To become a metaphor

Half way up Everest you find a bag of weed.
You stash in it in your sleeve so no one else sees it
and so you feel it crinkle in your symmetry.

Three-fifths up the exit polls arrive with the victorious:
“We saw it on the horizon—the sloths won.”
Lights out, you spark a J from a hand-wash-only tag.

Two-thirds up it’s obvious, and your crew insist
share or leave. It’s Jonestown or no foul play

Seven-tenths up you’re all coughing, or was it
four-sevenths, you’re waving down the upcoming

The wholly-sober survivors return home to learn
there was no signal—the sloths never left office.
Leadership stick the climbers up their sleeves, brag

“I got this for being a human being.”
Someone pries your coat free because
someone they love is freezing. They are a moment

weightless, dreamy. “Why’d nigh thinka that
–damn tag been buggin since we set out.”


Special thanks to Amanda Besserer for prompting my partner to prompt me about Everest.



Teething wisdom, the citizenry can’t stop /

won’t stop chattering and boxing their ears.

There are no scandals—the sine wave



                                  I imagine the Borg

edge on hard-core in their alcoves, relent

solely to materialize violence. Today

I try to write a poem and pleasure

fissures a blank.



feelings. Fed struggle. Fed thought. Fed

potential. On dark nights Janet Jackson

meditates. She envisions a colourless

spaceship. She and her brother