Dear Sasquatch
February 12, 2010 by Chris Gilpin
Dear Sasquatch
Stop avoiding me
I know
you know
I know
you’re out there
You know
I know
you know that
Sasquatch
Since you’ve been gone
My houseplants have been giving me the silent treatment
& my heartstrings all have fallen out of tune
Since you’ve been gone
The posture of my penis is just one more economic indicator
with which to measure the health of the nation
tags Vancouver Olympics Spoken Word Sasquatch poetry Poem Chris Gilpin 2010
This story appears in Poetry Is Dead issue 1. If you like it online, you'll love it in print. Subscribe Now »
About the Author
Chris Gilpin has been a two-time member of the Vancouver Poetry Slam Team (2008 & 2009), the runner-up in the 2008 Vancouver Individual Poetry Slam competition, the champion of Vancouver’s 2008 Haiku Death Match, and winner of the Vancouver’s 2009 CBC Poetry Face-off.
Graveyard Tourist
January 18, 2010 by Kathy Friedman
Thaw said, “I think I’ll become a lighthouse keeper.” There was silence and then someone asked why. “So I’ll be able to walk in spirals.” –Alasdair Gray, Lanark
iv. rome
Sweat moves thick
down our backs and i hate
everyone. We escape the crowds,
spot keats in a corner
but can’t find shelley anywhere.
ii. copenhagen
The locals bathe topless
on sunny days and we stumble
on kierkegaard by accident.
v. paris
Oh, please. This place is ugly
and cluttered and it’s humiliating
how long it takes us to find jim.
iii. berlin
I teach you
tags
This story appears in Poetry Is Dead issue 1. If you like it online, you'll love it in print. Subscribe Now »
About the Author
Kathy Friedman's work has recently appeared in magazines such as Grain, Geist and This. She lives in Toronto, where she publishes a literary/personal zine called Oomska.
a cardboard western with plastic guns.
January 18, 2010 by Ahmed El-Hindy
Sunday, and the weather put weights inside us.
Couldn’t remember who I was talking to,
just that he had a mean voice and
a way of looking at life
like it was a record, and
all you had to do was spin it.
“Hearts," he said,
“hearts are like floating duck toys in the ocean.
They come and go,” and he laughed.
Didn’t know his luck, just a baby in a wicker basket
floating North on the Nile, too busy counting clouds
to spot the crocodiles, missing lunch all together.
Spackled sailor in the boondocks, no water in sight
and it’s easy to get dirt in your eye
tags
This story appears in Poetry Is Dead issue 1. If you like it online, you'll love it in print. Subscribe Now »
About the Author
Ahmed El-Hindy is a young working writer living in Toronto, Ontario and has been referred as an orange alert waiting to happen by multiple American and European authorities.
