Macerate a few herbs aromatic
fennel, thyme, cardamom
inside the fifties housewife’s head scarf
before she stows away on the back of
an air force drone
to the old country
where her mother’s
slaughtering a goat with a
broken Coke bottle
and her father’s learning how
to dog proof the Christmas tree
No one’s taken off their boots in months
and when she passes them the shoe horn
it’s all over as soon as the landlord says
“Please, no ethnic cooking”
and you foolishly reply

“It’s just hard boiled eggs”

There’s a road sign that
one sometimes passes
on the country roads of Quebec
a child lying still on his side
next to the road

And the words read
“This child could be your own”
though of course
they are written in French

But you’d rather add brine
to an overabundance of peas
peppers and zucchinis
stuff them safely away
in a dark spot
in the kitchen cabinet
in a mason jar and
wait
for the lactic acid tang
to bring out
the pickle

These pickles
are living things
you know
and you can
almost taste them
with their garlic
and dill

But instead
you think about
snake *****
and how it
might smell

The child will be fine you say
he’ll grow up to be an insurance broker
get a divorce at 43
and when he’s eighty-four
his toes will be like gherkins
his nails infected with fungus
and he’ll remember
that day
when he
played dead.

descendant of
those kids
who signed up
to take a
one-way trip
to Mars

inside the
10 x 12 metal shelter
that separates me
from the atmosphere
that would boil  
a man’s blood

in the 6 month darkness
of a Martian winter
i think about what you
said about
the smell of flowers
newly mown
grass
and the moths
that fly up
the window at night

and beat

against the glass                      

sometimes
you think about us
up there and
wonder
if we are happy
in our world
because you
are not
in your’s

tired
of waiting to hear
about the birth of
another royal baby
another global flood
and how that
last strawberry
was sold for $150,000
to a man with
yellowing toenails

i know it’s
only a few weeks now
before an edge
of sunlight
breaks across
the far hills
and that soon
the aluminum-walled
gardens
will yield again
their greens

my lover
died a year ago
of the Disease
and her mummy
is just a Martian stone’s
throw away

sure i still
gaze through the telescope
at your world
and watch
the last flickering lights
of your cities
but there is
more to do
here

yesterday
a new breed was born
all mole-like
and pink

she was more comfortable
outside thrashing about in the
red soil
so we left her there
and when we returned
she waved her lobster claw
in a playful gesture
back at
the Earth

i've been out digging
in the Davis Creek
for clay deposits
so thick and grey

it coats the hands
and fingernails
and soothes the mind
with its softness

with my feet
in the cool water
and my *****
i pull out handfuls
and place them
into a sack
that later
i'll empty
onto a board

in a few days
it will harden and
i'll pulverize the clods
with a mallet
screen out the
roots and pebbles
and mix the powder
with water
into a slurry

i don't know
but it seems as if
i've been playing
in the dirt since
i was a boy and
this process
still calms me

makes me feel
that maybe i have
more time left

i’ve left
bean pods
on the plants
to dry
tiger lily
capsules to mature
achenes on the lettuce
tomato and pepper
fruits in the sun

the frosts will arrive
next week
but the freezer
is full now

and the seeds
will sit in jars
resting
the work of
so many before me

i will never be able
to repay them

the dentist
sets his drill
a-spinning
into the pupil
of your right eye

liquor
a fountain of it
spurts
such
a thin stream

don’t you know that
when you hold
the coca cola juice
in your mouth like that
your teeth
will dissolve
right
down
to the pulpy center?

now they’re walking past
your open
incision
and
they each place
a small
dumpling
into it

the gases
rise up
like the chicken meat
you left
in the fridge
for too long

and you live for that moment

inside Elvis’
digital pompadour
there’s a
constitutional oligarchy
and a harelip
and
you watch
from the corner of
your eye
as he scratches
deep inside there
and sniffs at his
fingertips
and
turns to his
girl and says
how it’s
oh so redolent
of the eggs
of silverfish
and that Evel Knievel’s
cologne
was never
so sweet

i came across
an unknown tribe
in a forest of steel
and cinder blocks

they drank parsnip soup
from police helmets
raised chickens
and purple hollyhocks

they taught me that
the cockroach emits
a piercing scream
and when Ghenhis Khan’s
head appears
not to lose my self esteem

together
we split apart
the vacuum cleaner bag
reaped the dust
for our tortilla flour
and suppressed the urge
to gag

but those odd souls
they’re gone for good
spineless yes-men
now roam the Earth
pumping blood
into the Linzer torte
hawking neck cheese
and afterbirth

they argue
about the walrus
how his horn’s not
bony after all

but instead encased
in leathery skin
like a salami
or a football

they snap it off
watch and wait
soft liver spills
into their boots

rotten pears appear
and then burst open
inside their birthday suits

their senators
and corporate fish
have all but stopped evolving
they secrete universal acid
no bottle can hold it
and the earth
is slowly dissolving

we spent the
weekend
taser-gunning
the cows

Billy rigged up
a bathtub
in the pasture
where we heated
the water to a boil
and gently
placed them in

their soft smiles
thanked us
and a foamy grey film
bled out as they
sunk below
the surface

