"It's about words, and words are all I have…"



..eyes dead and sightless  crouching there pale and naked

The brain that pulsed in a dull glass bell.  It swung its head

from side to side   gave out a low moan  turned and lurched

away..    (Cormac McCarthy   The Road)


Post apocalyptic treatise   The creature  reminiscent of the orange

beast  currently terrorizing the world  Finger on a VERY BIG button

Bigger than that of the stout buffoon with a mushroom cut   He who has

his sites set on California   Then make your way east!  Insane young man

It finally seems possible in our lifetime   The much vaunted apocalypse

Set in motion by an idiot-stand-in:  for a president  for a God


Times like these stir up memories of simpler times?  When we huddled

under our desks at school  +an alarm sounded in the hall  Drills for some

distant apocalypse  Not yet the teenaged gunmen with weapons of mass

destruction  picking off students like bobbing apples in a barrel   Heads

exploding willy-nilly


Or a most perfect day from your childhood   One you’ll want to savour as

the button kings continue their pissing contest  Both of small mind  +absent

soul    1965  parents out   Old grandfather in front of tv  watching wrestling

+wrestling with invisible men   In a vinyl+metal rocking chair  purchased for

his yearly visit   Until emphysema claims him in a sanitarium   Sainte-Agathe-

des-Monts   But first a family trip to visit him


Your father bridles at the uncut pizza  tears it apart with his hands  +declares:

Dumbest bastards God ever created    A cousin who wasn’t thought especially

swift  but  in reality  his brilliance rivalled that of Heidegger  intoned his own

 version of: beings unto death   When in a Montreal singsong  he pointed at us

children  like a balding Jewish reaper:  You’re gonna die  +you’re gonna die

We’re all gonna die!


45 yrs. later he is still alive   Your father not so lucky   nor the cousin’s only son

Who perished slowly from a strange Legionniares’ like disease   During his

protracted illness  his wife would call our mother  quite high on her declining

husband’s medical marijuana: I hate him like poison  she’d say   One supposes him

to be in a better place   than the one where we contemplate a crossing   Over stinking

scablands    Once the button boys have their way




WINTER  2018

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