Being teetotal didn't stop the front lawn from drowning
as dramatically as possible in plain sight of the evening
porch-sitters, gingerly sipping highballs while the post-
solstice sun set on a Skype session with gramps. Go tilt
another one back in recognition of the responsibility all
Scientologists acknowledge. For though they would love
to romp and play in the open-air, they have info to unveil.
Volunteerism: antitoxin to privilege’s nonlethal venom
cramps. The whitest mime’s temper tantrum. Validation
of taste, a little hipper, happier paying more for ethically
made electronic music. Wasn’t it the shut-in who yelled,
"At the Festival I was surprised to find the Cathedral still
incomplete! The Church must have Photoshopped out
the cranes one can see from all over The City!" In a jiffy
the old kerfuffle forgets past damage of summer storms,
reversing sewer water into mudrooms of slutty grooms.
It was the same creeping croon that grew hydroponically
and hidden by fathers from their children, who, ironically
made due with hand-me-down maracas gifted from jilted
glee club coaches preaching parataxis. Separatists will
want—no—need to make the active connections in an art
piece of white, pixelated clouds, instantly recognizable
from the famous video game; the isolated upper half,
lackadaisically scrolling by while viewers do little in life.
James Lindsay is the author of the poetry collection, Our Inland Sea, and the chapbook, Ekphrasis! Ekphrasis! He is the founder of Pleasence Records, a Toronto-based record label and interviews poets about poetry for Open Book.
Darren C. Demaree
Emily as a Smile Would Have Ruined the Picture
At the Gin Tasting
Again, Under the Sun
I Had No Time of Sense
This Car Will Get You Into Ontology