The Coup

Yesterday, as I bent over to steal my neighbour’s
newspaper, I was struck in the head by a precocious

carrier pigeon. The wayward bird entered my suggestible
brain by way of my softened left temple, where it eventually

came to a fluttering rest somewhere within the vicinity of
my right frontal lobe. The bird has since crafted itself

a comfortable nest out dried twigs and dopamine.
What’s more, it’s apparently caused irretrievable impairment

to my problem-solving skills, not to mention my risk-taking
tendencies. In other words: I have since grown up.

The Cancer Patient

- A Belated Father's Day Poem

I rarely wore the silver watch my father bought me
because it felt so heavy on my wrist.

During the early morning hours of the recovery ward,
we patted the back of his hand and walked towards the park.

We ended up climbing some playground equipment
made of interconnected bars and chords.

As we contorted ourselves through the darkened apparatus,
I imagined ourselves as heavy hunks of cancer –

Where we each took turns politely excusing ourselves
from the depths of a patient’s grateful body.

Then, I saw that my watch had lost a heavy hunk of its silver band,
and I felt an unexpected rush of nostalgia for the thing.

At long last, the accessory felt like an extension of myself,
and it reminded me of those fortuitous times

when losing a piece of something you love
can help your family hang on.

The Custody Hearings

This morning, I was streaming a video of the dog that I lost
in the divorce. The dog had somehow learned to play the piano,

and had gained a following on the internet. All the while,
the webcam embedded within my laptop gently hummed a tune

in my ear. It reminded me about a medium, a message,
and about something else I can't quite make out without the

assistance of my court-appointed interpreter.

The Rail Rider

I held up my hand to shield my eyes from the sun,
until it looked like I was saluting a distant horizon
of dust and heat and blur. As I squinted, I could just
make out the outline of an old, abandoned railcar.
I tried to run towards it, but I had seemingly become
rooted to the spot on the lawn. Whether my lack of
movement resulted from a new development or an
old affliction, I did not know. It was hard to be certain
of anything, in times like these. As I stood there,
immobilized, I looked down at my feet. I watched as
the ubiquitous dust devils swirled about like little
portals several inches above my inexplicably green
lawn. The lush, verdant nature of my lawn had long
been the subject of neighbourhood gossip - well,
at least since The Drought. The success of my lawn
was a bit of a mystery to my as well. In truth, I never
really tended to it, or even watered it. The tools and
the hose had long since fallen beyond arm's reach,
which incidentally, was why I had become so interested
in that railcar - I needed the migrant workers who'd
once ridden its rails to tend to both myself and my lawn.
Despite the fact that the railcar had long since become
overrun with vines and weeds and greenery, I still held
out hope for its continued relevance. In many ways,
I had drawn some pretty sobering comparisons between
myself, and that abandoned railcar. Whether my lack
of attention resulted from a new trend or an old habit,
I did not know. However, what was certain was that
my neighbourhood was suddenly overrun with migrant
workers. They seemed to be on parade, walking single
file down the street. "Over here," I shouted at the line,
but no one came. I tried to wolf whistle, but I accidentally
inhaled a dust devil, and I nearly passed out from a
choking fit. When I came to, the parade had gone,
but one migrant worker stood before me, holding hat
in his hands and staring at his feet. "Beg your pardon,"
he said. "But I'm powerful hungry. Can I mow your lawn
in exchange for a meal?" I nodded, grateful that someone
finally would. He immediately set to work pushing the
antique lawnmower. As the grass clippings began to fly,
I said, "I thought you'd be here sooner. I mean, that railcar
has been abandoned for quite some time. I thought you
rail riders would have made your presence known before
now." The man put the lawnmower aside and began to rake
up the clippings. "We know what we're doing," he said.
I nodded, grateful that someone finally did. Then the next
thing I knew, the carefully raked piles of grass clippings
began to swirl about in the evening air like lush, verdant
dust devils. Suddenly the air smelled free of dust and heat
and blur. Then the worker looked me right in the eye,
and he stepped through the swirling mess of clippings
as if he were walking through a portal. I tried to follow
him, but I remained rooted to my spot on the lawn.
He did not reappear for quite some time, and I fell back
into my vigil of watching that old, abandoned railcar.
I tried to wolf whistle again, and almost at once,
the migrant worker stepped out from within the green
portal. "Where've you been?" I asked. "I was riding
the rails," he said. "That's impossible," I said, "I was
watching the railcar the whole time and it didn't move
once." The worker fixed me with a pitying look, which
put me on the defensive. "Well," I shot back with unexpected
venom, "at least I'm not some wayward bum!" The worker
smiled knowingly, and blew a wolf whistle of his own.
Almost at once, my ankles, my calves, and my thighs
were soon overrun with vines and weeds and greenery.
It was not long before I was completely bound, torso,
shoulders, and head, in an angry outburst of lawn.
As it migrated up my body, the only part which remained
uncovered was a small slit across my face through which,
if I squinted, I could just make out the outline of a yawning
green portal, moving towards me in the afterglow of an
indifferent and setting sun.

