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.

 

Salon treatment

I was humbled, tickled, etc., to be invited to read at a salon with Marcus McCann at the home of Pearl & Brian Pirie. Pearl wrote up the event & posted some photos over at her blog, here. The motive for the event was Marcus, a damn good poet, was passing through town, and well, we don’t get to see enough of him. Last time I heard him read in Ottawa was for the launch of Labradoodle at least a year or two ago. This was an informal opportunity to hear what he’s been up, get some new poems outta him, and hear rob mclennan talk about his baby šŸ˜‰

Salon treatment hair with none of the fuss

Photographed there with yours truly is “Only White Men Shake Hands On The Dance Floor,” which is half the sequel to my previous two chapbooks with Justin Million. Leave a comment below with your address and I’ll send you a copy.