Robot Kissing Booth

The Restless Doghouse

2009-07-26T02:51:00.009-04:00

I have a wicked side.
It sleeps in the doghouse.
It pants a lot.
It mutters things under its breath.
It ingratiates itself.
It reminds you of a human infant.
It growls at passing neighbours.
It is incapable of looking up.
It is grateful for the leftovers.
It naps a lot.
It has shameful dreams
about running, and pouncing,
and shaking.
It grows restless in the doghouse.
It growls at passing fancies.
It ages seven years
for every
one human year.
Scientists don’t know why.

The Getaway Plan

2009-07-20T00:20:00.005-04:00

After catching a glimpse of your bodies in the mirror,
I felt a sharp little shiver shoot down my spine.

Ignited by the flares of a dozen flushed nerve endings,
it aimed to find safer ground by way of my buckling thighs.

The rogue endorphins liberated themselves from my body
through a double barrel pair of charcoal tube socks.

Looking up from my smoking craters of footwear,
I watched as the distraught shiver accidentally skidded

into our newly-renovated kitchen island.
Then with a theatrical flourish of banging backdoor,

I saw it duck down a dimly lit alley,
where an ominously tinted luxury vehicle

idled by the crumbling curb,
its passenger door dangling obligingly ajar,

like the slackened jawbone of
a dumbstruck believer.

The Hangover Cure

2009-07-18T14:02:00.003-04:00

I awoke this morning with my headache lodged
beneath the lid of an antique player piano.

Admittedly, I do not recall much about last night,
except that a half-drunk Manhattan on ice

was needlessly heaved at a short-fused bluesman.
After numerous attempts to liberate my head

with brute force and tougher talk, I gave up.
Instead, I belted out a song of automated apology

into the tuneless dawn, as if this change
in key might somehow let me out.

The Gospel Record

2009-07-16T22:34:00.003-04:00

I was rotating somewhere in the background,
running a long fingernail along the worn grooves
of my forehead, waiting for the music to come.
"You take requests?" asked a voice from up on high.
It was a girl, riding upon her boyfriend's shoulders,
waving a flaming lighter beneath the heavens.
"I'm not a house band," I said. "I'm more like
a home theatre system. I need to be programmed."
"I see," she said, and I watched as her blue flame
disappeared against a stretch of uninterrupted sky.
As night fell, the voice and the light were replaced
by the murmur of white noise constellations.
Above me, radio signals were loose in the stars,
muttering for release from the cluttered ether.
"I know the songs have always existed," I said
solemnly rotating in the darkness. "But all I ever
receive is blank static - like the rise of water around
an island, or the rush of wind inside a tunnel."
"You can't complain," said the girl, who had just
reappeared, only this time standing upon the
shoulders of her giant boyfriend. "Inspiration,"
she explained, "is a murmur loose in your brain."
As my audience wandered off a second time,
I noticed that the ground beneath me was worn.
I had been rotating for so long that I found myself
unwilling to seek alternative grooves to inspiration.
So, I vowed to observe my patient rotations
whether I was delivered the music, or not.

The Fourth Wall

2009-07-13T21:49:00.001-04:00

I’m a descendant of the first cave painters
who thought to include human beings in their art.

You see, up until then, prehistoric murals
were mostly just bison, bison, bison.

The theory was – if you drew them on the wall,
you drew them from the land.

So, once my ancestors began to
include themselves in their own scenes,

the land became strewn with
artists, artists, artists.

Soon the scene was all played-out,
leafy greens were over-priced,

and the bison felt excluded,
so they left. My bad.

