a schoolgirl found me in
High Park with my hands
clutched to my chest
on a red

sheet, under a dead cherry blossom
the dress I was wearing was
the one you gave me to celebrate

our underwhelming tax rebate
and the fact that I was eating again
the examiner said I looked
apathetic,

like dying was the next item on my to-do list

I could have sworn I had only taken
                           2
                         (22)
pink

ones to match the blossoms
the *** sleeping on the bench was my new best friend
and the barista at Starbucks asked for my name

and I realized
I hadn’t been asked that in months;
                       my name
                      my blood type
                      my ETA
what colour was the mole on my stomach?
and when did I first learn to

ride a bike?

the last time I smiled was
June 17, 2013.
In the paper they put a picture of it
and wrote “Woman Found”
they should’ve put a close-up
of my hollow eyes.

man emerges from this
darksome ether.
  this: time suspended
  in the ballpark, without fetters.

i have dreamt the truth
  of my vicarious call.
is it not that my measures secure
   these constitutions
      of ineffable fruitions?

it is likened to our heartland's
     acrimonies: dreaming in the
  misty vale of sleep is the word
     and its insistent void,
  riddled by amorous intent
     of barefaced realisms.
  there is nothing here but
  subservience of fantasy's    burlesque fanfare
    on broad vaudeville.

man sinks into the bottom
  of this, rests in the
soft hands of this earth-woven
word - a poem's importunate nativity where all supremacies
     are born ceaselessly!

You've played marvelously.
You've been what I wanted.
You've maintained the perfect amount
of          disconnection
of          apathy
of          nonchalance
and       disinterest

And it has driven me mad.
I've been writing songs about you.
You've got me the perfect kind
of          obsessed
of          committed
of          infected
and       controlled

I mean, don't get me wrong:
My rhetoric gives the false impression
That I'm not enjoying this immensely.
It's been a long time since anyone moved like you.

I could accuse you of cheating
But only in embitterment
Only because I don't want to be drowned
In rules I don't remember.

There's something tragic here.
But it's the perfect kind
of          adversity
of          affliction
of          infelicity

Of tragedy.