Sunday Poems XXII

When I was about seven years old, my mother and stepfather bought a new refrigerator and an electric piano. I can’t say I cared much about the fridge and it would be years before the piano would be anything other than a noisemaker to me. Despite a lack of interest in these new tools, their purchase precipitated some of my fondest memories from childhood, because each came in a large cardboard box.

A large box is one of the best playthings for a young human (or a person). They allow an engagement with construction and architecture which manifests in a rocket ship or a bus for some people, a house for others. Aided by my grandfather’s old Royal Quiet Deluxe portable typewritter, I transformed these boxes into a newpaper office, where I typed up stories on local events: leaves falling, the results of twig-boats racing down the springtime streams in the gutters.

Sundays are nice days to admire the unseasonably warm weather (even if this morning brought a light dusting of frost). That seems to be what we do with a lot of Sundays lately. I feel like the twig-boat racing season will be started soon. I’m sure the competition will be fierce on my street. I’ll report back next Sunday. Below is a poem. As always, I’m here if you need to talk. Have a great week, everybody.

The Paintings

They try to establish a hierarchy:

the human compulsion to control
and perform a living autopsy
on the rest of the world.

This morning I woke up at 6:30 AM
I took half of a dexedrine capsule as soon as I—

Could I turn around and
actually eat breakfast?

I called work and asked;
it turns out I wasn’t supposed to come;
alas I’d already taken my dexedrine
and sleep was not—

This week I’m thinking of that:

the self between
here and another place.

Making a relationship with your scalp:

My brain
puts things together;

my back
straight up against
the gallery wall.

A model of queerness
reliant on the computer:
the computer becomes the other;
the parts we don’t know if we want;
the new flesh.

Leaning out the window
to get a better picture of a tree.

Either too much caffeine
or too much dexedrine.

All the hair on top.

Extending yourself:
the whole fabric of the place
from arm to arm;
the windowsill.

Originally published March 5, 2016.

Theodore Fox is a poet living on Treaty Six land in Canada.
Sunday Poems is supported via Patreon.
If you enjoy this work, consider becoming a patron.
website | twitter | instagram