I’m in Washington. For some reason this leads me to a documentary on John Diefenbaker. A joke given in a rote rhetorical style: “Old Sir John said ‘You know, I’m one of those who believes in prayer. Excepting when the prayers are uttered by the rich. Because,’ he said, ‘if their prayers were answered not only would I be sick, but long since would I have joined my ancestors in another place altogether removed.'” It’s just a joke, but it’s heartening to hear the leader of the Progressive Conservative party (whatever his faults) making a joke like that in a time that was perhaps less polarized than it feels now.
Wow, 50 more bad poems. Will this guy ever stop. Is he out of his mind.
the office the fidget spinner came apart in my hands and I explained what it was as it spun wobbly with only two balls
the office 2 as I screwed in the third bearing she asked me how does it work? —I had no idea “bernoulli’s principle” (I’m dumb)
that’s terrifying Zak messaged me after I sent him notes from a lecture Gordon Lish had given on July 14 2018 “I’m still terrified,” he wrote me, half an hour later
Shopper’s I saw my friend’s “friend” walking in front of Shopper’s they were lovers but not for a while now their eyes flashed in the rain
tri-corner hats yeah I ate three of those cookies as soon as she pulled the bag out I’m proud of it
shifting we’re moving books from one section of the library to another section of the library it’s like they’re taking a little trip
stuck in the tunnel the train stops completely someone’s sleeping with his hand covering his face I think he must be faking
late Carson was already hitting the ball when I arrived at the court and apologized he said “no, you released me”
co-ordination none of the photos I have seem good enough the water is either too shallow, or too deep no one’s going to believe I’m water polo MVP
quiet for a long time in the office I think I’m the only one who is going to be here the loneliest of all outcomes
quiet 2 shortly after my colleague arrives it starts, just a little bit, to rain I get up and look out the window
the side door most people buy their cars either through the front door (dealerships) or the back door (stealing) I wait in parking lots and say “please?”
showbiz if I ran a queer burlesque or was myself a performer and I’m not saying this is happening my show would be called “Daddy Augustine”
confessions when I’m holding the book in front of me I say what I like “I think I’m at least a deist now”
the side door 2 I love my new range rover with 4×4 and a v6 thanks Val in the parking lot who thought it was sweet to ask so politely
2006 if you want to go back in time just open Apple’s “iMusic” app and put on the Fiery Furnaces’s I’m Going Away
2009 Google says the above-mentioned Fiery Furnaces album didn’t come out until three years later regardless I maintain my initial point
Gordon Lish I tell Zak I think Lish will never die living long enough to bury us both. but I quickly retract it: he’s old as fuck and I want to live
thank you Val I drove over to Val’s house —she still had a trunk full of groceries— and pet her dog and wrestled her kids
Here are 25 more bad poems. Can you believe it? Over 100 bad poems. Some people would say that’s a lot of bad poems. Not me though. There will be 200 bad poems on this website by next Wednesday.
this poem is out of control it is not going to the office it is not going to grocery store it isn’t walking the dog
bumpers after three days of warm temperature and then rain, all of the snow is hard, and grey, and thick perfect for keeping your bowling ball out of the gutter
offer here’s the truth: my voice keeps rising, and I keep saying more and soon my head will lift from my shoulders
difficulty it’s hard to talk to me in the winter when every thought I deflect with a stick
angry Miriam told me she knows she needs to start writing when she follows her partner reading the news angry at everything she has seen
Liam is waiting in front of a Paris bakeshop and there are rows and rows of skeletons and they all want a pistachio danish
high snowbank the dog perches neatly on the huge snowbank somewhere high above an owl watches him poo
quiet I keep rubbing my face as if I’m trying to take it off I’m not sure what I’m trying to say
splash a car splashed me with water I shouted “fuck off” it sounded like a little bitch
wrong parallel park four sheets of drywall in the car I park behind the guy says c’mon you idiot move your car can’t you see this is a real construction zone
real construction zone two pickup trucks and a broken piano on the front porch every time I pass I think about how the man threatened to beat me up with his “guys”
his guys when he came back he was telling his guy the guy said “no worries, we can move them” I’m sure he’d have preferred otherwise
night walk the dog wants to go out I’ve been asleep for two hours in the morning she says he pooed three tiny sticks
murder mystery my character had three accents and someone killed me but not the right person
the accents are accidental! where’s my voice honestly literally any one
sex cards you’re supposed to trade them they signify that you “did it” but I only have two
waiting if you don’t know what to say sometimes you can just stand there and the conversation will leave you
worried I’m worried I don’t care about anything where’s my zest! I watch an episode of Russian Doll
first meeting when I first met the dog I thought oh god imagining it was too much to grant
frankly I didn’t want to know a dog come on it sounds like the beginning of a holiday movie
the truth it seemed exhausting all that enthusiasm! but the dog generates it himself
a literary solution there are two ways of solving your problems one involves getting your hands dirty the other, turning things around in your head
3D chess sometimes it feels like I’m playing 3D chess with God and God doesn’t care if he wins or loses
big magazines you have to “play the game” and “get off Twitter” and “read a single book”
go to dinner why didn’t you go to dinner with the big editor or kiss his hand when he put down the breadsticks
Today I found 36 poems on my hard drive that I did not remember writing in (apparently) April of 2017. I thought it would be fun to add to these poems and so I wrote 16 more. Now I think this is a new fun challenge that I am doing, to write 200 bad poems (after Anthony Clark’s 200 bad comics). I think it makes sense to do this within two weeks so that is what I will do.