The Ornamental Cannon

2009-07-11T20:54:00.003-04:00

I used to think that meteor showers were glorious occurrences,
that is, until a comet dropped from the sky and blinded my dog.
What happened was, we were walking through Tecumseh Park
when a fireball ricocheted off the barrel of an ornamental cannon.
All at once, three-fifths of the detonated rock illuminated the
Thames riverbed in a shower of red and white sparks, while two-
fifths of the remainder headed straight for my unprotected calves.
Then I felt a slack on the leash, and I realized that my dog had
heroically heaved his body between my legs and the meteorite.
The local ambulance crew appeared on the scene almost at once.
As it happened, they were speeding toward the park with such
haste that they rebounded off the barrel of a vandalized slide.
"I'm fine, fine," shouted my dog. "I can still smell goddamn it!"
Despite his protests, he was rushed to the local hospital where
I dutifully sat by his bedside, describing every inch of his dimly
lit room, until the needles and the sleeping came. At daybreak,
an eager reporter from The Daily Procter came by to interview
the heroic blind dog that had selflessly saved his master's legs.
But to the reporter's dismay, my dog denied the entire glorious
occurrence. "Well, what about the witnesses?" asked the reporter.
"Bark," said my dog, with a dismissive flick of his paw. "People
will remember what they want to remember." "But what about
the ornamental cannon," asked the reporter, "it bears the marks
of an explosion." "Weapons will bear what they want to bear,"
said my dog. "Besides," he added. "I wasn't even in Chatham
last night. I was holding defensive positions with the Shawnee."
In front of the dubious reporter, my blind dog continued to drone
on and on about his role in the War of 1812. "General Procter
had retreated up the Thames with such haste," said my dog.
"That he'd left more than half of his men and supplies behind
with Tecumseh's last chance at honour." "So," said the reporter
who's eyes rolled like looping meteorites, "were you very scared?"
"No," said my dog, "my job was to fetch the scattered supplies
from the river. Our last remaining cannon could not longer fire,
and the enemy knew it. Their artillery thrashed at the Thames
until the shoreline resembled a pot of boiling water." Then my dog
turned his head away from the reporter, and I knew that he had
just shared everything he cared to. "This interview is over," said
the reporter, and he left the room in something of a huff. My dog
sniffed the air and said, "Good, he's gone." We sat alone for a while,
and I asked him, "So, were you really in that War? Or were you
out walking with me, saving me from the ornamental cannon?"
My dog turned his bandaged eyes towards me, "Victims will
explain what they want to explain," he said. Then as a heavy rain
thrashed against the hospital window, I rested a reassuring hand
upon my dog's unsuspecting paw. "I get it," I said. "Sometimes,
I find it very scary to tell people how much I love them, too."

The Pill Bottle

2009-07-05T15:44:00.004-04:00

Standing topless in front of the old mirrored cabinet,
I stared at the open bottle of pills until the voices came.

“You cannot continue to view your illness with contempt,”
said the bottle of pills. “It’s not something beneath you.”

“The illness,” it added, “is an adversary worthy of your nerve.”
Instinctively, I sucked in my gut and stood up a bit straighter.

This sudden shift in posture caused the pill bottle to rattle,
and my ears were filled with the peals of well-rung bells.

As the room fell back into stoic disquiet, the childproof cap
on the counter gave voice to the silence. “The path you seek,”

it said to me, “is a unique expression of your symptoms.
And it will lead you to something that’s been missing.”

I rolled my eyeballs in their sockets, scanning the bathroom
for any misplaced lotions or decorative soaps, but nothing

seemed out of order, except the pill bottle. “What you need,”
said the bottle, “is less estrangement from your various

selves.” Then almost as if they were searching for something,
the dozens of pills left in my bottle leapt from my hand,

and threw themselves towards the peeling linoleum below.
Standing topless in front of the newly painted wall,

I stared at the open pane of glass until the constellations
came. Careful not to crush the wandering doses at my feet,

I turned to face the bitter pill of the moon, as it called out
to me in a booming voice. It said, “To be estranged from

what makes a person human is to diminish all remaining
humanity.” Then an alarm on my watch face began to chirp,

chirp, chirp, and I knew it was time to discover whether
or not my pills still worked after they fell onto the floor.

Haiku

2009-07-03T22:14:00.002-04:00

The sheet on the cage
flutters with the squeaking fan -
a nap without dreams.

