The Ideation Project
Exile is a most superb
suburb for those who hurt us
to disappear into, bushes kept
so high and trim they’ll be
rose bushes, soon.
Perhaps there’s traffic
on the way back
with a bit of honking
and all that but obviously
it's not that far a trip,
because here we are—
smelling the air, mmmmmmm! All cleared.
MARCH 24th, 2016
hereto referred to as "THAT DAY"—
was all corners.
And today?
~
The verdict passed, what
seven seasons ago now
screaming match of SPRING SUMMER FALL
WINTER SPRING SUMMER FALL
I remember it. I did my taxes
"THAT DAY"
100+ bucks to praise the ledger
of the accounting software dropdown list
fidgeting in the boxy beige office, a pile of coats
in one corner.
~
Embracing impermanence is our solemn
duty as women, along with coming
clean about OUR EMAILS
ALWAYS OUR EMAILS
(and emailed bikini pics).
Every woman was braless
under her coat "THAT DAY"
and all of the schools were closed.
Heard a man joke on the phone, Toronto falls
apart under a bit of ice! I stifled
a shiver, bit my own icy thigh.
~
I don’t exist
properly
under the big red
clit of the Canada
Revenue Agency,
in offices or courtrooms.
My femininity
is so much bigger and better
and more pleasurable than yours,
I’ve been trained to wield it
like the magnificent cock that it is
I spread myself out in public
take my comfort like the boys
stick my fingers into any icebox
I want.
(O, let the record show! the type of heels worn
by the lawyer in court: the audience is invited
to wonder—would she
have secretly liked
being choked, too?)
~
Fear is infectious
as strep throat.
Develop a parasocial relationship
to hair-pulling, to keeping handwritten notes, to
Lady Justice herself, who ironically never gets choked
up on the topic of what she may
or may not have seen.
~
"THAT DAY" I watched the coats in the corner multiply
pile
pile
pile
as if disappearing a body
feeling cornered
each time the accountant exits the room to consult her supervisor
and I barely made any money again this year
who in this narrative is yearning for predictability?
the coats,
a soft, dismissive surveillance
No, ma’am, I did not keep the past three years
of tax returns
frankly I’m humiliated
by all the lengthy decisions
of our most esteemed elders.
~
Some thrive on archives
others on paper trails
or the rickety railroad
of rumour.
Some fondle the
sweet, frigid plums
we all know that one guy.
Everyone has a story
or heard one. Some got
tied to the tracks anyway.
Some of us finger our files on the reg.
(snap-snap)
He came
(snap-snap)
He saw
(snap-snap-snap-snap)
He brought receipts!
The double
metonymy
of pen and sword, of holding court
for fear of missing out.
No one knows and
everyone does.
~
Where were you the first time
you had mud flung in your face
and pretended to like it?
Where were you the second time?
How bruised were you "THAT DAY"
when you fell hard on the ice and bounced right back up
so fast, for fear of being seen? How long after you walked
away did the shock wear off and it actually started
to hurt? When did you
first feel the pain?
And if the pain
is delayed
long enough
was it ever really there
in the first place,
or is it still there
a sickly blotch, embodied
is the pain
blameless?
less
less
less
~
There’s no pressing pause on "THAT DAY"
the air was so bitter
and so fucking cold
I went and got
myself in order
I went and got
myself on paper
this is just to say
I ran from my attention span
"THAT DAY" began to gestate
it gestated, all corners
to write myself out of
nuance was not a casualty
of my gesticulating
ideation: politics to philosophy to pop culture's
subhuman condition
of repetition
(command) a quit all
(command) a quit all
(command) a quit all
~
The eighth season—
WINTER bushes bare
ice on all
the roads back here.
