The sky was not blue. It was the colour of a jay,
days dead and frozen to suburb sidewalk.
The man was not holding a telescope, but an umbrella
peeled back of its skin—a cool, silver skeleton.
The word she said was not no, rather a repeated list
of...
How frosty you are in middle-age,
Sycamore, just as you were in youth,
only more grateful, if weary of the gratitude
it takes to feel alive.
By the time you light your noontime pipe,
‘tweens are waking up to J-pop
and widows aim their Lincoln Towncars home...
Why’s it called Larry Csonka? My name is Jacob Larry is my grandfather.
-Comment on the Youtube video for the music video Larry Csonka by Action Bronson
Who are you, and what did you buy into?
Code the shareholders wished out before us
like slugs in a...
First impression of a hasty once-over. Of universal
solvent and under-the-bed. An atmosphere both
apologetic and hostile, orphaned
amenities procured at clearance, curtains synthetic
and religious in their weight and ability
to absorb guilt. A thriving...
According to the Dead Sea scrolls,
our Creator longed to invent the laser.
The best he could do was lightning.
Even saltwater wood ducks saw the flaws:
too short-lived, way too jagged.
It would take people to make lasers.
But when our final beams ebb
to...
It’s Monday, 9 a.m., springtime,
and the cherry tree is sneezing
finches, gold ones, out back in spasms.
At the centre of its own storm, it levels, rallies,
repeats with finches shuffled,
all still gold as OJ rearranged in its carton.
If today were a movie...
That picture’s somewhere still: First Communion, 13 girls
in lace and satin “Like a Virgin” frocks,
legs crossed man-style under frills, floral hairpieces
hanging flaccid over ears. Marrying God.
An overlit confessional, gilded chairs, Father...
Walid was making a film about a particular
honeydew melon. This melon, he said,
pointing to the table littered with back issues
of The Economist, a Blackberry Pearl, assorted
suspiciously pigmented utensils, and the melon
which lolled back and forth as...
trite yap show
rosy twit heap
posterity haw
a wept history
it’s yawp rot, eh
a wisher potty
a power shitty
a whitey sport
hi! try wet soap
poetry is what
whips yo tater
pets it awry, oh
oh, twisty pear
two hearts yip
it’s paw theory
ear whist typo
ape with story
or...
Leaning in to take my glass, my hostess
isn’t laughing, but I can see a lively eye
for detail in the hotel uniform she wears
so taut, she’s trading ions with the air.
She’s off again, concocting one last alibi
while I lay back, braying. What an ass.
It’s...