The Coup

2009-06-30T21:16:00.003-04:00

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

2009-06-25T09:07:00.002-04:00

- 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

2009-06-24T09:54:00.001-04:00

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

2009-06-23T20:57:00.001-04:00

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

2009-06-21T00:41:00.001-04:00

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

2009-06-20T01:56:00.007-04:00

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

2009-06-19T22:50:00.001-04:00

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.

A Haiku for Spring Cleaning

2009-03-20T14:25:00.002-04:00

Ripples in the sink,
as the old knife slips away;
the power of soap.

A Haiku for Eviction Day

2009-03-01T01:54:00.003-05:00

A cold alleyway,
my lightweight dolly sounds like
an awkward drum roll.

Five Poems

2009-02-24T14:14:00.003-05:00

Five of my poems
now appear in BafterC,
Vol. 4 No. 1.

It is published and sold through
Book Thug.

Hooray.

A Haiku for Better Days

2009-02-22T16:08:00.004-05:00

A sad Sunday meal,
the last of my stale pretzels
resemble wishbones.

The Hypnotist

2009-02-19T23:11:00.002-05:00

The woman behind
the suggestive Hypno-Specs
has hollow
gear-shaped eyes.
They tumble & swoon
beneath her furrowed
forehead
like a pair of
rabid, unlicensed
poodles.
Above her spinning sockets,
her eyebrow-lines perch,
barren and drawn
and arched,
like a gothic wrought iron
gate
guarding a haunted
Spirograph
factory.

The Doors

2009-02-19T07:34:00.002-05:00

Ryan's poem The Doors
will be appearing in the forthcoming
issue of
The Toronto Quarterly.

Hooray.

A Poem for Stop Loss Day

2009-02-14T20:41:00.005-05:00

Ryan Bird is a Soldier
of Love

who still wakes
up drunk
with post-traumatic
dreams

about
high school

dances--

the gut tender
shellshock
of
improvised explosives

still pungeant
on the roadside
air,

like a day-old
peace
lily

corsage.

The Tourist

2009-01-21T09:31:00.001-05:00

My sunglasses now envelope
the whole of my head.

Something wicked this way
reflects.

It's high noon in the town
of Hotspur Ridge,

and my temples resemble a set of
swinging saloon doors,

filmed in nostalgic dustbowl
sepia.

Raven and the First Men

2008-12-12T08:37:00.004-05:00

As I was gazing deep within
the mesmerizing
money,
Queen Elizabeth's translucent head appeared
to be trapped within the green
bill.

"I am a security measure," said the Queen's head.
"I protect against counterfeiting."

"Don't you ever get lonely in there?"
I asked the Queen.

"Yes," replied the Queen's head.
"But I am friendly with the aboriginal raven
sculpture on the back of
the bill."

"Oh yeah," I said.
"The raven represents both a trickster and creator;
of course you two
get along."

"Ah," mused the Queen's translucent head.
"Could we ever know each other
in the slightest without
the money?"

The Expected Visitor

2008-11-14T19:32:00.002-05:00

One dreary midnight,
Ryan Bird gazed
deep
within the foreboding gothic mirror
located in the
north-north-west corner
of his fashionably
darkened
study.
He then spoke his own name
three times.
Then with a foreboding gothic squeak,
a secret passageway
revealed itself from behind
a pallid bust of
Pallas.
“Ryan Bird”
he said to himself
once more.
Fuck, he just loved
the sound of his
own
smarty-pants
voice.

There Was a Silence in Heaven About the Space of a Half an Hour

2008-10-26T20:50:00.003-04:00

Ryan Bird once played
a life-or-death game of chess
against a stylized,
Swedish personification
of Death.

Despite emerging victorious,
he later lost his soul
to the nimble-fingered spectre of
Ingmar Bergman
during a life-or-death
game
of KerPlunk.

