lost ironies

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Tag: poetry

big fat fly

the idea arrives in a quarrel—
your wits with your age—or
in the mail or drops from a web
buzzing, hitting your window
like a big fat fly
demanding freedom

open a door, it’ll say, you have the right

so you do and it flies
out across the town
with its Ku Klux steeples
and dreamy Bull Run romances
then low over the roofs
of fine Holocaust deniers
and though you salute and shout and
your hard done-by story
will only ever be spoken
on divided dim basement nights
of disappointment







high heels and flowers

before she sleeps she is pleased
with her difficult definitions and
confident in the cosmos of animals unseen
pleased with the purr of the city at night
and burning for the morning
in its high heels and flowers

high heels and flowers
high heels and flowers
when dawn arrives there’ll be garbage trucks

and strings of pearls as the morning
struts with certitude
into the afternoon







the August

the August sat on the side of the locust road
and drew with a stick shorter days in the air, drew
nights cooler on the land you couldn’t keep
a shed the trees the hollows a house
all unshaven and evangelical and the August
drew in the grit your hard to utter rage—

anything less than hatred was deception

—so you loaded your weapon with vows
and the August was proud ’til September










I am a bombfalling

I am a bombfalling
toward a place called Downthere a
nationplace of ordinary dreamfaith
where children roam vast prairies and men are bitterfrail
with my bellyfullofatoms and the airwithprayer
warprayer erase oursins
and cleanse us all of fireandfury








dust & anger

this isn’t why my mother had me
rooms of dust & anger
but maybe my father did—
had me like you’ve been had
he was funny that way (ha comma ha)
whereas my mother
(the Casserole Goddess)
had me in innocence
raising me first with patience
then disappointment then
epiphany as the neighbourhood swayed
my father smoked
& the gallant automobiles of the sixties
slept at the curb &
much later when we spread her ashes
(always stand up wind when spreading your mother’s ashes)
watching what was left of me
she grinned in the trees








this poem may not happen today, just
look at the sky
the province is burning from the inside out the
sun on the sidewalk is orange from the smoke
even in this town so close to the edge

so close that people trip over it
(the edge that is)
routinely and fall forever
waving good-bye as they go “Good-
bye, falling into oblivion was the least I could do.”

it’s a Saturday in August­
it’s Pride and fireworks
thousands of people in the park, waiting
there are horse cops in the neighbourhood
and cops on Denman with assault rifles
(very unCanadian)

don’t piss spit puke or shit in the backseat of my cruiser
that’s how the cops spoke to us
when we were kids and hung out in the projects
there’s probably still a bag of acid
hidden there beneath a hedge

Gay Pride and fireworks an
F-18 just flew over, low
so we all could feel the thrust













God’s hashtag

I feel so alone.
God typed



it trended not







summer poem

summer surprised us
yes it did, TS.E
with anfractuous parades
& the popping rhyme of fireworks
wishing for the relief
of half abandoned winter
in my neighbourhood by the beach
& me wishing all of the time
for a first time perhaps
a tow truck flummoxing
double parked UFO
or the moon’s green cheese
& Water Table Crackers
with a beer by the bonfire
ever watchful for the Jabberwock
escaping the fires
to the east




the minutes

sometimes she heard words in the minutes
in the stiffening before things snapped
and though she was an eloquent woman
no one believed a word she said in her
room in the quiet, the complicit verbatim
her once poetry once onto magnetic tape once
goose-stepping reel to reel over radio empty rooms her
standing in the empty centre of  no one believed

a word she said






thunder moon

the girl clothed in wisteria stands
under the thunder moon with
midnight in her fists
next to the bedroom window
with the single light still on
upon the nightstand Ray Bradbury
page eighty-nine, the
burning of books-—

They say you retain knowledge
even when you’re sleeping,
if someone whispers in your ear

whispers under the July moon
life is obvious she says, but lonely
phases written in hands
dystopias sketched aloud
in tongues