I Download a Baby

These poems are primarily about isolation and the anxiety associated with feeling different, strange, and alone. Another major thread is that of the absurdity of life, and the futility of trying to project any meaning onto it. At times these anxieties manifest themselves as humour, at other times, as surreal dreams or nightmares.

bored

the tv is off
I don’t have ideas 

I eat my own
fist like
an apple

solitudes

1.

another boring day
the toilets flush themselves  

a pizza unfolds
in the sky like a map  

the sky refills
the sea starts over

2.

my hands are cold my hands fall off
my hands build a bird out of rare flying books
I can’t find my gloves my nails
are blue mirrors I piss in the sink 

3.

not enough silence the grass grows so loudly my shadow in the kitchen throws a football in the oven he has lived here too long there are moths the size of kites he has eaten my books I could almost hear them scream

I download a baby

the womb is unplugged
the squirrel with antlers
forgets to watch sitcoms

a sunset of hammers
falls on my head
inside of the church
that’s always on fire 

I demand to drink whiskey
that’s not on the menu 

the hole in the eye
a star that keeps leaking
is not why I ordered
a new set of gods

the baby turns into

a swan in the bathtub
the great diaper chin
in the sky doesn’t shine  

the baby’s too old
to chew on my hands
made out of bread 

its feathers are knives

Death metal yoga causes whirlpools

in the mind. Birds escape from the radio.
Don’t worry they don’t fit in our ears. 

Sometimes a lava lamp shatters in the distance
but only during brunch, when sporks 

come to life. The dust on Mars turns everything
demented: a comet of sperm, a tree 

made of glue. I sleep in strangle cycles.

the god in my beard

refuses to shave
or stand on the roof
flushing clouds down the chimney 

the whales in my belly
sing in a language
I don’t understand 

the flies play dead

the immortal jellyfish

falls up towards the stars

the umbrella won’t die
beach chair won’t fold 

mold on the bread
I feed to the moon

Western

Unfolding laundry, the cowboy lost his eyeball.
A gruesome spectacle: paper horses in the sea,
some with stardust in their ears, others betrayed
by the amoeba who pretends to be a weatherman.
Soon he could barely keep his tongue in his mouth
so he retreated, thirsty for frozen forest fire
(actually purple foam of old movies never born
beneath the prairie, always praying), where
he’d rest his dead pants, able to breathe.

a vacuum cleaner afraid of dogs

and yaks made of dust
is loose in the house 

the plants are undead
the piano feels pain 

a song with a heart beep
keeps me awake