Terminal Velocity Walrus

2008-10-13T14:27:00.001-04:00

“What now?” asked the man who was straddling the plummeting walrus. His name was Richard Morningstar. He was riding a walrus for only the second time in his life, and he was pretty sure he was doing it wrong.

“I must admit something to you, Richard,” said the walrus. “I’m afraid I’m not quite the aviator that I’ve led you to believe. Also, I’m afraid that our inescapable freefall will be the end of us.”

“Hunh,” said Richard. There was an awkward pause as Richard’s life worked up the courage to flash itself before his eyes. In the mean time, Richard did exactly what most humans would do, if placed in a similar situation. He quoted something he didn't believe in, just to keep up polite conversation.

Here is what he said: "The desire of power in excess caused the angels to fall; the desire of knowledge in excess caused man to fall."

“Hunh,” said the walrus. There was an awkward pause as the walrus mulled over the unexpectedly poignant words of Francis Bacon. The walrus was intrigued by Richard’s choice of imagery. His walrus-mind began to reel. In this scenario, was he the walrus the fallen angel, guilty of overstepping the natural order; or was he the man, guilty of overextending his natural desire? Or better yet, perhaps the walrus was a scathing social commentary on the excessive fallout of free will.

In the end, the walrus doubted the validity of any such theories. He was pretty sure he was just being taught a lesson by some higher power. He also figured he probably had it coming.

On the other hand, Richard did not know what to believe; other than the fact that he didn’t have anything coming. That’s why Richard figured he was being taught a lesson from some lower power, namely the ground, which was rising toward him at a seemingly excessive rate of speed. He also figured that he’s offended some powerful universe force, or something.

It was about that time that Richard's mind started to wander back to this life on the ground. Back there, Richard was a pretty well-to-do guy. Among other notable achievements, Richard Morningstar had patented a series of compatibility tests, which were sold to the online-dating conglomerate, Icarus Unlimited. He was also the sole surviving heir to the Plummet Brother’s Thermometer fortune. In short, Richard’s rather pleasurable life finally flashed before his eyes, at a seemingly excessive rate of speed.

Then something truly unexpected happened. The walrus and Richard opened up their respective mouths, and said the exact same thing at the exact same time. It was a therapeutic moment for both creatures. They had finally found themselves able to articulate a profound truth; moreover, they realized that they had done so together. In the face of their deadly fall, they had attained some sort of practical enlightenment, or something.

Here is what they said: “I’m sure back home, they think I’ve lost my mind.”

Oh, Career Ambitions

2008-10-09T00:39:00.002-04:00

Ryan
hopes
to
maximize
his
professionalism
potential
inside
of
an
honourable
facetime
continuum,
etc.

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

2008-08-25T20:55:00.005-04:00

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

2008-08-23T19:36:00.003-04:00

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

2008-08-22T07:51:00.004-04:00

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

2008-08-20T08:02:00.006-04:00

The pine cone
allows the seasons to spread
its seeds.

The Orphan

2008-08-14T08:53:00.003-04:00

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

2008-08-08T06:03:00.001-04:00

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

Let There Be Arm Candy

2008-08-07T08:50:00.002-04:00

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

2008-08-05T08:37:00.003-04:00

solitary fart--
across the street
a bird hops

Haiku Pop #7

2008-08-02T23:16:00.002-04:00

crabgrass--
like pennies in
a pond

Haiku Pop #6

2008-08-01T08:21:00.002-04:00

before hatchlings
or the nesting birds--
drying twigs

Haiku Pop #5

2008-07-31T08:56:00.001-04:00

beetle skin
rolling in the grass--
a sunrise

Haiku Pop #4

2008-07-30T07:21:00.001-04:00

a storm cloud
collides with the sun--
gong!

