dreams would be promised and filled just by unsnapping your jeans she hears factory boy and girl steel-valley-tri-county mentality -

       "i'll scream your name at the line, baby! i'd be nothin' without you. understand? we're gettin' out of here and i swear i'll never leave. kiss me."
at nineteen he got to join the local union and she got a baby...

room with a dirty view




vessels ?

of light




marching on





yet strong

so protective


against elements

ironic against

pristine white





to outside


hot breath

against pane

making circles


in residue






mourning ritual

...hair wild and tangled perfumed with humid salty air and stale cigarette I wander into the dark morning...pilgrimage moving in shadows of dull street lamps listening for sounds of awakening...nirvana found; smile spreads across lips, nose and tongue unite—salivate broken neon light flickers, blinks, spits the news "closed"...shit! pretending I'm illiterate, I bang on door--invited in--we sit chat relay and relate local paper giving reviews on latest events voices click and clack like old friends in a kitchen making morning from grandma's dough clock ticks quickly as we gather familiarity in experiences shared apart--

Excerpts from Tony Nesca's "Vodka Orange Sunday"


On Broadway the lights shine grey

winos beg for jack-shit-nothing and her and I trip through

the violin sweet water music crazy bastard asks for change

sure we say right on brother, in central park downtown Winnipeg trio

of Natives sit on park bench passing the bottle laughing and happy we share our

own cold-gin comfort under that


thirsty sun,

underground mall deserted her breasts keep moaning to the

heavy neon power


river-walk hot and dizzy we

pause and light up

streetlight urchin ragged

mud-river honey not so sweet

the wink of her eye tells me everything

old guy sits by riverbank smoking a joint

other fellow with beer in hand pauses and thinks

young morning lovers race down the boardwalk,

in the Osborne Village people laugh dark and loud

the Goth-Heads hit that desperate note

mini-skirts short and ragged

thigh-high leather screaming violent love

hard rock misery blaring from dark places

yeah in the Osborne Village the hippies cry deep into

the morning come-ugly 

funky shops grinning late night heartache

gloomy neon kisses you goodbye

and always beside me she sings vodka/orange-sunday

fire trucks scream in dark alleys

Irish pub dances lightly and the

sisters of mercy parade down the boulevard -

she takes my hand shows me her tongue
drug-happy we bash teeth in the coming moonlight…

My Tarantella

....but we were children deep heavy-deep in the throes of living large and happy, we were swinging in that love affair with life man, we were incompetent little fringe kids coming from poor working class families and our fathers screamed and cursed, our mothers loved and coddled, our friends threw rocks at windows, our neighbors fucked their spouses at night (only at night) and sometimes even fucked their neighbor’s spouses and grinned and watered their lawns and kept the secret, we were bastards of the young man, full of soul and daring and mischievous unending energy…

  ....I’m walking under the trees which grow tall and wide on either side of the street overlapping up top forming a green/orange canopy giving me that eternal shade interrupted solely by the sun coming through in thick beams of dim yellow nowhere - this is the urban forest I say, this is my afternoon in the forlorn happiness, this is my clumsy ode to day-tripping, my Lucy in the Sky with Hemorrhoid Fever, my Tarantella sex trade and middle class infidelity, in my bag is a bottle of water, two joints of grade A grass, a Mortadella and Provolone sandwich and a book by Henry Miller, “Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch”…leisurely stoned I make my way down the residential streets smell of freshly cut grass and cooked meat all around music coming from backyards sounds of laughter and arguments and stale ideas mixed with an easy groove of sunshine morbidity, cars drift by lazily and not often and the busy sounds of main streets somewhere in the distance are always present, but in the forefront is the ever-present singing of birds and small things running and crawling and in those moments when there are no cars or people anywhere you would swear you are in the countryside, thick green all around of bush and trees and big houses with stone terraces and young housewives drinking gin and tonics on the front porch...


And we continued in that fashion under the barren trees rust-colored grass, couple of kids race by us, a dog barks in the distance, a mother screams out her son's name, '67 Firebird burns rubber right beside us bolts off in a cloud of smoke, three stoned chicks across the street laughing and singing looking lovely in their tight jeans and striped Adidas runners, Nazzie's wiry eyes looking at me with laughter and sadness at the same time talking all kinds of shit waving his hands driven by the manic early morning beer-buzz bounce in his step worn out fedora pulled tightly around his head, myself all sinew and energy and smoking-gun-happy, chicken joint at the end of my block bursting at the edges argument in the parking lot, Vincent Massey High across the street group of punk rockers on the front steps popping pills hurling insults at the sky, Bob Marley song pops into my head "No Woman, No Cry" as we linger on and on and on cross at the walkway start crawling along Pembina past the small apartment buildings, fast food joints, small parks, angry teenagers and the other kind, car horn rips into our reality there's Ross crazy bastard behind the wheel of the Great White pulls up right beside us halting traffic large smile on his panic-stricken face,
We jumped in the back and the shark took off followed by the complaining car horns and curses and Ross opened the small window in the cab...