Billy retched
and I told him
to be calm
it’s just
the final essence of
their kindness rising
I said
their inner milkiness

then a ruby-throat
came to draw in
the nectar from a
cluster of bee balm flowers
immortalized in mid-air
and still more cows
wandered forward

in their smoky flatulence
we found
alphas and deltas
that we arranged
into formulas
on a tarnished
silver plate

and as the campfire embers
glowed deep red and
our sleeping sacks
beckoned to us
we drank down the
final gulps of
hot miner’s tea

and Billy pronounced it
“more of the stuff
that made Rome great”

a silverfish once
crawled
into the side
of my mouth
when I was asleep

the eggs she laid there
glistening
and plentiful

her children filled
my body cavities
invaded organs
turned them
to black tar
and hot maroon
liquid

and still I
move forward
zombie-like

not caring

oh Lord,
why be there jelly between our toes
so sebaceous and scaly?
why these flakes that
pour from our scalps
enough to bake a dinner roll with?

why can we not be constructed
from gleaming steel and
chrome?
enamel paint on the
soles of our feet
and if we are so perfect
made in thine image
why
these
middle age
gases
like
moldy
potatoes
rising from the sheets?

not to mention the
pasty tartar
between our teeth
white manure?

Believe me
I’ve tried hard not to ask
these questions
But the skull meat
(with its pleasing and nutty aroma)
always seems to win out

she
came into
my bedroom
holding
a fishhook
and a plastic glove
and
in her
calmest voice
explained that
yes
it would
have to
come out
that
mass of
shrimp
pulled
from deep within
my ear
******
left me
barren
and a little
giddy

but
there are times
when i still
feel
it pulsing
blue veins
tail flapping
scent of
algae
salt

my back
sprouts a fin
and the wound
heals

sometimes the flesh
assumes
a yearning
to sprout out
in directions
untested

i’ve seen my own chin
do this
on occasions
gone meristematic
elongate like a
Hungarian salami

pull at it a bit too fast
and risk snapping it off
like a *** of Silly Putty
better yet
slice it
into poker chips
all rubberoid
like the 10th grade fetal pig
impregnated in polymer
enjoy its silky layers
have respect for this power
don’t **** it
with the dissecting needle
or epilate it with hot wax

it will only grow back

he was just that
a fetal pig
but not the kind you dissected
in high school biology

he was lazy of course
and how he loved his corn

in his darker moments
his snout....it would smolder
the professors postulated that
he must be off-gasing
but the more cynical ones
they would only mutter
“i bet he’s just doing that on purpose”

now the men in suits they were just
plain jealous

they’d posture and scheme
all the better
to be the one who’d get to
"hunker down" with him
(maybe mess with his *****)

so now they’re all reading dictionaries
and memorizing quadratic equations
never mind the smell

but the pig....he’s happy
just making puddings
and trying not to think

about how little time is left

the dentist reshapes
the bridge of your nose
his breath of garlic
it seeps from your pores
while you sleep
but when you
have a real problem
you call the plumber
to fish out your stomach lining
from the sink drain
using an eggbeater
that he operates
by pumping air
into a rubber bulb
that’s spent too much time
seeing the inside of organs
like the piñata that you raised
high up to the oak beams
with your climbing ropes and
split open with a pick axe

out poured whole chickens
and blood sausages, hams
and the lies
you told to your children

my father was a
veterinarian
a lazy one at that

and when I was born
he simply stood by and
watched as my mother
circumcised me
with a carrot peeler

the trauma left its mark so to speak
mom and dad split up
when I was five
she ran off with the butcher's wife
he patented universal acid
a liquid that no container can hold

we don’t talk much these days
and the earth is slowly dissolving

under a clear blue sky
Uncle *****
grabbed a squirrel and
impaled him squarely
on a pike

the squirrel
didn’t die at first

instead he shook
and vibrated
as though electrified

but later
the white of his eyes
dripped

Uncle *****
lay down on his back
drunk
his head leaned
over on one side
a yellow discharge
from inside his throat and ears
spilled out in a puddle
onto the floor

some ants
and later a dog
investigated
but found the taste
not to their liking

every morning now
when i wake
i think of my
five month old grandson
living in a world
ruled by this "funny uncle"

and inside
i retch

Sometimes a fatted pig will wander off from the pen and find his way to the pond on the edge of the property.  If it’s dark or foggy, he may fall in and sink to the bottom.  Only later when his carcass has filled with methane and mucous will he float to the surface.  You’ll know he’s been in the water for a while when you see the bloat, the blisters oozing, and the skin sloughing off in large sheets.  Don’t go there.  It might reflect poorly on you.

Ok.  So you didn’t listen.  You went ahead and fetched a stick and poked.   And you were taken aback by just  how easily it slid through his tissues, like the time when that pigeon alighted on your hand, and you were startled by how it weighed almost nothing at all.  So to see what might come of it, you wiggled the stick, and suddenly what was left of the liver and kidneys popped up onto the surface and spit a stream of water into your mouth. They drifted towards you and away again, like your lost toy sailboat, the one that got off the string and floated down the rapids in Lucerne.  Over the falls it went, under the covered bridge, and that was the end.

