an ugly house on an ugly street, full of all us ugly people.

the ones who drink too much and get too loud,
or who think too much and get too quiet;
ruining the mood,
but enjoying themselves.

ones who sing when they shouldn’t sing,
ones who seduce when they can’t seduce,
who fall out when they couldn’t fall in love.

there wasn’t a farce written so black,
depressed and funny;
a horror-show with victim and villain
sharing one pair of jeans and some pimples,
and a backdrop
of ancient Zen haikus, and Death Metal,
always a prom, or a party, or a funeral,
causing another fucking scene,
always drinking, always smoking.

 “by God” I think;
they’re lonely, wishing to be alone;
they’re surrounded by people, wishing for better people;
they’re dressed in costumes, wishing for different
     costumes,

their misunderstandings save their days
and end their nights and break their hearts,

and alone next to one shit-crusted river
one of them writes shit-crusted poems,
working up the nerve to go back inside.

No matter where you go you always find your way back home. Connor Bye has travelled the greater part of Canada and settled in various cities, but none preoccupy his work like Owen Sound Ontario, the place he was born. From the hospital to the harbour, his characters are on every street, in every park, and getting drunk on every Friday night.