too sad to think I am too sad but I am writing poems poems don’t need thought
a poem about economic insecurity economic insecurity sucks there’s a moth always crushing your brain
tips for managing yr workload throw your task list into the garbage can no one will ever notice
a crisis for office managers dave said he couldn’t work Thursday but shirley booked Thursday off well, someone needs to be here
when your boss hates your life with a wink and a grin he says you don’t have to come in Monday “come in only when I want you”
he says he’s never been called a fag I wouldn’t say he leads a privileged life but someone should go back in time and kick him in the pants
why don’t you why don’t you do this? this has always come easy to me or you could do this instead?
remember when money was real when money came from god or depravity or violence there was no need for illusion
when you keep checking your phone the flowers stop blooming a gust of wind blows through an alley I’m waiting for you
it’s not fun being fun when everything has to be “good” what are you? a libertine of others’ kindness
you make me second guess myself I wish I could be pure and free riding on a motorcycle gunning it through god’s will
I wish God existed it’s so hard living without Him no one ever says hi to me peering from my hole
wait what’s depression is it this or this or maybe this
when you can’t get out of bed there’s an owl perched on your shoulder now it’s walking down your back now its head is turning around
Museum station was closed, doors he had never before seen in the evening imperfectly sealing the way to the subway at the bottom of the stairs, yellow light gleaming behind their seams. He thought, initially, it was a suicide, but the shuttle bus that would later pass him on Bloor indicated a plan to the closure. Between the museum stairs and two party limos parked at the curb, filled with suited white men, gleeful and anonymous, drinking beers, a forklift slowly drove, then turned and indolently dug its teeth into only a four inch snowbank. At the library exit a woman he had found in the stacks once after closing, who had confessed that she had been so lost in thought she had missed his announcement, asked what day it was. The other library assistant had said, “Tuesday.” They talked about it being Tuesday for some time. But it was Monday. He wished her good luck after correcting them both. All day he had worried about “lack” and now he was thinking “How is today any different from the past?” It was important to him that things be different this time but he had never really thought about it before, not meaningfully, before he made the decision that things would be different now. He had been reading Augustine, who was describing a method that only made his absence feel more pronounced. The method that Augustine described was barred to him. He thought of something he had once said to a friend of his, in a rare moment of clarity, explaining that of the kind of person who felt their own absence deeply there were two kinds: those who tried to account for it in themselves and those who made others responsible for it. He did not say that there was nothing stopping him or anyone from being both at once. His friend had said “André I am thrilled by this.”
The car creeped slowly down the street with its hazard lights on. Inside there were three people doing their laundry: they looked rough, like they’d been there all night, and they gazed at me suspiciously. A dark car: sometimes the interior lights are on, sometimes they are not. A man came in and said that it was so quiet outside he wasn’t sure if he was alive or dead.
2.
Sometimes I will spend the entire day inside and only leave my apartment well after the onset of night. The two women running the bar didn’t know what to do—we stayed inside but not away from the windows. At night things become softer, like a whisper, like being wrapped in a cool blanket. He told us that the shooting had taken place across the street, and that the shooter had fled on foot.
3.
In the morning I went to the coin laundry to exchange my ten dollar bill. It parks in the same spot every night, idling right in the middle of the street, forcing traffic to maneuver into the opposite lane—even if there’s a space for it somewhere against the curb. Afterwards I sat in the coffee shop and waited for my breakfast—the coffee shop was completely empty. Sometimes the car has its engine running and I can hear it from my apartment, and sometimes it sits there in complete silence, as quiet as a ghost.
4.
We heard the gunshots from inside the bar. I found my head swimming as I entered the world dazzled by that dim clarity. Soon a police officer arrived. I feel impatient, when I’m walking outside—impatient to fit the whole world inside my head.
