I got arrested yesterday for poetry. This is not the setup of some joke, this actually happened. I got arrested yesterday for poetry. This is not metaphor. This is literal. I literally got arrested yesterday for poetry.

I have taken to handing out my poems and short stories in front of Eglinton subway station. I do it proudly and with a smile. I like what I’m offering, and if you’re reading this now, so do you. Thank you and you are welcome. Please know, dear reader, you feed these words as much as I. I appreciate you dropping by to say hello.

So, last evening, there I am, standing in front of the turnstile, offering my stories, when two police officers ask what I’m doing. I hand them one of my poems and go back to my business of handing out poetry for free. The TTC guy in the booth resents that life goes on outside his little box, pounds on the glass and gets the police officers to tell me to get lost. Now, I had already spoken with the TTC security earlier in the day, and the security guard let me go on distributing my writing, because he could see I was simply offering a bit of humor and passion to the world, free of charge.

The police told me to scram. This infuriated me, that the world sees the distribution of poetry as a crime. I said, I was happy I could read the officers names on their uniforms unlike the G-20, when they’d removed them so they could put the boot to peaceful protesters.

Next thing I know, my arms are being twisted out of their sockets, I’m face down on the floor getting handcuffed. I’m shouting, “Help! I’m being arrested for poetry! Take a picture! Get out your cell phones and record!” The officers didn’t like this and squeezed harder, apparently hoping juice would come out of my ears.

After a thirty minute pat down and interrogation in a secluded TTC washroom, (creepy), I was set free with a $750 fine. My charges: Causing a disturbance on TTC property; obstructing with proper authority; failing to leave premises when directed.

Really, the charges should simply read: for trying to breathe some life into this cold world.

But, let’s not end on a sad note. Let’s sing, you and I. Let’s fight this, the only way we can, with more poetry. Keep on reading and I’ll keep on writing. Let’s spit in The Man’s eye with poetry. He’ll never know what hit him.