Haiku Pop #3

2008-07-29T08:43:00.005-04:00

morning stillness--
smoke rings bow away
from my lips

Haiku Pop #2

2008-07-28T08:51:00.003-04:00

the cricket--
meditating with legs
crossed

Haiku Pop #1

2008-07-27T09:41:00.003-04:00

dandelion seed--
trapped by a licked
stamp

Haiku of the Free #10

2008-07-26T21:27:00.002-04:00

Rebuilding a mouse
by thumbing through owl pellets,
the modern haiku.

or,

fingering
small bones—
a loud crack

Haiku of the Free #9

2008-07-23T21:43:00.003-04:00

Constellations through
the passing CP Rail cars,
holding hands ‘til dawn.

Haiku of the Free #8

2008-07-23T21:43:00.002-04:00

Leaves rustling above,
a sensible rock accepts
the fidgeting roots.

Haiku of the Free #7

2008-07-23T21:43:00.001-04:00

The caterpillar
eats a third hole in the leaf,
incense in my hand.

Haiku of the Free #6

2008-07-22T08:13:00.000-04:00

As bead lightning spills
over the rim of the clouds,
a bird in the bath.

Haiku of the Free #5

2008-07-21T08:17:00.002-04:00

The sound of crickets,
the burning leaves come to me
in tiny pieces.

Haiku of the Free #4

2008-07-20T18:36:00.002-04:00

The lonely salesman
cuts across the old end zone,
barely feeling cold.

Haiku of the Free #3

2008-07-19T16:14:00.000-04:00

The shaded sapling
and the wayward maple key,
a singular wind.

Haiku of the Free #2

2008-07-18T07:28:00.003-04:00

Lost in a bean field,
the cricket and his puddle
contemplate my shoes.

* for Bronte Creek

Haiku of the Free #1

2008-07-17T06:35:00.004-04:00

A mound of rich earth
is swallowed by the ravine,
sunlight through the roots.

* for Bonte Creek

It's a Lovely Day to Quit a Shit Job

2008-07-16T11:45:00.002-04:00

Take
your
plucky
comb-over,
and
part
it;
you
paltry,
poached-
chicken
of
a
man.

Haiku From My Shit Job #15

2008-07-15T08:29:00.002-04:00

The submerged loon
shakes his feet at the night air,
the moon is not full.

Haiku From My Shit Job #14

2008-07-13T08:52:00.002-04:00

Underground pigeon,
a bobbing head leads toward
the escalator.

Haiku From My Shit Job #13

2008-07-13T08:52:00.001-04:00

The red butterfly
is perfectly adapted,
like breath on the breeze.

Haiku From My Shit Job #12

2008-07-12T11:11:00.003-04:00

Robin on the fence,
I grasp a Pure Land sutra
in the parking lot.

Haiku From My Shit Job #11

2008-07-11T11:14:00.003-04:00

Replanting the bulbs,
a young crow watches the holes
as well as the worm.

Haiku From My Shit Job #10

2008-07-10T05:48:00.000-04:00

Three budding daisies,
a dragonfly bends their stems
with suffering wings.

Haiku From My Shit Job #9

2008-07-09T05:51:00.001-04:00

A dilapidated cart
in the irrigation ditch,
a wheel in the rain.

New Poems in Pax Americana

2008-07-08T07:08:00.007-04:00

The forthcoming print edition of
Pax Americana
shall feature two
of my
poems:

The Inheritance and,
The Screech Owl.

Also, the forthcoming
online edition of
Pax Americana #9
shall feature three
of my
poems:

The Orange Kitchen;
A Poem for the Moon Festival,
and Wrecking Ball Cottage,

Hooray.

Haiku From My Shit Job #8

2008-07-08T07:08:00.003-04:00

The July sunset
reflects in the orange tide,
I’m the inert one.

Haiku From My Shit Job #7

2008-07-07T00:12:00.002-04:00

The patience of storm,
a robin’s egg contemplates
its place in the grass.

Haiku From My Shit Job #6

2008-07-06T08:42:00.001-04:00

A cat swings her tail,
the soundless close of a door
through the heavy fog.

A Word Sonnet for the 8-Fold Path

2008-07-05T23:42:00.004-04:00

Ryan
has
Some
of
the
Dharma,
and
no,
John
Sampas:
you
can’t
have
any.

