"Oh the noise! Noise, Noise! Noise!"

They'll dance with jingtinglers tied onto their heels.
They'll blow their floofloovers. They'll bang their tartookas.
They'll blow their whohoopers. They'll bang their gardookas.
They'll spin their trumtookas. They'll slam their slooslunkas.
They'll beat their blumbloopas. They'll wham their whowonkas.
And they'll play noisy games like zoozittacarzay...

*

Hooray for Whistler 2010.

The Ephemeral Best

Yesterday, a stranger in a houndstooth
scarf grabbed me by the scruff of the

neck and said: "The only reason I exist
is because it feels like someone keeps

licking my heart." Before my eyes, the
stranger began to look less and less like

a man. Instead, he began to resemble a
collection of appendages. Then he began

to resemble a smattering of accessories,
floating in the fabric of spacetime. Then

he began to fade away. Then I began to
fade away. When I finally came to, I

was laid out upon a collapsible stretcher.
A girl in a toile skirt was purposefully

straddling my chest; she held a golden
defibrillator, and was licking her lips.

She told me to calm down, or else. I
decided to listen to her, since up until

then, trusting strangers had always sort
of worked out for the ephemeral best.

A Poem for Becoming a Fan of Jason Statham on Facebook

Last night,
I dreamed that
Jason Statham
performed a
shirtless
back-pike dive
into the
rippling
chlorine stillness
of my
bouyant
flutterchest;

there was no splash.

Existentialism is not a Pineconism

The pine cone
allows the seasons to spread
its seeds.

The Orphan

My jar of essential biotic nutrients
has been stolen,
and I am lost in the woods
without moisture.

I stumble through
the overlapping brush,
and the fruit-bearing branches
strike at my face,
and cut
worry-lines into my
bronzed but
droopified
cheeks.

I fear that
no amount of
fat-soluable vitamin extracts
can ever make me
bangable
again.

Tears of shame fall
from my eyeballs like small
change
into an empty jar of
Dove
face cream.

'Spare some copper
for an orphan,'
says the orphan, as he rattles
his change jar
at me.

I look upon the orphan’s
filthy
but flawless face,
and I recognize the
empty jar as my
own.

‘Oh orphan,’
I say.
‘My eyeballs say moist,
but the back of
my hand
says,
strike
an
orphan!’

Haiku for the Fall

Watching school children
holding hands down a slide,
his cancer has spread.

Let There Be Arm Candy

Let the spiritual engine be
captured in tasteful nude photography.

Let the double-thickness gloves
make the Red Tail hawk feel filial piety.

Let all sentient beings
benefit from sweeping gothic capes.

Let all spontaneous slow dances
have raspberry centres.

Let the brunette with the bull’s eye corsage
take you home in her Dodge Neon.

Let all eyes in the Food Court turn
to the monk’s forearm,

as he displays his blind date
like an resigned

matador.

Haiku Pop #8

solitary fart--
across the street
a bird hops

Haiku Pop #7

crabgrass--
like pennies in
a pond

Haiku Pop #6

before hatchlings
or the nesting birds--
drying twigs