INKTOBER 5-in-1 PROMPT: TRUNK, DRINK, ROWDY, BLUNDER, SHREDDED

 Oh, trunk! Yes, that's right; that's the ticket!

INKTOBER 4-in-1 PROMPT: STING, SWEEP, RECKLESS, HEAVY

 

It was the year of incessant wasps. That's what we'll remember most of all. We had a hundred yellowjacket queens vying for a winter throne, and sweeping them out only made them angrier. 

Finally - Windex, a swift demise, and very clean windows. 

OASIS CONCERT IN T.O.

No way in Hades

we thought these swine would show up.

Each: "My brother's fault."

New poem for the Anti-Doinkery Society

 THE FIRST PETAL OF VENGEANCE

Princess Carbonara and I
sat around last night drinking wine.
She leaned in close and asked me if
I had any secrets. Even
if I didn't, I'd have said yes
just to get attention like that
so I smiled and sat back and tossed
my hair. 'Tell me,' she said and of
course I said 'You go first. I have
the stronger liver.' She told me
love is for idiots. Hardly
a secret, I said. I made her
promise not to tell and I led
her to the back of the garden.
I stretched a hibiscus bloom big
and flat, pinned it against a tree
trunk and stared at it like a white
screen until there were blotches of
colour, then moving shapes, and then
clear pictures of everything I
was thinking. 'How do you do that?'
she asked, amazed, unable to
stop looking. I held my finger
to my lips. 'Ssh. Watch. Parlor trick.'
They were all out in the open,
all the things I was supposed to
forget and did not, a grudge raw
and bloody like a steak, vengeance,
murders of trust and breaks nearly
forgotten but still and perhaps
forever on crutches. 'This is
better than anything you'd find
at the movies,' I said. I was
pleased to give the princess more than
what she had asked for. I gave her
the kind of talent one does not
see these days. Next time she thinks of
secrets she will think of me, and
remember as I will. I will
remember her horrified slack
jaw when she first saw what a real
humiliation looks like. I
picked the flower when we were done
with the show and wove it in her
hair. 'Souvenir," I said. She had
more wine and we both promised to
forget, though we will not, oh no.

APR 17

The Stiff Drink 

One day we stood at the front door

which opened to a vestibule, 

which opened to a foyer, which 

opened to a dining room, which 

opened to a new universe

(we had expected a sunroom),

the same kind of revelation 

we had when we forgot our house

had a sunroom and felt a pang 

of envy when we noticed one 

on the street, not ours, the wistful

longing of not ours, which opens

to a yearning for not ours which 

opens to a resignation 

of not ours which opens to a 

resentment of not ours (we had

expected to need a stiff drink).

 

 

 

 

 

 

APR 16

 Champagne Tarlant

He spent most of last night barking

and pacing, but he says he has

no memory of it. At least

he’s up for the job, guarding us

from the fierce winds and wild beasts out

there, raccoons and worse. It’s bogles

that cause the most grief in dogs, he 

explains - I’m not complaining, it's

a fact. Most people think that their

houses are inhabited by

the spirits of those who lived there

previously, but that’s not so.

People are pursued by their own

bogles – live long enough and you’ll

have acquired a pack of them  -

and they trudge these bogles around

wherever they go. We tell him 

we'll drink to that — a glass or two

gets the bogles under control.

Holly Golightly and her mean

reds? We’ll have none of that. There’ll be

no hiding under the covers

or one-nighters for us. As for

bogles, some of them, like Jacob

Marley's chains, are great big rattling

metaphors for regret. We think

regret is unwise. It's the worst

bogle you can drag with you. But

we won't say no to another 

glass of the finest. We'll watch his 

kind puppy eyes flicker and close

for the night while we carefully

peel the label off the bottle.

APR 15

 Scones, Clotted Cream, Jam and Tea

We counted on her for the most

delicious of rescues – she’d jump

in the car and speed over to

us before we had time to fret

or even put the kettle on

-she’ll take care of everything! – just

like being held in the arms of

Jesus, and after scones, clotted

cream, jam and tea, we’d get started.

Solving the woes of the world looks

like hocus-pocus but if it

works, it works. She looked the house up

and down. We’ll scrub it of its bad 

energy. Scrub the walls and paint.

Men are filth, especially

those with dangling arms and lizard

eyes, she said. They’re bad news, honey.

Few things are more satisfying

than opening a can of good

paint, stirring until the colour

emerges, fresh and thick. That’s a

good colour, she said. The room looks

south and can take a warm blue like

this. She poured the paint into a

tray and dragged her roller through it.

The first swath of blue-green on the

wall was breathtaking. She put her

arm around us. Sometimes, honey,

you’ve got to make an effort for

things to turn around, go in your

favour. We painted until the

sun slanted and set; by then the

whole room was done. The sunroom is

not a big room, but it’s enough.

APR 14

Old Christmas Cake 

We watched them working together

on two of those paintings at the 

dinette table, a pair of black 

horses in a field, with, we think, 

a waterfall in the background 

of one of them and a forest 

 

of jack pines in the other. They 

were pleased with their work, putting the

finished paintings in wood frames and 

hanging them in the dining room- 

the dinette- a diagonal 

arrangement, over which they fussed

 

endlessly. We know, we know – don’t 

give us stink eye - those kits were all

the rage and we can still smell those 

tiny pots of oils, see two

artists, if that’s what you call them,

create their magnum opus, if

 

that’s what you call it, all part of 

a rare, golden moment. We’ve kept

those horse paintings. They’re somewhere in

an oubliette, a hidden drawer, 

a secret cupboard under an

old Christmas cake, not easy for 

 

you to find. Eventually, 

they broke apart, the pieces that

is, but we saved them - isn’t that 

the living end? What value is 

the elusive sweet memory 

from childhood? What would Proust say?”

