Saturday, March 18, 2017



The rain is past due. No one need go to court
if you answer the summons. All the people
you hurt while growing into a man are seeking
damages. Next time, bury the bodies a little
deeper. Someone vandalized a lyric poem.
They found your fingerprints and a hippopotamus
at the scene of the crime. Jury duty sounds
slightly more fun than three days of DTs.
Stay away from the woman smoking french
cigarettes. She will try to bribe you with similes,
spiritual illuminations. The hydro company  
is threatening to cut power to the orphanage.
All those children wasting away in the dark.
You have been accepted to a fake seminary,
offered admissions to warring poetic schools,
been drafted into an army. Sign the contract
or you’ll never understand a river at twilight.
The disclaimer reads: the rewards are real, but
the contest is rigged. The zoning office says
neighbours are planning on expanding a yard.
They built a trebuchet and have the proper permits.
A few final items. Doctors warn tests revealed
a malignancy. You will die slowly over the course
of a natural life-span. It is a bag of spun gold, or
your first born by month’s end, writes someone
at the collection agency. This is the last notice.
Make arrangements. Your credit score rates
lower than your mental health index. Write off
the difference. The bank will give you an extension 
on your next midlife crisis. Bills must be paid. 
No, you cannot use dark matter or stonehenge
as collateral. Your reserve funds will last you
two weeks. I'll write you a bad check.

By Chris Banks  

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