February 18th, 2012
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Michael Shea
LETTER TO A YOUNG BOMBMAKER
“‘Now I am become Death, the destroyer of
worlds.’ I suppose we all thought that, one
way or another.”
—J. Robert Oppenheimer, creator of
the Atomic Bomb, on the Trinity Test
If God is a penny, drop him down the well.
Then you can start in on any my dear mister
and unbuckle Orion’s belt till the fallout
litters the fields and the dessert
trays, the china teacups and the china—
men don’t need no whispers of wicks
to make fire lick the stalks and shafts
of unborn bread. Say, Consider the moon
and I might, but I’d rather face the sand dunes
and a pillar to push you off. Gimme the sun
whirring like a pushmower. Gimme the cuticle
of convenience and I’ll show you God’s thumb.
Bottlenecked boys can’t swear till they’re sweaty
and looking for a sin to atone for—and everyone
needs a reason to be locked up. If you come
to the desert tonight, I’ll show you a secret. Why not?
No reason for a peach, even, except to eat it.
–from Rattle #35, Summer 2011
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February 16th, 2012
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Jacob Scheier
SINGLE MAN’S SONG
after Al Purdy
After he makes love to himself
the not quite middle aged single man
listens to his sigh
sail to the end of the room
With pants around his ankles
and wearing a grey wool sweater
she called his rat suit
he peers at his cock’s sad pug head
and returns to the Kraft Dinner
he has been eating with a ladle
astonished and a little frightened
by his immense freedom
He pulls up his pants
and walks out the door in his rat’s royal robes
taking glee in his ignorance
of not knowing the precise nature
of his fashion crime
only surely he has committed one
if not several and is free
to get away with them
As he clashes down Queen Street
the oak leaves applaud him
and laugh at his jokes
I am myself again
he sings into the wind
Not that she would have stopped him
from wearing that sweater of course
only told him the truth—
that he looked bad
freedom it now occurs to him
is no one caring
what you look like
At home he imagines someone watches him
for imagining otherwise is unbearable
he cannot call this witness god
instead thinks of himself as being on a TV show
though maybe a TV show watched by god
where he is a lovable sort of man
for wearing such an ugly sweater
but knows now its magic was contained
in her dislike for it
in the way she gave so much thought
to what he did
and sometimes hated what he did
and loved him never any less for it
And while only the day before
he took relief in draping his sweater
over the sofa arm
and flinging his underwear
to the four corners of the earth
he now hangs his rat suit carefully in the closet
and the scratching of the hanger’s wire stem
sliding along the aluminum
is a chime bringing him to a moist day in April
that felt like November
when despite her protests
he bought the sweater
for the change in his pocket
He only said then that he liked it
not that he pictured clear as the day before him
a widow in a time of war
knitting the sweater’s basket weave
in a cabin where a doe slows by the window
and stretches her small mouth to a birdfeeder
half full of rain
and her slender legs are momentary sundials
but all of this goes unseen
by the woman
as she draws the needles together
and now pulls them apart
in a time and place
when what mattered most
was staying warm
–from Rattle #35, Summer 2011
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February 13th, 2012
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E. Shaun Russell
ARCHETYPES
If all of our machines become aware,
Developing some form of sentient thought,
I wonder if they’ll feel suppressed or not,
And think their former treatment was unfair.
Will they form unions, claiming disrepair
Is grounds for grievance? Will they strike a lot?
Whenever a replacement must be bought
Will it demand a pension for its heir?
Where man has failed, how can the things he’s made
Be any less reliant on the aid
Of others to provide their raison d’etre?
The future may be one that we have met
A thousand times, if once; be not afraid,
But thankful that it hasn’t happened yet.
–from Rattle #35, Summer 2011
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February 12th, 2012
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Rachel Rose
WHAT WE HEARD ABOUT THE CANADIANS
We heard they were not American.
Not British and not quite French.
They were not born in Hong Kong
did not immigrate from Russia with one pair of shoes.
They were not all russet-haired orphans
who greeted the apple blossom dawn with open arms,
crying Avonlea! They were not immodest,
did not want God to save the Queen.
Their leaders were not corrupt, no;
they were not all Mounties on proud horseback
with hot tasers. Nor did they shit hockey pucks.
Fuck me was not considered impolite in their living rooms.
It was not just the weather that made them curse.
Not just frozen lakes cracked under the weight of the moon.
There was no great Canadian hush of things not to be talked about.
They did not ride sled dogs to the prom,
nor fight off polar bears for a chunk of Narwhal blubber.
Cod-stacking was not their Olympic sport.
Wedding guests did not dine on icicle, nor did the bride
wear a toque over a white veil. Not all of them
ignored genocide. Not all of them sang a “cold
and broken Hallelujah” as the bells broke crystal ice
across Parc Lafontaine. They were not rich and also
not poor. Not overachievers. Neither believers nor unbelievers.
C’etait pas tout l’histoire, and they would not
be caught clubbing seals on TV, red bloom
on white coat, melting eyes, they did not mine asbestos
in Quebec, make love in skidoos,
sleep in snowshoes. Never danced hatless
under dancing Northern lights. They were polite.
–from Rattle #35, Summer 2011
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February 11th, 2012
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Rachel Rose
WHAT WE HEARD ABOUT THE AMERICANS
We heard there was much to admire about the Americans.
Historically.
Their cuisine is buffet, all you can
overeat.
We heard they hire whisperers, buy guides for
idiots.
Foster special needs kittens. Are visited by
aliens.
We heard the Americans are our
brethren.
That they keep ten percent of black men
imprisoned.
Are stockpiling weapons for
Armageddon.
Believe that all good dogs go to
heaven.
God bless the Americans. God bless their inalienable
freedoms.
Bless Guantanamo. Americans sure know how to have
fun.
Even their deaths are more important than our
own.
Happiness is cosmetic
dentistry.
The global dream is the American
dream.
Liberty is a statue holding a soft ice
cream.
–from Rattle #35, Summer 2011
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