The Collar Bomb

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I was forced to wear 

the collar bomb

welded steel 

manacle strapped 

around my neck

quadruple locked

the device

sits on my chest

timer ticking 

like a heartbeat

it's crazy-making 

that sound, the ticking

constant reminder

that it may explode

at any second  

tear a hole 

through my body.

I don't know how 

it got there 

but I know

there is no choice.

I have instructions

to find the keys

like a scavenger hunt

place to place

to find the next clue

and the next clue

to eventually find a key

so don't judge me

when you see me

wandering around 

looking for answers

confused

muttering to myself

like I'm cuckoo

maybe yelling at God

on the sidewalk, or in the park 

peeking under rocks 

or in the hollows of trees,

I'm not lost

I'm searching 

for a clue leading

to a clue leading

hopefully to a key

to unlock 

the collar bomb.

I do what I can

to hide it

under my shirt

the collar bomb

don't want to spook

folks in the grocery line

or at the convenience store

and especially not

at the bank where

they might get 

the wrong idea.

Not a day goes by

when I don't expect

to be surrounded 

in the street

by cops

sirens and red lights

blaring, guns drawn

yelling, "On your knees!"

"Hands in the air!"

and I will plead to them

it wasn't me

who put the bomb there

and I will do 

exactly as I'm told

no false moves

and like a monk

protesting a war

I will drop 

to the ground

and pray.

Guernica

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Life

is the track record 

of the entire universe, 

for instance,

for instance 

for instance,

take anything you can think of 

take Picasso's Guernica 

for instance, now

perform origami 

of the mind 

in reverse

unfold the angles

of that Cubist masterpiece

gesture by gesture 

line by line

lift the layers 

from the canvas

black and white 

until the image is clean

but don't stop there 

go back further

back to the store 

where the house paint 

and canvas were purchased 

and the horse hair brushes

and peel back 

another layer 

to the factory 

where the paints 

and brushes were made

and go back further still 

to the barn, 

to the birth of a horse

go back to an event

in a Basque city

in another time

back to war

air-raid sirens

bombs,

violence

atrocity and mayhem,

anguish and blood,

death 

and tears,

and to an artist

a man

to Picasso 

his youth  

his birth

his parents

his ancestry

his chemistry

his DNA

to molecules 

and atoms

and even to 

the very beginning 

of the universe 

contained

in all of us

it’s a wonder

anyone can sleep.

The Price of Oil

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Pump, pump, 

pump

rise

and fall

like a heartbeat

all you need

to know 

about blood 

and soil

in the price 

of oil.

Last week  

an army

invaded Ukraine

it went up,

this week  

ceasefire talks

it goes down.

Somewhere

in the desert

below sand

where nothing grows

barrels of crude

from deposits of life

millions of years

before the doomed 

dinosaurs, 

on the surface

the viper

and wind

shape dunes  

into wavy 

dollar signs.

Coffers fill

and coffins too

treasure chests 

and war chests

inhale

exhale

pump, pump, 

pump

an ECG

in the price

of oil.

Babi Yar II

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after Yevtushenko

A Jew, a comedian 

who played the President of Ukraine on TV 

was so popular 

he was elected the President of Ukraine 

in real life, 

and if that isn`t funny enough,

his country is now being bombed 

by Vladimir Putin's army.

As most people know

Jews make good comedians

because we know from suffering,

Jewish humour is salted with irony and sadness

and that`s why we laugh.

Putin doesn`t know from the laugh/cry

connection, no one`s ever actually seen him laugh, 

but from tears he knows a lot:  

He made them cry in Grozny, in Aleppo, in Abkhazia,

and now he wants them to cry

in Mariupol, Kharkiv and in Kiev too

where 33,000 Jews were gunned down

the first time around. Putin declared 

Save Russia from the Yid leader

and de-Nazify Ukraine!

his breath reeking of onions and vodka.

Okay that last part about vodka and onions

is made-up, like an excuse for war,  

but he actually said de-Nazify, no joke,

the comedian-Jew president Nazi.

They're saying Putin's gone loco

from isolation, 

been hiding in a dark room for more than a year - 

I was going to say like Anne Frank

but that wouldn't be right, 

at least she was with her family 

before the train to Auschwitz then to Bergen-Belsen.

