I took one last drag of that cigarette and
couldn't help but see the irony I was going
to quit, but now as I inhaled it exited through
the hole in my chest, It was the weirdest sensation.

I knew I was dying but I had one ***** pleaser,
its not like it was going to **** me, I had tried
so many times to blow smoke hoops... I wonder if I
could blow one out my chest, I giggled as blood dripped.

I thought what the hell and with my last ounce of strength
inhaling what ever air would still cling to my lungs, I
breathed out, and there it was a ****** smoke ring.
It took deaths last gasp to get it right ...

I died with a smile on my face in a land not of my own,
but I know I did this so they would be safe, do you realize
that I had passed, but I did a smoke hoop I died
with a cheesy grin on my silent face..

I know you think
I wear lipstick everyday
And my hands always
Smell like
Chai tea and raspberries

I know you think
My tongue always
Tastes like
Melted sugar
And peppermint

I know you think
I sleep in the same lace
Underwear
You find me in
On certain Sundays
In the spring
When the air is light
And my jeans
Don't stick
To my thighs

I know you think
I'm larger than life

Above chipped teeth
And bruises
And cigarette ash
And acne

I know you think
My eyes don't turn
Blood red
And poison
When I cry

I know you think
My finger nails
Are always
Freshly painted

And I always wear
A bra
That fits

I know you think
Yoga pants are
My comfy clothes,
Never gray sweat pants
With a faded red stain
Between my legs

I know you think
My calves are always
Soft, hairless, and toned

You think
I wait by the phone
With vanilla incense
Burning in a red robe

But you're wrong
And that's impossible

I won't let you in
Cause I won't be
The one
To shatter
Your whole
Pretty, little world

I'm disgusting
Sometimes

I sleep with
Way too many
Girls and guys

And sometimes I cry so much
My eyelids peel
Til I look like
Leather face
And I don't leave my house
For 8 days

And in those 8 days
I shower
Maybe twice

My skin gets rough
In the winter

Right now
I have a
Pimple on
My left shoulder
And every morning
It looks a little
Meaner

My ***** spill
Out over the top
And the sides
Of my favorite
Sport's bra

And I don't care

I smell like burnt oil
And cheap hair dye
Half of the time

I haven't washed
My sheets in a while
And they smell like
Salt water
And chlorine

You put me up on a pedestal
From which I refuse to fall

So I'll stay here,
Far,
Untouchable

You'll never love me
With sticky tampons
In my garbage can
And half drank beer bottles
On my bedroom floor

I'll stay here,
Far,
Untouchable,

Safe

Brothers,
let us stand together.
Sisters,
you can stay sitting.

Let us stand
united
by our inability
to stay out in the sun
too long.

In fact,
would someone mind
erecting a gazebo
for us to stand united
underneath?

Thank you.

Brothers,
having proven
that we cannot demonstrate
our superiority
through sport,
rhetoric,
mathematics,
music,
drama,
art,
science,
business acumen
or military might

Let us instead
prove it beyond all doubt
by gathering in groups
and chanting slogans.

Flags are good, too.
Dagnab it,
just look at the way
we can wave those flags.

If that
doesn't qualify us
as the Master Race,
then I don't know what will.

And thus anointed,
let us expunge the world
of miscegenation.
Let us cleanse public radio
of anything other
than Bavarian folk music.
Let us revel
in boiled beef
and wheat-based foods.
Let us return
the mineral wealth of the world
to the tarnished, coloured nations
from whence it came.

Let us reject
foreign mythologies
apart from that one
about Jesus
obviously.

Let us all return
to the country, town,
street
and house
of our birth.

History is with us, brothers.
If there's one thing
it teaches us
it's that nothing should ever change
and empires
never fall.

Sieg heil!

It's time
to stop complaining
and move on.

I did
what was necessary
to win.

That makes me smart.

You know,
lots of things
get said and done
during a race.

But the only thing that matters
is the result.

So I'll have
those trophies back,
please.

He used to walk with life in his stride
He used to strut with a heart full of pride

These days see him stumbling every so often
These days see his eyes vacant and sullen

So I asked if there was anything bothering him
So I asked what is it that made his light so dim

He tarried, then answered with conviction true
He tarried before he finally answered, *"You..."

We dressed her in delicate silk
And gave her glittering jewels to wear,
A crown with rubies on the top,
And flowers for her fragrant hair

We placed wings on her dainty shoulders,
Crystal heels on her slender feet,
We draped her in beauty head to toe,
Gave her the shape of all our fantasies,

So that when we picked at her flawless skin,
And tore off her silken gowns,
When we pulled at her rose-petalled hair
And her lovely stone-studded crown,

When we chased her into darkness,
As she tripped on manacled heels,
When we watched her try to fly but fail
With bejewelled wings that were too heavy,

We could baffle her, confuse her, fool her
Into believing it was not our fault,
For we had revered and worshipped her,
Could the devotee be responsible for her fall?

Oh not at all!

She was too beautiful,
She radiated too much,
She was too pristine,
Easily dirtied on touch,
She was too striking,
She was too bold,
To not be stripped off of all that glitter
And all that shameless gold.

The War Correspondent

A helicopter skeetered bravely in
And pitched and yawed against the enemy fire
That wasn’t there.  The manliest of men
Descended unto us in flawless attire

His tailored khaki suit was starched and pressed
Its creases as sharp as a Ka-bar knife
Never was a reporter more perfectly dressed
For getting the news while risking his life

The C.O. sped him past our positions
And hustled him into the T.O.C.1
To ensure each noun and preposition
Would be written for the greater good, you see

Much ink and Scotch were undoubtedly spilled
In air-conditioned comfort, no heat or mud;
With scripted heroics his notebook was filled
No need to stain his suit with his precious blood

After an hour he was hustled back
To Saigon for an evening reception
After he wrote of a great attack
And wired New York his immaculate deception

A helicopter skeetered bravely out
And yawed and pitched against a ******’s shot
That wasn’t there.  A great Communist rout?
There’s more than one kind of jungle rot


1Tactical Operations Center - command bunker, often air-conditioned.

Thought it would be easier,
Keeping everything less
Less thinking
Less talking
Less engaging
Less moving
It makes me less weary,
Less lonely
But also
Less happy
Less warm
And less alive

At first, a matter less seems fine
but as I go on it makes me more...

More dead....

The harlequin trees celebrate
With a red, yellow and orange
Ticker-tape parade
On all the streets of Ontario,
Announcing the onslaught
Of another miserable
Canadian winter.