HEARTBROKE

 

you woke in the dark with the whole poem wrote

use your phone to notify your folk you found gold

THESE WORDS IMMORTALIZE OUR LOST IDOL

your folk alert theirs & soon everyone is awoke

audiences moss the planet—it glows!

all publishers abjure ownership & on every shelf

YOUR WORDS IMMORTALIZE OUR LOST IDOL

unto ouroboros, publisher & audience blur

Earth hums by mourning unto unity’s verge

near summoning Messiah’s arrival

OUR WORDS IMMORTALIZE THE LOST IDOL

& you are selfless, the viral ode’s origin

multitudinous, from all us, all at once

& as Earth’s turn exhausts,

our hearts slow & we dream

we dream no one

needs

immortality.

 

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.

 

House of Them

 

Sunday morning certain mutants realize

everyone is changed. Is it right to reveal this?

 

To be fair, little is new. On the nose

of most folk an egg tooth has grown

 

with which to peck their shell. But those

who sprout no horn? They suppose

 

themselves dependents so pray,

tent their hands in a cowcatcher shape.

SCREAM CAPS / HABITation

 

Teething wisdom, the citizenry can’t stop /

won’t stop chattering and boxing their ears.

There are no scandals—the sine wave

flat.

 

                                  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.

 

                                                           Fed

feelings. Fed struggle. Fed thought. Fed

potential. On dark nights Janet Jackson

meditates. She envisions a colourless

spaceship. She and her brother

scream.