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.
I’ve been trying to up my people’s happiness.
The central tenet of our faith: water is good.
Ottawa is hash-tagged with rivers and canals;
today, we should be ecstatic to be alive.
One suicidal friend fled west, says
he is shamed by dignitaries. The downtown
BIA shuts down a t-shirt giveaway;
you must ask for the right to be generous.
Another suicidal friend ripens in subsidy.
She repays charity with other charity,
literally. She dreams of renewal;
to be made useful in the arrow of ex-pats
teaching English in the East. A third friend,
also suicidal, once East, appears automated.
From above he appears to be in perpetuity
finishing a painting, thick with better edits.
More friends, maybe also suicidal, pen odes
to their prescriptions, fatten with baggage.
I feel each draws on my productivity, heathers
my vision of a hundred percent self.
These are not my stories to tell but I am in them.
The rural legislator describes the defense
he pit against his arsonist son-in-law. His daughter
condemns what Hansard cannot deny;
it was not his story to tell. My friends
once saw themselves in my words for myself,
my baggy self-portrait. I am sorry
for saying nothing so long, and now so much.
My advisor has no answers. She assigns icons.
When I will not share she presents me a red shield.
To my common cloth she has affixed a purple medal.
But I do not know if the gold diamond or blue vial is better.
I have never been assigned a plain, smiling face.
The eye is winked or the tongue is stuck. Maybe
the Pac-Man’s cheek is blushed, but it is never
a plain, smiling face. I am sick with nuance.
This is my story but I am not in it.
This baggy caricature slips off my motion.
In three-hundred words, a stranger insists
Robin Williams did not die from suicide;
he died from depression. No one dies
from suicide, the stranger insists. This
they insist is requisite to development,
to people who live so long they stack.
I’ve been trying to up my people’s happiness
posturing as a provider of day-dates and texts.
My advisor has no answers. She identifies
my greatest share of costs is personnel.
I close my window, lift my red shield.
The sky is off-white with water, rain today
or snow tomorrow—either way the city wet.
I ask someone to chill, but fuck if they forget.
In/Words Magazine founding editor & mentor Collett Tracy told me recently I oughta give voice to the voiceless. My contemporary contempt for the appropriation of suffering riled, but she & more recent events have swayed me that there’s a way to do this right. Right?
Playing Civilization for the umpteenth, behind in happiness and faith
feel a little woke. Within those simulated states, virtual folk
virtually content and lockstep in their random creeds. IRL
I am a mosaic chip in someone else’s argument
about the West or Canada, or anyone
who isn’t them, anyone
who doesn’t know
how hard it is.