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Grosse Pointe over the u.s. borders
in my graphic imagination
in Malanga's poem
in blue american suntan
'outdated' like shed light
'Dits' by Picabia
on top of Chic Death
on top of kleenex - presents
Toronto more brutally real
getting the hang of it
on top of real white desk
reaching for a sneeze
at funeral parlor
somebody hung herself
a spadina street model
can't make out the words
of the guitar
it's not hard slipping thru
our photograph
our social hero
lighting up the line picture
smoke in the air
O my Toronto
basement of Europe
America chills the air of
not my head
bent over a picture of the moon
could be Morocco
out the window
don't misunderstand
my criticism of Chic Death
focussed on cheap paper
knowing we didn't choose it
poems are that much luxury
from a fading lustrous past
you push
into the parlor of the present
out there with the movers
one hears a voice
in the middle of the round landslide
officially recognized
by the committee of immortal poets
as they slouch in the uprooted trees
of the future