Mask Poem
Under this quilt is where I hide
from preditors
from editors
from creditors
Eat me, delete me...
they all want something.
Let 'em look I'll laugh and never mind the letters.

It's good under my quilt -
when I raise my knees it's a cave or a fort
where I played as a child.
But tonight I'm not in the mood so I'll lower my knees
and hope you go away.
If you want it, find someone whose phone works
so you can get a pizza afterwards.

Tonight I'm not in the mood.
I'd rather listen to the radio,
visit Elvis who lives downstairs beside my super who chants
"it's not my job".

I read my poem on the radio
but they said my name wrong.
Now it's just me, this quilt, and my identity crisis,
as I lie here listening to my toilet run.
Where the hell does it think it's going?
What could be better than all of this?

=Montreal, Easter 1991