June 8 (decaf)

The great news is I can sit and wonder into eternity at this façade of depth and the ephemeral consistency of delusion. Contradictorily redundant interchange ability is a staple of your mental diet; confusion, like how laconic lagoon dragons and nostalgic Burlington bog monsters at midways may bloom. MIT has my reservoir of reasons, I was better than the rest; I am the undercoated seasoning, the rust proofing for your four-door automobile in a battle for motomaster chassis survival in Penetanguishene winters.

Al Purdy and his wistful CBC jingoism and pretty Molly Parker and Satyricon banishment of Petronius--your vision of Rome and Versailles wigs and powdered noses. The trumped-up chocolate croissant laced with poison sugar dust. The little boy with red roses, he hypnotizes three thirtysomething spinster bitches with innocently irresistible cherubim insolence.

And the sky is speckled and splotched and it’s raining grey from the ground up on a Tuesday.

Uncle Sam’s ante ups itself; misspelling's more costly than misunderstanding, so get form down and the rest of the panel is content; the hoops jumped through we can continue to listen, not squawk like the hysterical audience we are, waving our roses in a pout and thrashing at visionaries with vanity thorns. Why can’t we get along. Why can’t you just listen. Hear that? The sound of one man crapping.

Bagel World Movenpickering and the overcrowding man crisis; immigration is too high and the people are streaming in unchecked, numbers unreckoned. How dare they I say. Blame Ottawa blame Toronto blame Vancouver, and out in the countryside everything is maintained lily white and unblemished, how nice. This is our vast expansive Canada, new country without memory, the hypocrites spaced out just comfortably enough to continue being the shining light for a world out to lunch.

In conclusion, try somebody’s clothes on for size: all I promise is they may or may not fit.

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