N I H I L I S M + L I T E

It’s nice outside.

I thought I might but

the first time I see your name in a book of poetry,

I’m stunned into silence

on the toilet

between my breakfast and a day surrendered.

(Today is Saturday. I’ll clean

the song up, plan my lessons,

sweep the crumbs beneath the couch

along with what came in from

outside yesterday.)

I took it in from the library,

because it had been critically acclaimed.

They love her. It looks like a tribute to perogies,

But I like it anyway. Like is

strong enough. I liked the sound of the name,

I welcomed it in some internal way.

I like the words, and I look at the face

   —the pose is the spitting image of The Bedwetter,

   but we’re not meant to laugh—and

I know who this is.

You told me who this is two years ago.

You knew this was coming.

Of course you’re my muse—my muse today—

Just like you were hers, apparently,

“This poem is dedicated t—”

I cut her off with my eyes;

I know what it says. I know you loved her,

and you loathed her acclaim,

And here you are.

Just like that, back in my house,

on a Saturday. Like two years ago

when you came over, we went

out and you flipped a switch at the Biltmore:

You and the band and the earplugs I had

to wear, because I’d had a concussion.

My apartment is better,

Your guitar is better,

Her voice is better. It’s fine.

I house you in my friend’s sublet apartment

and you climb into her jeans with new regrets.

I weave my disappointment into another long walk,

criss-crossing Kitsilano to avoid

the deadlines pawing at my mood,

while I cut down my life,

trimming pieces for the collage.

(This book feels like a dissertation page that reads,

“And thanks to…”

My name on the list, I feel so proud to be in writing,

smiling over three bound books

with my name on the spines.)

“You never wrote a song for me,”

she whines at a party,

and he stumbles over a reason,

mentally weaving words from his shitty songs

together into one to find some

vindication.

His bald spot flashes its presence—

our presence, our lived lives—

beneath painfully nurtured curls.

Stay.

They’ve carried us through dreams of

a life full of dreams

to our dreams of life tomorrow:

Dreams tomorrow will be sunny,

Hope the weather man was right,

—we don’t live here for the weather—

Never can trust them!

Ha

ha

Hope I get a raise, (because)

I’ve been working hard.

(I deserve it.)

Hope that some day I can pay my mortgage instead

of the management company,

Maybe life will mean something.

Maybe I’ll wake up and it’ll mean something tomorrow. but

I know the reason: we don’t love

in the same way

when we need it and we want to fuck the life out of it,

roll it around,

stick it with your dying breath and

mean something.

Not the laundry and the ferry rides,

Planning how to pack the SUV

Which car do we look into—

I need that silence in the evenings,

curling into my own temperament

and organizing weekend plans.

I ask some friends onto the patio and gather empties,

looking around with levity and resignation.