Portrait In a Winter Lawn Chair

When they drove away, finally – I was alone
Red light was soaked backwards
A reversible stain on the grey second-hand couch
That was this night

I had a lot on my mind
Things having to do with Aztec mythologies
Of too many agate leaves,
Of raped sisters, the original mirrored sins
snis derorrim lanigiro eht
Less about your apocalypse;
More about my ragnarok.

Something in me is a snake, circular
Wondering about how honest people begot ungrateful children:

1. We didn’t thank you for the hand made socks, we didn’t like them.

This is the real reason I hate Christmas
Mother’s gotta vision

Big ideas, lots of imbued fantasy

At the tender hour of ten
Why celebrate?

All day I keep thoughts of you
On the other hand,
The Other hand wipes glasses,
And pours endless ounces
Ounces I envy
Being swallowed in someone’s
Passionate drinking binge -
Motivated by the sweet cruelties
Of their own public fuck-ups
I am embalmed in these stories

Even my hair smells like them

The man Jim the Braggart
For example –
He is a janitor and security guard,
He is rough trade – who calls me “Sugar Plum”
True story.
I die a little bit,
A little piece of the meat of me
Burnished with loathing that must filter through
As polite interaction

OH MY FUCKING GOD
This is written in the ladies’ room
Back left stall
With a certain high-school
J’oi de vivre
Moments like these melt my heart
And make me love what is sinister
In this world
And how it's beautiful
How lost I am
In it’s endless facets
Like some ugly forest
That compels you inside its radius
To dazzle you with the rotting fungi
Of What It Is, Brother.

I am disappointed when I look at my fingers,
How often I am betrayed by my body
Some casual friend
That I can

FEEL

Planning a mutiny against me
That will fruit In a gilded consequential moment
And how I day-dream of it now
Needing some relaxation
From the pseudo night-terror that flares
Through my mind’s Shoots and Ladders
I envision my future as a preacher
In last night’s escapade

I stand on an up-ended box
I am praying about the moon, the space light
Less blinding for now,
So full of bright crackling
I am forced to stare at gaudy
Dandelion sized
Illuminations

"People, don't you know it
You're seven months pregnant,
This is the equinox of your lives."

More a sleeper-hit than the rest of ya'll
A people’s rebellion, resulting in a minute renaissance
There will be nothing left
But the jutting marquee
My sleek revolver points heads in
In a soft trenchcoat, wearing two middle fingers
Like double wedding-rings
They are at the end of my barrels
Eyes forcibly angled at the words
Backlit on the butter-yellow signage
In a slanderous black
"Minnesota's Only Child"

A rats nest of old-book jackets
Picture you with longish-hair
But you're a myth now,
A man who once was coporal
Now just a lingering Christ-appeal

You're followers were wind
Your crucifxion was everywhere!

A fierce brilliance
Like the flash-lights of so many
Mustachioed police-men
Shit daggers in their retinas
And force down-cast eye-balls
To read the dirt
And kiss the pavement
For all of time.

While I kiss something else
Exempt forever,
With all the Scientologists
From the side-effects of the Rapture
A small red-wagon in the untimed universe
Stamping along the broken ribs

I start to count from the list of positive omens
Such names as Lady Fortuna and John Wayne
The Number Eleven,
Which the owl called
Like the sullen nurse in the doctor’s office
Seductive un-pleasure of it
My problems with femininity.

I swim standing up,
Too much wine in my forehead
Too much dust of the day
Left to be shook out some way
Or the other
And pain, high blood-pressure
Continual paranoia
That I am wasting time
A yellow basketI rest inside
Laughing,
Too late to say I was the last.

Tonight history

The world shocked looked around
like a squirrel handed a basket full of nuts.
How long will it take us
to bury them?

I dedicate to you (these)

Truth is a cherry
Tiny bomb in Robin’s nest
We are all lit up

Written in scabs and bruises
On honey-white knee:
Carnage, decayed decency.

So much waste is made
In all these dishonesties,
Chief Nihilist Son.

