Li'l Bastard. David McGimpsey

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      I could hear that hipster from last night

      crying in front of Prof. Dean’s class.

      I wished there were more taco stands nearby,

      but no taco, they say, is worth suicide.

      Who was I to diss the hipster poet?

      Bowing my head into my late grading —

      I’ve used the word ‘iffy’ in a reference letter.

      I’ve cancelled two classes to watch Survivor.

      10. You’re now talking to the Sleepy’s Mattress Employee of the Month.

      A new study suggests affirmation chants

      (i.e., I can be loved, I can be loved)

      are generally ineffective. In fact,

      they may tend to have a reverse effect.

      Let’s say you’re about to be evicted

      from your already earwig-infested room.

      You have red spots on the back of your legs,

      and your nickname is Lancelot Loser.

      Let’s say your last prized possession

      is a souvenir glass from Hoboken

      and your ex has just published a poem

      titled ‘I Know the Definition of Small.’

      Chanting I can be loved, I can be loved,

      only stresses how sadly untrue that may be.

      It’s likely better to just buy a toupee.

      I can wear a rug, I can wear a rug.

      11. David McGimpsey likes — then unlikes — this.

      A knife in the back is just the adult

      version of acne. It will clear up.

      Faster, if you learn to mix gin with gin.

      Faster, if you drape mirrors in burlap.

      The words you wrote look good in a shredder:

      ‘If only I didn’t join that knife club!’

      and ‘If only I objected to adding

      the phrase I will be stabbed to our vows.’

      Acceptance is the philosophical concept

      that eases long grief and allows someone

      to consider tan slacks as their destiny.

      That Taylor Swift song is not about you.

      Healing is just a word for understanding

      how I was right and you were unright-like.

      Taylor Swift would not use the word ‘douchey,’

      and Applebee’s would just ask you to leave.

      12. If Jesus drove a dependable family-sized recreational vehicle, He would drive a Dodge Caravan.

      Maybe I shouldn’t have highfived the priest.

      Maybe it was a mistake to fall asleep

      at the Don Ho anniversary show.

      Still, I forgave myself at Crookback’s Pub.

      I invented a laptop with cupholders.

      Previously, my sole innovation

      had been putting my hand in my pocket

      to give people the finger while they talked.

      I longed for the road and the good things in life:

      the warm breeze, eating chips while riding shotty,

      selling rifles just over the Mexican border

      to a compound of polygamists.

      Those people who say you can’t run away

      from your problems aren’t really trying.

      I left my lease on St. Lawrence Street.

      Off to Brownsville. Commence-toi la gris.

      13. My second, less popular and even less critically successful Canadian novel.

      The woman at the insurance company.

      Georgetown, Ontario. The description

      of exquisite unsaids. The turn will not

      take place in an Olive Garden parking lot.

      The male foil will disappear in good time,

      and the mister with the disfigurement

      will prove more deft with buckles. Regardless,

      he or they will not just say, ‘Eat it, nit.’

      No mitten too far, no Béliveau too

      deconstructed. ‘The blue lights spilled over

      the winter fields of Bowmanville as the night

      offered bludgeon after bludgeon.’ Sleep, sleep.

      The plot thickens when the mother’s file

      is discovered and there are hushed hints

      of New York. Just a weekend, it seemed.

      Not that she really loved John Wilkes Booth.

      14. Viva Smokey.

      Contrary to rumour, I never owned

      just one suit. I had four identical suits,

      each with a nickname: ‘Stainy’, ‘Scuffers,’ ‘Elbows’

      and ‘Smokey.’ I liked Smokey the best.

      Smokey was the man. Smokey saw me through

      nights on the couch; Smokey wrote long essays

      about suicidal poets and baseball:

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