Little Jew on my lap, I know Canada’s old Jew of letters
certainly did worse than hypnotize his sitter to undress.
Still, I will sing his verses and praise him
as an ancestor.
Little Jew on my lap, I do not know if it is worse
if the rabbi in the news vandalized her own home
or if some genuine Nazi did. The propagandists
offer apostates absolution.
Little Jew on my lap, do you know what it means
to be a Jewish in Canada in 2016? I assumed
we were immune from future culls.
Little Jew, us big Jews
do not know what to do.
Learn to speak, please, soon.
In Ontario a man defends torturing his son because the Devil. In Ontario a man and woman defend letting their son die of meningitis because nature. In Ontario a woman still wants to marry the man on trial for murder because love.
In Ontario thirteen million people do not figure into these scenarios. Ontario has no identity other than a majority loathing for its government. Ontario is nearly entirely on Eastern Standard Time except it isn’t and we’re all going to die.
The official bird of Ontario is the loon. The call of the loon is like a laugh and sometimes it wavers. Ontario is experimenting with more beer.
No refund for the satisfaction cruelty bought.
No refund for the solitude honesty wrought.
The madman landed behind the Ultramar
on Seven. Seven, trafficked by sane men
who stare each other down at a hundred
and blink chicken. The madman once didn’t
something. Something to do with crap land,
to do with crooks, and likely someone close.
The madman had a dog once (says so on the signs:
Wrotten bread Killed my dog NO REFUND
Chinese plastic gravy have a nice day LOBLAWS),
must be alone. He doesn’t talk to people;
he talks at them. Whose bread I eat His song
I sing. I keep some Friends for entertainment.
Finally in this great, excellent year of 2016,
the madman has fit us Jews into his suffering.
Yankees fed jewish-nazi-like Powerful Propaganda.
The Jew owns the world. I relent: yes, it is true.
Some perfect nights, sugar on my finger,
honey on my tongue, I very much own the world
The whole world, with its Liberal politicians
and dead best friends, its stolen local elections
and lonesome men seeking private investment.
The man and woman next to me are done picking at their fries.
The woman has an exposed knee and the man has long hair
I order a burger and fries, excited by this rare chance to dine alone.
The sexy couple get up in their coats and go psst, psst, psst.
A weed breeze is let in.
I am entitled to all the ginger ale I want so long as I never leave
for any reason other than to smoke. All I have to do is ask for more.
The waiter has a cord.
My burger and fries come and both are good. A friend out west
texts to say I would be proud of him because he is pushing buttons
at the federal NDP convention in Edmonton.
As a white, Jewish, able-bodied, cis-gendered, middle-class man,
I often feel like the character bit by a zombie screaming
I am picking at my fries, but my waiter will not ask, “Are you done,
or are you still picking?” I will have put everything on my plate
in a way I read you should.
Honor is obviously easiest choice.
Why don’t you put a u in there
insists some schnook,
ah yes—a jibe there.
Build up allegiances. Trade’s important
but what I’ve learned is nice guys go mad
wrestling with why am I so nice all the time?
Now you the substance have trickled off screen;
lolled. Never a good sign. Never,
literally, in ink. What’s become of your passive tone?
Why are you crying?
I’m sorry we were so close. I’m sorry I
I functioned so bravely now more than never.