Lose A Turn

Time for some shut - eye,
Let's get the lids down on my almondines.
Nutcrackers if ever there were some!
Long lashes with wet noodles
And another afternoon slips away.

Baby Snake's all outta venom,
No insults to spit, although plenty of rattle.
Tears I have to force, a fake quaver in my voice
And I think to myself
"You're one bad actor."
And I think to myself
"What a wonderful world."

Life can't be half bad,
When strangers will pay for you to drink.
Life must be great,
Since trust is currency.
(You'll never run out, even in these: our trying times.)
Easily overspent, or squared away
Where it collects compound interest.

On your eleventh beer,
You start asking personal questions -
"Is nothing sacred!?"
I demand.
You tell me
"Disco for me, honey."
Much obliged sir!
I give one hundred and ten per-cent.
Five whole dollars return:
This time I've outdone myself.

Bears linger in my apple trees,
Ripe as the sour fruit with its 'added staying power'.

Hybernation is a temporary death
That I would give two toes,
(Or one pinky-finger) To participate in.
This is their lumbering
Danse Macabre.
If only I could sleep
Half of Canada away.
Or more accurately,
Fifty Nine Per-cent.

Each day,
I clasp the thick stacks,
And start counting.
From what I know,
And from what I've learned
It's high times, and high time that I lost a turn.
Candyland, Sorry, and so much Canadian Tire money,
Thrown to the wind.
Why should you gain a monopoly
On West Broadway,
Or Gaultier?
(If you pronounce this correctly, it rhymes.)

I'm a white moth burning - I am fucked!
I'm bad ideas about letter bombs,
I'm Roman Numeral Five.
I'm Evil Dead,
I'm finalized.

C'etait pour la passion, mon frere:
I let things fall apart on principal,
Or things just fell apart, I guess.
Twenty Two questions:
Two more, Two Less.

So we're out of breadboxes, wallpaper,
chocolate cake, specialized leather gloves -
Let us make a list.
Get us to the shopping mall -
We shall be recieved!
I promise you,
If it is the last thing I do,
I'm going to give you everything...
Everything...
Everything.

Certainty, MB

And then it gets all sad in the middle:

The fall of Communism came,
When I was in grade nine.
I quickly learned what those Reds were really all about.
I had folded pamphlets for the Charasmatic Leader.
Highlighted by hand, the Doctrine of the Shaved Pussy.
Listened to proletariate marches by the Tragically Hip.
Drew charicatures of Karl Marx in art class.
Attended LAN parties,
Diligently puked in the sink with the rest of our collective.

Soon I would realize that Great Ideas,
Are better off in growing soft inside
The tortured hearts of Mama's Boys,
Our Charasmatic Leaders.

When my hand painted propaganda
Began to border on the sarcastic -
(Soon all it pictured was the sledge and scythe
And the word NO in quotations)
The Charasmatic Leader deamed me a lukewarm Socialist at best,
Told me that my opium, was the opium of the people,
And kicked me right out of his grandfather's basement,
Where I resounded, caterwauling with the other Pinkos there.

And then it gets all sad in the middle:

I began to notice holes in the plot
Of my personal revolution,
When each of my independant candidates
Began to mingle with one another.
I wanted them each for their serpareteness!
To steal votes from one another,
And dance like puppets, competing
For my affection, and my registration
With them and only them.

Of course it was always my intent
To never settle down.
Industrialisation of the student body,
Had me spinning, like a little cog
Attached to nothing and nobody
While all the wheels worked together,
Uniting in their basic similarities.

I found a green ribbon
On the ruddy-brown tiles of my highschool,
And tied it round my disheveled pile of hair.
I steeled my eyes in the lunchline.
I wore the same jeans everyday.
I sat alone, washed up in some locker bay,
A French Revolutionary,
Learning all the subjects (Except English)
In a patriotic language.
And subdued.
Tied up,
In something I found on the floor.

I said to myself,
In my selective amnesty:
"Ne me quitte pas,
Ne me quitte pas,
Ne me quitte pas."