Haiku From My Shit Job #5

2008-07-05T07:17:00.005-04:00

Ephemeral rain,
droplets swell upon the fruit
as long as it dares.

Haiku From My Shit Job #4

2008-07-04T06:31:00.002-04:00

Alone in his wings,
the gull finds nothing but air
and occupied nests.

A Little (Cover-Poem) Love

2008-07-03T21:31:00.004-04:00

You are sidelong glances
in a hospital triage.

You are the wisp of ginger hair
tucked behind
the
nurse’s ear.

You are the burning sensation
in the nose,

and the open barbeque
in the
neighbourhood.

*

this poem is in response
to Ally Fleming's fantastic poem,
A Little Love

from her
blog

Hunky Dory.

Haiku From My Shit Job #3

2008-07-03T07:55:00.004-04:00

Nothing is silent,
the pale cat behind our fence
eyes the morning moon.

Haiku From My Shit Job #2

2008-07-02T19:32:00.004-04:00

Stray shoots of hemlock
bow in the wind like old souls,
green and overgrown.

Avroing My Arrow (Happy Canada Day)

2008-07-01T15:17:00.004-04:00

No,
the title's less a
masturbatory metaphor
than an ill-fated
contraception metaphor:

Canada pulled out
way too early,
and hoped it would
all work out
for
the best.

Haiku From My Shit Job, #1

2008-06-30T20:25:00.004-04:00

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

In the Act

2008-06-27T22:06:00.004-04:00

Friends
are
provided by

adversity,

and enemies
are
nourished by

stolen moments,
beneath the
shirt,

but
over the
bra.

Accountability Song

2008-06-27T22:06:00.002-04:00

I am deep
in the

pocket
of
Big Bed.

A Not-So-Good Song

2008-06-26T19:41:00.021-04:00

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

2008-06-26T10:31:00.005-04:00

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

2008-06-25T12:06:00.003-04:00

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

2008-06-20T11:50:00.001-04:00

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

2008-06-19T13:52:00.003-04:00

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

2008-06-19T12:08:00.000-04:00

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

2008-06-12T10:58:00.002-04:00

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

2008-06-06T10:29:00.004-04:00

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

in the fall of
2008,

Hooray.

Wrecking Ball Cottage

2008-06-04T15:05:00.003-04:00

This poem will appear in
Pax Americana #9,

Hooray.

The Screech Owl

2008-06-04T11:41:00.005-04:00

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

in the fall of
2008,

Hooray.

Twaddle 3: Coming Soon

2008-05-31T11:59:00.003-04:00

Twaddle is back from indefinate hiatus.
Twaddle #3 is coming soon.

It will feature poems by
Ally Fleming and
Greg Santos.

It will also feature fiction by
David Summers and
Ryan Bird.

Hooray.

Waiting for the End of the World

2008-05-28T11:46:00.002-04:00

The stray cats around here are
all six-toed, nerve-endings that
double as spiritual figureheads
for our foregone factory town.

Straddling our familiar, slanted
rooftops, their unclipped claws
cleave towards the rusty eaves,
like loose nails towards bare feet.

They scream their loud love into
storm drains, until God himself
promises not to act too rashly, or
otherwise beyond comprehension.

Like transcendent popular music,
they emit a tactful hum, like
some sort of groovy, cosmic ray,
dutifully calling Heaven out.

Haiku for May

2008-05-28T11:27:00.003-04:00

Early morning frost,
The wire bends into a smile
as the crow takes flight.

Tom Cruise is Trapped Inside of Our Guest Bathroom.

2008-05-21T16:42:00.016-04:00

Tom Cruise is trapped inside of our guest bathroom.
The room has novelty doors that swing like Western movie saloons.
Sometimes, we hear fire-fights from behind the bathroom doors.
Other times, we hear the distinct sounds of Tom Cruise eating our fancy, lavender-scented guest-soap, for he has confused them with chocolatey swag-bag truffles.

