Passed Over

by the Ultramar in Madoc


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.


Spring 2016

With my friends Justin Million writing a poem-a-day this month for Synapse and jesslyn delia gagno caught up via her own site, I can’t resist getting in the game. Here are three poems and expect another a day for the rest of April, the coolest month, which as you already knew is National Poetry Month in Canada and the States.

Spring 2016

Batman V Superman: Dawn of Justice will disappoint
but I will still see it in theatres. Also, I shall keep rooting
for the ruin of certain childhood friends (not tragedy, per se
but darker comedies, the sort to reveal, yes, they’ve swum
a long way to a shallow end). When this leave is through
I’ll be sad and summer’s daycare days and well-lit nights
will cast home in a starker hue. The big studios,
they barely bother with billboards—every eight hours
I check for spoilers and clues, am sometimes rewarded
with a trailer and a little new footage. But, nonetheless
I’m sure X-Men: Apocalypse will disappoint
and Captain America: Civil War’ll be OK;
I’m unsure what else is coming.
My son meanwhile claws my shoulder.
I’m his Father (colon) Ever Hopeful The Future Tame
and he’s my Boy (colon) To Be Determined, Subject to Change.



As fast as possible along Seven
recalling the shops and lakes
and certain long turns that curl
the mind’s wicked lip
that lisps: “This could be it,”
but mostly the mind burps
the tenths of cents
I could have.



It’s too late to achieve perfection
—I have made love to my wife
& earlier took my son swimming.