My new album, The Jackknife Letters (which I’ve referred to many times as The Record of a Thousand Miles, due to the great while it’s taken to finish and the Zen-like patience I’ve had to apply to the task at hand) is in the can!!! Official release date is TBA. I’ll hit you up very soon with the release date of the album, first single and video, Lay It Down.


1)JL Cover w text_tweak

After a welcome delay to compose my submission for the CBC Poetry dealio, here is O2, the second piece from Tales From The Happy Monkey.


The show goes on
From dusk til dawn
The brand new day come rising

I feel the turn
+ soothe the burn
Of all this realizing

The dream it seems
Has swollen seams
Prolific in the drowning

I went to clear
The misty mirror
+ saw that I was frowning

Some brand new lines
From troubled times
Connected to the lifeline

The pictures
In the storybook
Reflections of a lifetime

Hot + cold
The tale that lives between

These legs
That carry moments through
The time that lives between

Seeing things
The red bell rings
The sound of the alarming

I reach down
Below the ground
+ settle the disarming

Sifting and the filter
Of the passion
+ the jive

The prospect
Of the project
Of people all alive

May we run
Around the sun
+ settle on the rising

Soothe the burn
Each in turn
Of all this realizing

Amazing experience yesterday at the opening of the Ryerson Farmer’s Market, though it didn’t start out so. I woke to grey skies and grumbled most of the way there on the 505. It was cold. I’ve been riddled with sinus stuff for a few months now, which has hindered my freedom to really let loose vocally. And I found my comparing mind tearing me apart, as, just prior to leaving for the gig, I saw an old friend’s post on facebook, which told of his departure for exotic climes to begin his summer tour schedule as a successful sound engineer. “How can it be,” the cunning voice asked “that Chris has done so well, flying here and there and making these pro acts sound beautiful, getting paid for his expertise and, though no doubt working his butt off, is having a blast plying his passion, while here I am, playing another Farmer’s Market, knowing, most likely, that I’ll be largely ignored and won’t make enough cash to help make ends meet?”

I texted my lovely wife, to bemoan the fact that I wasn’t feeling like I could get it up for the show. She responded by saying that as soon as I opened my yapper to sing, all would be well. She was right. Sort of.

With the sinus ailment, it was hard to get through the performance. A few songs in, my head and throat were on fire, in all the wrong ways. I kept on keepin’ on. By the third set, I was finally there. Flying with the tunes. People were feeling it.

One old cat in a wheelchair came right up to me mid-song and asked me if I was Gordon Lightfoot’s son. Keith, over at the Sugar Mamma donuts truck walked over and put a bag of his wares in my open case. Anna and Geoff at the coffee truck beside me made me one of the tastiest cortados I’ve yet sampled. A chap studying for his Fine Arts degree approached me to set up a shoot of me performing in a few weeks. The community vibration was positive.

Someone I know in the music industry once told me that making a great record is no longer enough to succeed in “the biz,” that the music itself is no longer enough. With the new paradigm, I understand what she meant, though in yesterday’s case, the music was everything. Street level, honest connection though song. Music has always been a great healer and teacher, to myself and many others. It’s been my means to understand myself, our common lines and how we roll together here on the blue dot.

We never know what might happen if we remain open and breathe through our challenges. My experience yesterday is such an awesome example of this. What started out as pure crustiness, ended up a wonderful thing.

Here’s to music. Here’s to community. Here’s to real time connection.

Thanks for reading.

K. xo




I am pleased to present the first piece from my collection of poetics, Tales From The Happy Monkey. I welcome your dialogue and hope that the work connects with you and that you’ll join me as the series unfolds.

I Am Not Given

Jesus, when did this room get so small?
The walls have crept
My shoulders rub on either side
The man on the hill
Screaming into the night
I thought a stranger
With unending valleys
Cut down and across
I see is me
The scream is here
On my tongue
In my heart
Should I open my mouth to let it out?
It might not stop
The muted given unending voice
Will you try to reform
The ragged lines
Into soft shapes
Of what you call beautiful
At this meeting of roads
Where the wreckage spills it’s terror
Onto gawking passersby
I am not given to your mirth
But the truth that murmurs
Inside you by day
Wailing + ripping
When sleep won’t come
I am not given to your ease
Nor mine
I hear your voices
Pooled in the air
Telling tales of things
Lost + forgotten

I’ve come to remind you.