This pandemic's been tough on all of us, 

but imagine the loneliness

if you had all those mansions and yachts 

and were too paranoid to invite friends, 

if you had friends.

These days he won't let anyone get

within 20 feet of him. I hear TV analysts,

they miss the Russian autocrat's more rational side, 

his more strategic days, 

when cold blooded cruelty made sense 

politically-speaking.

Who are They anyway? And what do They know?

And what was the point of bombing 

the Holocaust memorial in a Kiev suburb? 

And now it's gone. 

No monument stands over Babi Yar

for the second time.

A steep cliff only, like the rudest headstone

I am afraid.

Ode to a Roof

How do I love thee, 

let me count the ways: 

Like you I'm shmatta-made,

both dad and grandad were in the bizness,

and so, you might say, 

is our beloved Montreal, 

woven together 

immigrant communities

who built an industry 

of cutters, sewers 

and salesmen and in turn,

was built by it.

But you,

you took it to a whole other level,

your Kevlar fabric 

was 'space-age' in '76,

the retractable design 

a marvel of modern engineering,

a roof that folds up

into the armpit of a tower hunched

over the stadium's bowl 

like a vomiting drunk after a bender.

A roof

that lifts away on massive cables 

to play Expos' games

under blue sky and sunshine,

and parachutes down for cover in rain, 

you held so much promise,

like the team that might have won it all

but like you

could never make it all the way

to the top.

We feel your pain, 

a slow suffering demise of 16,000 tears

(sad, but who's counting),

somehow you could not bear 

the weight of snow

3 cms in a city that averages over 200 

every winter 

(but who's counting);

as if from day one

you were designed to fail,

or belonged to another city

south of the border

where the snowbirds migrate,

or maybe an imagined metropolis

of a climate-changed future.

Florence's 586-year old Duomo

hasn't been fixed as often as you, 

or cost as much, 

and you're only 35

(but who's counting).

This morning I woke to radio news

that the 2017 plan 

to make you unretractable

at a cost of $250 million

(1/4 of a billion dollars, but who`s counting)

has been delayed (again)

with no end date in sight -

'unretractable' is a good word for you.

We're too invested 

to cut our losses now,

we're overly-attached,

our love is blind

beyond all reason, 

and will make us pay

over and over

until it's truly over.

Embarrassed

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for Seymour Mayne

"How do you spell 'embarrass'?" 

Dumb silence.

"Well?"

"How many b's?

How many r's?

How many s's?"

"You won't find it

written on the ceiling."

He was larger than life

this new teacher,

voice boomed 

prophetically -

it was 1957

grade 7.

His bright eyes

and wide challenging smile

looked like a diver 

poised above us 

hungry for the plunge.

"Well?"

"Why do you stare like cows

herded for slaughter?"

I turned to my classmate

one desk over -

shifted uncomfortably 

on squeaky wooden chair,

he nodded agreement -

we'd never heard 

an English teacher

speak this way 

never felt one

shame us 

by a mere question

a spell 

was cast,

stupefying us.

"A guess won't kill you."

"Who dares break

this icy silence!" 

a doubtful

belly-laugh.

We knew how small

we must have looked  

from his height,

his backward 

binocular vision

reducing us to mice.

"Must I release you 

from your pathetic trap 

of ignorance?"

The melody of his 

utterance

was magnificent.

"One b, two r's, two s's."

Hearing those letters

felt like he'd handed us

a key

the world

had cracked open

a door unlocked

the darkness

pierced 

by a sudden shaft 

of light.

Politics

She soars, 

spins, twists 

lands on two feet,

clutch execution 

multiplied by a high 

degree of difficulty

awards her the gold.

Fans cheer, 

national banners wave, 

anthem gets played

and a post-performance 

press conference

announces her momentary 

greatness -

sponsors falling

over themselves

to sign her up.

At the other end

of the Eurasian Steppe

Ukraine swings 

between war 

and not war

like a body at the end 

of a noose -

Russian tanks,

rocket launchers and 

150,000 troops

closing in

the world watching

hanging on

breathlessly.