The Simple Times

This morning, I woke up and tried to write a poem,
but my MS Word document seemed esoterically

stuck on a little known font called “Hobo Code”.
Every delicate word I typed resembled rough carvings

on a fence post. For instance, after I crafted a haiku
about a lowly bowl of rice, all that appeared on

my screen was a circle with an X in the middle,
which apparently symbolized “Good Eatin’ Within.”

I have since taken to the road, where I sweep out
drafty barns in exchange for laptop access.

The Ringer

I woke up to the sound of bells, so I decided to follow
the ringing. I had just rounded the hairpin turn into the foyer
when I noticed that my mismatched slippers had brought
me straight to the site of my broken doorbell, which incidentally,
sometimes doubled as my doorway. The bell rang again.
For a moment, I wondered who in the world had the power
to ring my broken doorbell. But then, I felt a little sad
for a second, and I couldn’t quite think of anyone I’d even
wanted to see right then, powerful or not, so instead, I decided
to become captivated with my slippers. Sometimes, when I was
alone, I’d convinced myself that my slippers were mismatched
on purpose. You know, like as a wry statement, or something.
But in the end, I always remembered how you’d accidentally
sold one bear slipper and one duck slipper to that old German
widow at the last Anglican Church bazaar. I think our doorbell
broke that very day, too, come to think of it. I think it was also
the same day you left me after bumping me in the head with
a well-placed swing of our door. I heard bells on that day, too.
Yawning, I looked up and rubbed my eyes with the back of
my hand, and certain facts finally became clear. I was suddenly
convinced that the ringing wasn’t coming from the broken
doorbell at all. In fact, the ringing sounded somehow a bit too
methodical to be coming from the doorbell, broken or otherwise.
The ringing sounded soothing and oddly ritualistic in nature.
There was a droning quality to those ringing bells that
made me think about big wheelbarrows during the plague.
“Bring out your dead!” shouted a voice. “Bring out your dead!”
With bated breath, I reached out for the stiff doorknob,
and found that my mismatched slippers brought me straight
to the site of my trash pickup, which incidentally, sometimes
doubled as my driveway. As I looked up and down the
street, I was only mildly surprised to see a black bear pushing
a big wheelbarrow full of bodies. “Bring out your dead!”
shouted the black bear. The black bear had a white duck
perched upon his left shoulder, and it rang a cracked golden
bell every three paces or so. “Here,” I said, as I flagged
them down, “over here.” The black bear made eye contact
with me, nodded knowingly, and steered his wheelbarrow
into my driveway, past my mismatched slippers, and straight
through my doorway. I decided to walk back inside and see
what they had to offer. As I took in their selection I asked
the bear, “How come all of the dead bodies are cut into halves?”
“Quack,” said the duck, with a ring of his bell. “What he
means by that,” said the bear, “is something along the lines
of, Sometimes, being in love feels like falling apart.” I thought
about that for a second, and then I said, “I see.” But I didn’t
really see at all, so instead, I decided to become captivated
with the bodies. Sometimes when we were together, I’d
convinced myself that I my relationship with you ended on
purpose. You know, like as a conscious choice, or something.
But in the end, I always remembered how you’d emphatically
argued with that old German widow at the last Anglican Church
bazaar about the genuine need for an honest to God schism,
every now and then.

The Convocation

Last night, I met my soul at a
graduation party. The pair of us
shared a joint on the concrete balcony,
and everything was all right for a
while. We discussed fixed election
results, superfluous bachelor degrees,
and how tempting it can be to
outsource a coming revolution.
However, it was not long before my
soul returned to the kitchen, and I
was left alone, looking for something
that resembled an ashtray. Beyond the
foggy windows, I knew that my soul
was lost somewhere within that
heady throng of promises, hugs, and
camera phones. As midnight came,
I simply stood there, and let my
breath dance around me like
cold smoke. I did not search out
my soul again that night. I figured
there were other people it needed to
catch up with, you know, before
it was too late.