Haiku From My Shit Job, #1

The dandelion
dangles the white of its head
beyond the tree-line.

In the Act

Friends
are
provided by

adversity,

and enemies
are
nourished by

stolen moments,
beneath the
shirt,

but
over the
bra.

Accountability Song

I am deep
in the

pocket
of
Big Bed.

A Not-So-Good Song

It’s dark
in
here:

The smoke-rings
are busily bowing away
from
my lips
like greyish daisy
petals,
plucked and
thrown
in a roundhouse
flourish of
dramatic
affect.

I suddenly want to
smack myself
for what I’ve
become.

It’s National Tattoo
Week here in good, old
Hogtown, Ontario,
and no one
here
is wearing a
shirt:
the nipples are
plentiful,
and they remind me
of
eyeballs
and secrets.

I’ve got so much
ironing to do
that the simple act of
doing it
hardly seems
worth the effort
nowadays,
especially when said
effort
is expressed
to me in terms
of
anthropogenic
carbon
emissions.

Yesterday,
I indignantly
stomped on the
polar-blue
linoleum floor
covering,
and
to this very day,
I remain
unsatisfactorily
convinced
about a personal
matter
which shall
remain
nameless.

Today,
I pulled the
third candle-to-
the-left on the
antique
candelabra in
Dad's study,
and
the secret
passageway
that Mom decorated
just called
me
cute.

Just now,
I imagined
myself some
white
sand beaches,
and maybe some
pirate gold,
and the next thing
I know,
white sand and
pirate gold
come shaking out
of my last
bottle
of Gold Bond
Medicated
Powder.

One time,
I found a note
inside of that
same magic bottle,
it said
something
about peace and quiet,
or something.

When I was younger,
I used to think
that clouds were God’s
maverick
inspiration
for
life-insurance
premiums.

Peter Mansbridge
is the voice
inside of
my head that
tells me
not the take
the pills
this
week.

Sometime in the
foreseeable
future,
squirrels go extinct,
and our streets
become overrun
by
monkeys:
then out of nowhere,
everyone gets a
little bit
sadder
on the inside.

It’s raining now:

The droplets
look a lot
like
anthills;

oh yeah,
and it’s dark in
here,

real dark.

3 Poems & Cartoons in The Egregious #3

Three of my poems,
and their accompanying cartoons:

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man in a Fish Tank;
The Freshman;
and, The Saintly Tentacle,

are all currently available in The Egregious #3
by the fine, folk at Feathertale.

Hooray;
my yes, hooray,

indeed.

Two Poems in InDigest Magazine

Two of my poems:
Day and the Daylights;
and, The Echolocation Liturgy
shall appear
in the forthcoming
issue of
InDigest Magazine.

Hooray.

The Water on Mars

There is imagination
to your instinct.

There is memory
in my feet.

You stroll through
both hot air and atmosphere,
all the way to
Mars,
with nothing but
a beach blanket and a
water bucket.

Meanwhile,
I pace around the
tulip bulbs,
looking for phantom kinks
in our endless links
of garden
hose.

Descension Song

Raindrops on
the nose,
a breeze rustles
feline
whiskers
on the way
down the
launchpad
trunk,
they twitch towards
the creeping
clouds,
who are
perched beside
the graying
horizon,
like mice beside
a hole.

The Original Cast

There
is a gray
sock
holding a
white
toe,
poking out
of an
ivory
cast.

There
is a old
man
holding a
golden
torch,
singing out
in a
cagey
voice.

There
is a stick
insect
holding a
bronze
cane,
falling out
of the
holy
sky.

The Switch

I tore a switch from the oak tree.
The oak tree tore a nipple ring from my chest.

I handed the switch to my father
so that he could beat me.

The oak tree kept my nipple ring
so that its little acorns

could believe in the tale
their father planned to tell

at the hinterland
dinner table.

The Inheritance

This poem shall appear in
the forthcoming print edition of
Pax Americana,

in the fall of
2008,

Hooray.

Wrecking Ball Cottage

This poem will appear in
Pax Americana #9,

Hooray.

The Screech Owl

This poem shall appear in
the forthcoming print edition of
Pax Americana,

in the fall of
2008,

Hooray.