NPM #12 (Open up)

Point to your face. To your content.
To your sponsored content & ad space.

Describe your privacy settings
as a family gathering. What
is stacked upon the dryer? Who
is upstairs for a lie-down?

Your friend and you are catching up
when they ask you for your ticket.
You still mad about the fees?

What rhymes with your name?

The legendary cat burglar re-enters your room
and pulls up the floor,

NPM17 #1 (Checking)

The soil is real moist, probably not a problem.
We gave that guy two bucks and a smoke
—he all but called you a crook. Really,
almost anything may grow. Yeah,

almost anything won’t. Fake plants do
look better than sick plants but two in a row
—looks suspicious. Pet toys sate
what the vet won’t. No—

who says somethings are better off left
—some shit is better of unsaid later.
Don’t so much forget as never unpack.
Keep moving. Eye the street. Yeah,

I heard your two doors whispering
the night me or my therapist flaked.
Please, don’t correct me. Your brain
ain’t a dictionary. No,

it’s a sidewalk grate
everyone goes over like
meh. Nonetheless, let’s both
call more. We are good children.

Civilization: Single Player Setup

 

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.