Omnes Una Manet Nox

I’m quickly running out of things to write about hockey. Frankly, I don’t think they’re listening to me. Whoever they are. Which is good, I think, because the season is well underway now and I have the feeling that in a couple of weeks the Habs may reach out to me as their 6th defenceman. It would be great timing as I’m very quickly running out of money. Short fiction and poetry aren’t selling like they used to, and I tried poetry busking the other day in Kensington and some dude hit me with his beagle. The beagle’s okay, but my poetry hurts. And for some reason I can’t stop listening to The Skydiggers. Weird.

More of Minced Oaths

66. They sounded like a country song. He turned
the radio off. The car seemed to drive itself.
“It’s getting late,” she said. “This won’t be enough.”

67. When he awoke, she was gone.
Her note was misleading. “I never
wore enough headbands,” he thought.

68. Chocolate? No. Government? No. Esthetician? No.
Charlottesville? No. Ramirez? No. Polynomial? No.
Undergrad? No. Riley was running out of ideas.

69. She loved his touch. It felt like dayspring, and terror.
They lay there for a while, after which she asked him to dress her.
“This is what it will be like after you find my body.”

70. It all happened quickly. The look. Clothing disappeared.
Angry passion. After, he looked into her eyes and said
“Twelve eighty-five.” She never took a taxi again.

71. The song was “Smells Like Teen Spirit.”
“I love this band,” she said. “Can’t wait to see them live.”
He bought her another drink.

72. The letter was perfect. Though try as he might,
he could not remember the address. He simply wrote “DAVE”
on the envelope and would hope for the best.

73. “I’m a vegan,” he said proudly, “meat is murder.”
There was a contradiction, a brave sadness in his eyes.
She knew he had bacon in his pockets.

74. “There is no way this can possibly get any worse,”
he said, as she tried her best to untie the turtle.
Then her mother came home.

75. She hadn’t meant to kill him, but after he used “inflammable”
as a verb for the third time she couldn’t take it anymore.
That, and he was wearing deck shoes.

76. It was late. The lake had grown still. They passed
the bottle back and forth until it was empty and they were not.
He thought about it, but didn’t.

77. They stopped the truck when the road had grown to an end.
Sitting on the hood, they listened to a fading AM signal
and watched the headlights reach aimlessly into the gloaming.

78. His shirt was matted in shards of doilies and blood.
Most of his left index and ring fingers were missing.
It didn’t matter. The wedding would probably be cancelled.

79. They danced in the grass until the eventide gave out.
“I don’t know the way back,” he said.
“I don’t know the way back,” she said.

80. The apartment was filled with his boxes.
He unpacked his stereo, put on The Skydiggers,
and awaited the same night that awaits us all.