“in my dream I was saying terrible things through the people around me.”
a long rev the way to work
hand over the horn
certain someone will hit me
idle the day
adjust my spot
daydream straight wheels
gliding towards family though
let me tell you all the words he knows
Picture ancients debating archery’s
ethical implications, positing
it made killing too easy.
Picture your handsome ancestor
Picture me, with what little you know,
sucker-punching someone I loved.
Picture me hugging them. Sobbing
no malice remaining
for those who did nothing.
Wake and squeal monster:
what a fine dream it was.
The cheque-in-the-mail’s so discreet
you junk ‘er. You cannot be sad.
Half our water is dry. More kids
love tanks than rhinoceros. You
cannot be sad. Be a lid.
Daydream receiving all that cash
the government gives to losers.
Take me away
or better yet wait.
Whole walks home eyes honing on hairlines
receding temples, and asking myself
what constitutes a cover-up?
Am I implicit in a comb-over,
split from the middle?
The date I knew, your Honour,
was either April 13 or 14. Realize
I rarely bestow sirs on anyone
—an, I guess, I guess I give to defer.
Given up saluting drivers, settled on a nod.
Given more fingers than hands to strangers
since whenever. Middle or end of March.
Excuse me my male gaze but do you look like me
with a haircut? All the men with chrome domes
who could teach me a thing about razors I troll
—those men who were boys with me. Know me.
Men who scroll by in another part of Canada.
Switch bodies with someone five seconds
and fuck I adjust everything I can
tucking in my mirrors, coming home at one
with sad music nine tracks in. Friends,
may this one reach you in need of a laugh.
This is the weather you expect of April.
I log in as Shaggy Jeff and look at women.