Poems from an Ontario Warehouse

Life Choices

I want to live in a shack in the wilderness
Be my own man
Unabomber style
take out my enemies by the US postal service

let some other fucker get his hands dirty
while I chill with a bunch of fucking squirrels
because the assholes who make the decisions 
in this world

killed all the wolves
and in winter I will freeze to death
and come alive with the thaw

maybe I’ll just sell insurance 
and marry a girl whose sister I dream of …but 
mostly because she isn’t her

there are still entire days when all I think 
how could you have left me
did you know in Japan they have invented a machine 
made out of air
which translates our thoughts into language before we even think them

I guess soon none of us
will have

any place left

to hide

The Man in the Moon

Doesn’t miss us at all

Not even the Norwegians

Who he seemed to be most fond of

When he was among us

Before he finally decided

To pull up stakes

He’d often find himself

On the banks of the tana

Said it was one of the last places

Left to us

Where you could still

Taste purity

Although, he admitted

When pushed

It was a watered down

Piss poor kind of purity

According to the man on the moon

When they asked his mother why he left

She had just sighed

That one you could not hold still

Always trying to get somewhere else

her face tired

from holding the

thought of him and his wild


Her other son is a GP and gun enthusiast

His wife writes

Prescriptions to herself for Prozac

On his doctor’s pad and counts minutes

Rumour has it

That the man on the moon

Was married once too

Long ago

His wife was famous both for her beauty and her lies

Dancing the tango/moonlight excursions

Escapades on horseback, shadowy European lovers with

contorted family trees

No one remembers these exploits

People from that time just raise their eyebrows

and comment on her amazing ability

to spend money

They are said to have divorced

Because he was too remote

But maybe that is just

Another of his jokes

The astronauts

Did marvel at his sense of humour

Shocked the hell out of me

How normal he was

Considering, you know, all he’d been through

As normal as anyone, he was

Except for his teeth

Best teeth in the galaxy

Blinding, really

At night, if you can find a hole through the smog

And your eyes aren’t burnt

From the pixel dust of our modern life

You can see the light bouncing off them

As he smiles

down on

but not at — never that