An excerpt from "Canadada Day"...

I am a man called Nothng, a gangster cowboy mannequin with arms and legs akimbo. A deconstruction of Spam tasting like human flesh. The human flesh will burn today in the bonfire of nostalgic elves- pointy hats blowing in the barbecue breeze of German engineering. Down at the Edelweiss club the grainy mustard flows freely, tangy yellow sacrament of the bratwurst twins. More wieners please for this bevy of pneumatic cheerleaders in their wooden short shorts, laughing with wooden teeth, barking like wooden dogs. More wieners please for that constipated politician pig face. More wieners please to be projected onto my 3-d hi-def flat screen. I am on a diet. I consume pictures. Pictures of Lillian Munster, pictures of Ogopogo, pictures of starlets hot-knifing hash because the everyday is beautiful like a kettledrum. A kettledrum full of lips and teeth chattering like marimbas played by barefoot minstrels. Gribble burps up an illusion, a poetic liscence plate that reads I luv Grmpa. Spark up that salamander, that soufflé of feelings, you backseat driver. You anarchist in black underwear, my panda bare bear. So were sweating like a Maine coon cat in July, like a fat man sipping soup, like Joan Rivers melting face. Because he said anorexia nervosa is the luxury of the leisure class. We enter a bay made from plastic and spastic turquoise paint. Dear intellectuals: you need not apply for the position of Rasputin’s chicken. You belong on Hollywood Squares- totally L7, Clark Kent glasses glazed by secretions of laptop malaise. What fun this is to see you nearly naked on the boob-tube. Oh uranium in birdbones, drizzle weaving the names of lovers who salivated feasting on blue heron backbones muted and bulbous typhoon of carbonation. Let us hibernate in quantum flare space with Chili and Gribble, acid-etched photons in the ocean floating feral ammonia kisses on the earlobe scar, the blizzard of wishes bending mirrors of the funhouse flesh. Oh lingerie pillow fight party in my kidney-shaped pool full of gin. Oh blasphemous modern dancer with androgynous haircut, your nervy fortune telling is a ticket to the Museum of Modern Failure. The bird they were going to eat stands up straight, adjust her kaleidoscope and pops like a bubble with your new lover’s name on it. Sunflower flamingo, oh octopus oracle, outlaw of the sensorium, please be my gift horse in the mouth.