APR 13

Crocodile and Caesar Chicken Wrap

Did we tell you of the time we

went to lunch with a crocodile – 

well, it was lunch for him and we 

don’t remember what it was for 

us, perhaps a tea, and perhaps 

nothing at all? Two things stand out 

in our memory: the first is 

our bubblegum-pink cardigan

and the second is the crocodile 

himself, or, more precisely, the

way he ate his lunch: a chicken 

Caesar wrap, which was placed in front 

of him, and, as though time stood still,

he circled it, stared at it for

a good half-minute, bared his teeth 

– Mississipiensis teeth, a 

double row! – and bit into it, 

still staring. Even as he chewed 

and swallowed the first bite, he was 

staring into the chicken wrap.

 

The rest of the luncheon we don’t 

remember -  if we split before 

he did, and we like to think that 

we did; we like to think that we 

left him to settle up – and the 

more we think of it, the more we 

believe we didn’t order at 

all, and we like to think that we 

slipped out on the sly, even though 

it was colder outside than we 

had anticipated, and we 

like to think that we ran down the 

escalator, out the door, up 

the street, running as fast as we 

could, hugging the bubblegum-pink 

cardigan close to us, running 

without stopping until we were 

home, safe, before we had time to 

realise we were out of breath, 

shutting the door behind us and 

pushing our back up against it – 

phew! – until we thought: home, we are 

home. We have the fixings for hot 

cocoa ready. We’ll bake cookies, 

something charming and homey – with 

smarties on top – because, you know, 

we’re the best at this sort of thing. 

Home. Safe. Mississipiensis 

would take all of this away from 

us if he could. We’d been focused 

on the trappings of a life he 

figured was luxury, but what 

we think of every day is 

the hot cocoa, the cookies with 

smarties. What the f, – we’re still good 

at living the cosy life and 

we’re not sure if we’ll ever stop. 

 

APR 12

Shrimp Cocktail

The bogles the terrier chased

and at whom he howled were not

of grief or aggravation but

of the past: ours, not his. These

bogles are still part of the house.

He knows how fiercely we cling. That’s

what makes us stupid, an open

book, about these things. We’ve built quite

a history of clinging to

houses even as they’re being

wrenched away. He knows we wrote our

name on the walls and in kitchen

cabinets for the new people

to find and hopefully to shriek, 

This is not the place for us! He 

knows all this. The threat of uproot

has a lingering smell, he says.

You know the story, a woman’s

ex evicts her but she puts shrimp

cocktail inside the curtain rods

before she leaves. The stink drives him

away and she gets her house back.

The terrier makes everything

better. We hear him sniff-sniffing

out danger and it is the most

comforting thing in the whole world.

APR 11

 Poisson Steve et une Coupe de Champagne 

Je fais un rêve toutes les nuits. ‘Je

m'appelle Steve,’ m'a-t-il dit. ‘Je suis

orange. J'ai des bras et des jambes.

Je suis fier de mes succès, mais

particulièrement aussi

de mes échecs.’ ‘Enchanté’, lui

ai-je dit. ‘Dis-moi, que penses-tu

de la vie moderne?’ Le poisson

Steve reste silencieux un instant

et, en vrai bonhomme, m’a servi

une coupe de champagne. ‘Si tu me

comprends, tu seras mon ami,

mon cœur, jusqu'à la fin des temps.’

0

APR 10

 We'll Make a Jelly Sandwich

The corner store is the place to

be, where popsicles and lolas

are fished out of a cooler that

smells of basement, where marshmallow

strawberries and mojos cost a

penny, where bar sixes, peps and

wildfires are sold alongside

circus peanuts, lik-m-aid and

wax harmonicas, where we buy

a tiger-tail ice cream cone with

sprinkles, return after lunch for

NHL cards then go again

after supper for a jet and

lucky elephant popcorn. If

you should run away from home, as

we all do, this is the place to

go. The first day we hear the buzz

of cicadas, we’ll know it’s time.

We’ll make a jelly sandwich, take

our bindle to the parking lot,

lay down our blanket and worldly

woes: toys, piggy bank, pyjamas

and crayons for writing home: See

you never! The thrill of daring

to think of mischief and someone

else’s grief. Why would you do a

thing like this, Mr. will ask. Or

maybe, I’m not surprised. Either

way we’ll be grinning ear to ear.

APR 9

Hot Chocolate Made with Melted Aeros and Milk 

Tiger Mama wears bobby socks 

and sneakers even in the snow.

White mountains along the sides of

the roads delight the children and

we, like the others, scale the Alps.

She scans the horizon. A boy

leaps into view, topples his prey.

Tiger Mama sprints, springs, her breath

in short, angry puffs. See that girl?  

How dare you. She yanks his parka, 

shoves fistfuls of snow down the front.

We’re not sure if she was waiting 

for a moment like this. Earning 

her stripes, we’d tell her, years later.

 

We’re not perfect; we can't recall

her words, not exactly. We can’t

see his face – surely one of those 

Italian toughs from Wilson

Avenue. Surely, but still. He’ll

get papa’s belt when he gets home. 

We think we should remember that. 

 

We want more than what was. We see 

the pendulous hang of clouds, Group 

of Seven snow in every 

colour but white, Tiger Mama's

sneakers, chocolate bars melting

into mugs of hot milk in the 

kitchen as darkness falls at five.

 

“Hard to believe,” says Mr. “That 

this mama tiger of yours had 

any sort of gumption. Are you 

sure this happened?” We stir melting

chocolate into the milk and 

sip. “I said, are you sure? F**k, I  

hate it when it gets dark at five.”