Totting tot between tall jackets at Wal-Mart, clothing racks as stage curtains. Then a heave, a plastic hammer, he’s screaming and then the nanny rushes down the staircase with the Lanocane. Grazing shins with old men on the bus. Yellow stained fingers from organic chemistry class. And then it folds over and the moon, pale as a Canadian palm, sighs. We ramble, we tic-tac-toe with two-bit talks, the lint between your toes. Like an alien cloud forest. We were launching a lunar mission, though somewhere in our gasp between satellite and earthen crust, we slipped sidelong into a wormhole, and became a grin as Orion’s belt. There’s no sense
tossing loose change off the CN tower and killing the cavalcade of a preschool march beneath us. Are we tied? Geriatric ward jig of a bus engine, propane soup. Battery acid ice cubes. Alkaline-powered merry-go-round. I wish everything was as it was, powered by a shaft, a turbine, a crank, powered by the church, by the host, by the sermon, by flimsy fags tussling in a hay stacked barn, by palm reading, by codgers adjusting their belts, by Mr. Rogers espying the waste of a soon-to-be nubile nine-year-old, by shoelaces untangled like tree branches, by miss-buttoned overcoats, by the flanks of his horse, by a giant heap of banana pie, by a 9X9 square matrix, by a plasma shotgun, by those three footless birds on the McGill flag, by my grade three teacher who smelt like old coffee, by intestinal turbulence, by our carbon footprint on the boreal forest, by our lives expressed in hyphens and flicks and one drawn out semi-colon that can hardly breathe. The ocean’s an expanse of sometimes extending into never, that’s how far away the horizon is. Until you’ve been to Quebec, and sought after fruitlessly for the one English stop sign, then you’ll know how wretched it is. Speaking French feels like holding your breath underwater. The earth tries to breath, but it orbits too close to and asteroid belt and often chokes on all that dust. I remember talking with a harvest moon, and conversing with my cat. Countries are like soda labels. Yemen. Nova Scotia doesn’t actually exist, unless stumbled across. The East end is a myth, a corporate ploy to up oil prices. Old maps depicted continents as if they were chunks of Nicaraguan cheese. I mostly ever feel things so I can update my facebook status.