Our home got stuck in a trash collector

Pull the spare mattress from under my parents’ bed
comforter under my arm. Leave it. Retrieve
my pillows and Can you try sleeping in your bed?

Could insist I have been, dreamt I died
everyone I love died, and I saw it all
from within the devourer’s maw.

Moments to convince them. Lie down.
Say nothing. They relent but I imagine
them and the trash collector dream of clear floors.

Our home got stuck in the head of a trash collector.
Dream-possible, we are ever up the road.
We march out with stuff and in and out again.

He raps on the truck to signal it forward.
We come with hardwood. We come with gift bags.
The cab necks ahead but the trailer extends as an angler’s jaw.

We shovel up from the cellar. Neighbours sneak more.
Junk mail carriers and paperboys are routed here.
Milkmen resurrect to soak it all.

Butcher pulls up and gestures, “Hey you
—I’m a kill you when you’re here.

~

This one was the product of two possible prompts: helplessness, and the coziest memory I have. Thanks as always to my parter Kate Maxfield for making me think.

Like magic

headlineimage-adapt-1460-high-bikini_evacuation_070615-1438110598490

Professor insists DEMOCRACIES DO NOT GO TO WAR.
Is it a genocide if everyone had a vote?

FOR THE GOOD OF MANKIND the Bikinians were relocated to a neighbouring atoll. Their Kind said, “We go believing everything is in the hands of God.” Fifteen atomic sunrises later

the place is safe enough for tourists to demystify, advertised alongside package tours to Chernobyl and Gettysburg and NAME A CONCENTRATION CAMP.

There are trees today on Bikini Atoll older than this green author. Large mammals thrive within the Cold War’s half-life. The blonde old President graces the battlefield, won’t be cowed by allegations—HE’LL SUE EVERY SINGLE ONE. Before free trips to Israel, Jewish pilgrims may pay to see a concentration camp.

An atoll is a coral tiara where a volcano was, or

an atoll is a stain where the Big Gulp was.

The benevolent general said, “In our country we have a saying: YOU CAN’T GO HOME AGAIN.” The benevolent government said, “Have a half billion,” then skimped on stamps, closed the office, and the benevolent society loyalists said, “Cash for cheques and envelopes? Didn’t y’hear, we just promised the vicitms a half billion?”

“Didn’t y’know a lagoon’s a lake where there was a volcano? That pristine situation a by-product of primordial violence? The Jews got Israel, the slaves some Freedom. Imagine what beauty’s due for America again.”

~

The prompt was things you cannot see in their entirety, like atolls. The photo is from the Associated Press.

Year After Year

 

Of course you may go out but you must know

when I alone lay down our son, full of formula and promise

I instinctively envision single-parenthood while I sing him

“Wish You Were Here” for the hundredth night.

 

When I was seventeen I envisioned that anthem

sound-tracking my painless, accidental death

featuring my cuckolding crush weeping over my body,

as Pink Floyd synced the monitor, and up the camera went.

 

I am thirty-one and you are thirty-one. In the nursery,

our son maws gibberish in the dark. The female cat

who you correctly identify as my cat, whinges.

Oh wife, come home to me, and spoon my nervous hinges.

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.