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.