Tom Cruise is trapped inside of our Jacuzzi bathtub.
The nozzles that spray jets of Jacuzzi water have all been vandalized.
The Jacuzzi bathtub is now booby-trapped, but I do not blame Tom Cruise, for he is far too pretty to perform inconsequential, household atrocities, such as these.

Tom Cruise is trapped inside of our Water Pik.
The guest bathroom is now full of wide, movie-star smiles.
Apparently, this old-time tooth-cleaner is slightly outdated, and as of late has actually proven itself to be abrasive and damaging to impressionable gum-lines everywhere.

Tom Cruise is trapped inside of our medicine cabinet.
The medicine cabinet is wide-open, and it finally feels free.
Every last beauty product in our guest bathroom has been discarded.
Tom Cruise has decided that my Oxy Clean pads are stealing my brain's precious oils, necessary for cosmic re-enlightenment.

A Spawn Song

2008-05-21T12:24:00.005-04:00

As I
squint

into the
salmon-tinted

sunset,

I hastily
imbibe

your bubbly,
ruby-red

smile,

before
crushing it,

with manly
gusto,

against

the faded
pink halo

upon
my sloping

forehead.

New Poem in Dark Sky Magazine

2008-05-06T15:58:00.004-04:00

My new poem Carrot Top Filth Emboldens Terrorists appears here in Dark Sky Magazine 7.0. Enjoy.

Food Courtly Love

2008-05-03T13:00:00.002-04:00

for Ally Fleming,

*

Last night,
I awoke from unsettling dreams
to discover that my wife
had become a
muffin.

I screamed,
and I screamed at her,
but yet
she remained
a blueberry
muffin.

Then I twisted
off her delicious top
in misguided,
fruity
frustration.

Then I ate her,
because I had to,
and because without
the best parts
of her,
her life would
have been
cruel
and

unusual.

The Universal Hero

2008-04-10T12:18:00.001-04:00

Scott Lancer
was an ant,

who could squat thrust
his cancer

like a
champ

New Poem

2008-04-01T09:05:00.002-04:00

I have a new poem The Empty Panini
set to appear in the upcoming issue

of Inscribed.
Hooray.

Four Poems & a Story

2008-03-30T11:45:00.003-04:00

A new publication Octopus Beak Inc.
will feature four of my poems
& one short story.

Inside The Beak you can read
two of my new poems The Moveable Feast,
& Brave New Workout.

As well as my short story
The Orphan Manatee.

Last but not least,
you can read
The Author Makes an Unexpected Confession,
as well as Clinical Diagnosis as Non-Linear Composition,
both of which are exceprts
from an upcoming
young adult novel in verse
typed out by yours
truly.

Hooray.

The Freshman

2008-03-18T12:22:00.002-04:00

This poem,
and accompanying
cartoon,

appears in The Egregious #3
by the fine, folk

at
Feathertale.

Hooray.

Inscribed Volume 2

2008-03-18T10:50:00.003-04:00

I have three poems appearing
in this new anthology from
Inscribed.

They are:
The Unmistakable Bells of Freedom (from issue 2.1)
Socialism Song (from issue 2.2)
Art Bar, Discovery Night (from issue 2.6)

Purchase your very own copy
of the anthology
here.

Brave New Workout

2008-03-14T08:51:00.004-04:00

You may read this poem in the upcoming issue of Octopus Beak Inc.

Oh, Pirate Dreams

2008-03-11T15:44:00.003-04:00

'Yargh,' said the disembodied
pirate head.

'Gasp,' said the dislocated
koi fish.

'Wine,' said the disinterested
bottle of hope.

The Obese Ant

2008-03-11T10:09:00.006-04:00

'Duck,' shouted the author,
as the obese ant rocketed past his head.

The obese ant was finally free
of both gravity & guilt.

'Both are simply a matter of persuasion,'
shouted the obese ant.

From the humble clutter of
the nearby floor,

the author considered
a subtle change

in career.