Of course you still eat blood sausage.  Why wouldn't you?  The texture is rubbery but the taste is well ….. like blood....so metallic on your tongue.   But this blood will not wash away your sins.  It’s more like Pepsi Cola, or maybe Mountain Dew.

another birthday
and as usual
he awoke
thinking
about the
three dead mice
and how the poor things
must have
fallen into the can
and starved to death

one
had probably survived
a bit longer
for it found
salvation
in the tissues
of the others

and when
he cradled it
in his hand
the creature
broke apart like
a puffball and
the brown spores
living smoke
filled his nostril
and went about
their important
business

it’s not difficult
to know what to do
with 500 heads of garlic
but the garlic scapes
that’s another question

i’ve been grinding them
with basil, oil, nuts
and parmesan and freezing
the pesto
but the freezer is stuffed now
with strawberries and soon
the beans will come
then the broccoli
and the kale

i’m not a survivalist
but if the electricity
were ever to be cut
for a day,
well, i’d have to
haul out the generator and
today I picked up my old
two horsepower pump
from the shop
i use it to draw water up from
the pond which is 10 meters
lower than the garden
i am gradually learning to
look after myself

it’s been a lifelong project

a kidney bean
once became lodged
deep inside
my ear canal
and i don’t think
i need to remind you
how a sweet polyp
like that
will sprout roots
among the white axons
grow throughout the squid
and drink in salvation
from the brainpan

god knows
i’ve tried what i can
even
turned to the
purgative artillery
strong medicine for sure
but
my throat muscles
only strained and expelled
a bulky stool
so gassy

and when
the shaman
sat atop me
with his covey of broken clam shells
scraped the flesh from back of
my neck

wouldn’t you know it
the beast only sneered
from the hole and spat

so i guess
i’m resigned now
to co-exist with my friend
and no
as you’ve gathered
it’s not a symbiosis

but i’ll get by

at the filth buffet
the ear mites
huddle while a
poignant noodle
holds back
the skin tags
that flutter
like jellyfish
in the dental dam

the cockroach’s *****
silky and lustrous
beckons to
buttery beetle flesh
finally unleashed

i know now
why i planted
that vineyard so
many years ago now

it is so
when you are four
you can walk
up and down the rows

while your parents watch
from a close enough distance
and you marvel at the
tall foliage and fruit
hanging so close and ripe
and you realize but for a brief moment

that you never want to grow up

if they were to
strap me down
upon the concrete bed
aside the
polished steel
of the
Dairy Queen
Machine

modified just for me
with the carnival calliope
and that special
polyethylene
hose
the "new car smell"
threaded
with such care
from the
spigot
to
my
gullet

would i bear it well?

would i fight back
when they threw the switch
and the warm
slop
began to
flow?

i’ve heard
they sometimes
fill these machines with
medical waste

but
this tastes
different
today

oh sure
i might struggle
even as
my abdomen distends
my fibres unravel
the tar
seeps out from me
and wets
my
spine

i might
risk
everything
anything
for
a second chance
i might
but then
again
i haven’t
before

so why start now?

the dentist reshapes
the bridge of your nose
his breath of garlic
it seeps from your pores
while you sleep
but when you
have a real problem
you call the plumber
to fish out your stomach lining
from the sink drain
using an eggbeater
that he operates

by pumping air
into a rubber bulb
that’s spent too much time
seeing the inside of organs
like the piñata that you raised
high up to the oak beams
with your climbing ropes and
split open with a pick axe

out poured whole chickens
and blood sausages, hams
and the lies
you told to your children

you once dreamed
of a melon
and the boy
who butchered it
with a ballpoint pen
as though he was carving out
the back of the neck
of the white man
who killed his father
long ago on the
Nebraska prairie

but now those
melons
sit neatly in a room
under the glow of
ultraviolet lamps
aside the petri dishes

and you watch contently
as the whirring meters
pump plasma into them

and yes
you can feel it inside
an eyeball can be peeled
you say
but not like a grape
and anyway

melons should not be tampered with
those small citadels of virtue
wisdom and power
much too much
like us
when we sleep

parasitic
poached goats
are not for
petting zoos
but that has never
stopped them
before

and of course
there’s cream
in a little hollow
place tucked
so very deep
inside them
(almost like custard I’d wager)

they know
all about
the lobster
and how she prefers
to lay her
eggs in a
tight cluster
all grape-like
on the
underside of the
algal frond

where I dream
that we too
might someday
find cool shelter
from the plastic bits
that rain down from
the tortured sky
the 3-D printers
that spit
out pink toes
and little
baby corn
holders

Macerate a few herbs aromatic
fennel, thyme, cardamom
inside the fifties housewife’s head scarf
before she stows away on the back of
an air force drone
to the old country
where her mother’s
slaughtering a goat with a
broken Coke bottle
and her father’s learning how
to dog proof the Christmas tree
No one’s taken off their boots in months
and when she passes them the shoe horn
it’s all over as soon as the landlord says
“Please, no ethnic cooking”
and you foolishly reply

“It’s just hard boiled eggs”