"This is an artless society we live in!" He shouted


But it was a mellow night at back-alley-park that I was thinking about…Ross and Joe talking in one corner about music and guitar players, Nazzie, Cindy, Brenda and Max sat on the grass in a semi-circle laughing about something, Brenda jumping up and down…me and Judy huddled against the fence on the other side of the park soft kisses in the sun-go-down beauty, my hand on her fat thighs plump and long and fleshy, we're smiling in each other's arms saying nothing just swaying in the summer breeze golden moments at dusk like these never forgotten thinking I could do that forever, thinking that life would never change and that change can go fuck itself, unwilling to accept the unavoidable ending of all things, the constant state of flux called life, the inevitable change that all things have to go through in order to achieve individuation, no, no way anyhow, not ever, I ran my fingers through the grass the leaves cool to my touch, Judy laid her head on my chest and closed her eyes, a siren echoed in the moonlight then faded, a sudden stillness came into the night where everything went quiet, or seemed to, I could feel Judy breathing on my chest and her heart beating slowly against me, happy moments at back-alley-park as the dusk settled in and we leaned forward and breathed in the moment…

 Review for Tony Nesca's "Jukebox Music"

"The musical background is a strong influence in Nesca’s poetry. In the present collection there are references to Stan Getz, Billie Holliday, and Count Basie as well as to more current groups...."..." Tony Nesca is original and in the best sense tuneful...The musical influence is also apparent in the elision of superfluous words and in the multiply hyphenated words that slip and slide around precise meanings...."

Review of Tony Nesca's "La Gioconda"
Reviewed by Matthew Firth for the Canadian Lit-Mag Front & Centre

I don't often compare one book to another in a review, preferring to assess books on their own. But there's a link here I can't resist. The publisher of "Six ways to Sunday" uses word and phrases such as "brashly…gritty settings…shining bright and battered in the dingy recesses of the bar…" After reading Tony Nesca's excellent novella, "La Gioconda", I'm tempted to go back and rewrite my review of McPherson's book because it is none of the things it claims to be when held up next to Nesca's true example of down and out, gritty, yet sincere Canadian literature. McPherson's book plays at being tough and stylistic, Nesca's book is the real deal.

"La Gioconda" takes readers to Winnipeg, a city known for its dark side. In the novella Tony is a twenty-seven year old bohemian semi-student trying to be a writer. He hangs out in dingy bars, not because he's looking for material, but because he's a regular working class joe in Winnipeg and that's what there is for him to do. Here's the authenticity, the sincerity that McPherson cannot duplicate in his faux urban settings.

Tony, through an old University friend, falls hard for and hooks up with Jasmina, a visiting French teenager. The two strike up a quickie romance and live for the moment, drawn together to Winnipeg's thriving underground music and literary scene and its – on the surface – seemingly strange crossover with the aforementioned dingy bars. Jasmina savors Winnipeg's authenticity as well and thinks about leaving France for good. But instead the pair live fast and hard (their sexual relationship becomes increasingly kinky) and leave it at that. This is a story of experience. It is about what happens when two people come together and get it on. There is no contrived moralizing, no redemption or glory. Tony and Jasmina drink and fuck and carry on and that's all it takes to make a great story. When it's over and done with, Tony is where he started. The memories of his experience are enough and they make him smile. He goes back to Winnipeg's crappy bars pleased that he let life and love in.

Nesca writes in a rollicking, free-flowing style. The sentences are often long and rambling but uncluttered. It goes well with the vibe of "La Gioconda", of freedom and living in the moment and grabbing what life presents you with. Nesca has written a short, sharp gem of a book that truly represents the gritty and the urban.

Matthew Firth is the editor of Front & Centre magazine and of Black Bile Press –

Front & Centre

573 Gainsborough Avenue

Ottawa, Ontario

K2A 2Y6


"The flow is stream of consciousness reminiscent of Kerouac or Ferlinghetti (they of the beat generation) or of Patti Smith, resembling speed rap here and there throughout...It is immediate. Loss and longing recur as themes throughout. Everything is tinged with realistic sadness. This is not the rarefied or removed world of some elite rock star but a life we have all experienced at least at some point in our youth, whether we remember it correctly or not...."

More reviews -