Li'l Bastard. David McGimpsey

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      a spirited group whose name meant ‘Thelonious

      Monk may be dead but we have to eat too.’

      Not much could be won by my nickels and dimes,

      but I moaned when I put Smokey away

      and knew it was Stainy’s turn in the rotation.

      Now, Stainy. Stainy, he was all business.

      15. As my mother was always fond of saying, ‘It depends whose ox is being gored.’

      Justin Bieber, someday you will grow strong

      and then you will exact revenge for the pain

      I experienced that Halloween night.

      You know, when I was dressed as Geddy Lee.

      My novel’s now called The Mistakener

      and I dutifully watch the CBC.

      I mean, PBS. It’s not like I killed somebody.

      For my sin, I expect a pair of PUMAs.

      So long Mount Royal, hello livin’ in a van!

      Goodbye Wendy’s on Décarie Boulevard,

      Hello Wendy’s on Lamar Boulevard!

      For my virtue, I expect more thinness.

      You know what might be easier? If you

      all took turns poking me in the arm

      with a jagged lamb shank. Then, just maybe,

      I might stop to ponder your sweet ‘concerns.’

      16. If possums were pears, we’d be having fruit salad tonight.

      The phrase ‘a grey, mechanical existence’

      made me think I’d solved something painful.

      It somehow upset me to discover

      it was nonsense. I craved sunshine, love.

      My philosophical uncle would say,

      ‘When you’re old, suicide’ll seem redundant.’

      Like me, he took TV shows personally

      and cried at the thought of any goodbye.

      At some point, the blows themselves don’t hurt

      anymore. You already know you’ve lost

      and what’ll really hurt is the healing pain

      of tomorrow. Stupid tomorrow.

      When I finally left that apartment

      I didn’t even quite put on my shoes.

      I stepped on the heels as if they were slippers

      and ran to the car taking me to Texas.

II. Perdita, TX

      17. Scrubland.

      A sign for a gas station sixteen miles off

      is like anticipating a trip to New York.

      Everything bent west from hurricane winds,

      a radio tower, a flutter of starlings.

      Sun-sick, still thinking of a week in May

      when I wanted a silent treatment to stick.

      The glum, clipped calls and a waffle breakfast

      I couldn’t quite sit through. Stupid waffles.

      The gas station, of course, is just a gas station:

      trucker-sized coffee, bags of corn chips

      and local papers fourteen pages long.

      Item: San Benito Soldier Killed in Iraq.

      The Romans counselled Never argue with the sun.

      Trying to not talk, happy without a phone.

      Praying my eyes will survive the Texas light.

      Dwarf juniper, mesquite, transplanted palms.

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