CIGAR? TOSS IT IN A CAN. IT IS SO TRAGIC
For all intensive purposes, the fire distinguishers
are pigments of the imagination. Unparalyzed
in the history of this great country, our enemies
are holding us hostile. It bottles the mind to think
that we take for granite the apples and organs
hanging on tender hooks as a pose to bearing the blunt
of the escape goat gone awry with the crutch of the matter.
Needles to say, at the pentacle of patriarticle politics
we cannot phantom the depths to which
battering eyelids skewer the results to make ends meat.
We shutter to think that a seizure salad
made of fall foilage mine as well be one foul swoop
of poison ivory. In the same vain, we are in sink
with the insinnuendos and internally grateful
for the poultrygeist performing the Heineken remover
on a nation long stricken with the chicken pops.
It is perhaps a blessing in the skies that the hewn cries
sound like flaws in the ointment as we cease the day,
udderly disappointed by the ludicrust bowl in a china shop
and its new leash on life.
Rightly or wrongly, certain essentials
will soon be in short supply.
If the open-ended questions can be believed,
many of us have been deceiving ourselves
with the headroom and clean living,
loosely chronicled in appendices
ready to burst all over the philharmonic
snare traps of the bargain hunter
or sentimental lone wolf.
Squirrelled shopping circulars
loaded with playbooks
and fastidious ham-fists.
All exists are corrugated with fatigue
after fatigue, cannibalizing camouflage
beneath unbalanced ceiling fans
quilting their filibuster winds.
Just try unpacking
some punch into this!
The trouble with idealism
is every so often
you have to dig up the bodies
and move them.
That plastic patch in the Pacific
stealing all our shit.
Adam Dickinson’s poems have appeared in literary journals and anthologies in Canada and internationally. His collection Kingdom, Phylum was a finalist for the Trillium Book Award for Poetry. He teaches at Brock University in St. Catharines, Ontario.