Sunday Poems XXV

This was a tough week. In Canada news: a disgraced radio star and musician was found not guilty on charges of choking and sexual assault. The four complainants who took the stand were inadequately briefed by the crown prosecutor on the methods the defence lawyer would use to dismantle their case: the credibility of the complainants was eroded through an aggressive cross-examination of actions they took after the assaults occurred. When I was assaulted, I called the person who did it to me a cab and waited up with them until it arrived and tried not to puke.

A statistically insignificant portion of perpetrators of sexual assault are ever found guilty by a court. Furthermore, prison time is not found to be an effective rehabilitation for sex offenders.

As the verdict was being announced in a press conference on the steps of the courthouse, a topless protester rushed the podium. She was grabbed by police, dragged into the courthouse, dressed, handcuffed, and brought back out to be shoved into the back of a police cruiser. The police are employed by the government, who also employs the crown prosecutor who who failed to adequately prepare the complainants for their cross-examination.

Sundays are sometimes when we spill a cup of peppermint tea on our keyboard. Unplug. Invert. Google. WikiHow reports that the keyboard can be rinsed under the faucet. If you’re the sort of person who is untrusting, you ignore this advice. If you’re the sort of person who believes in the power of WikiHow, you do indeed throw the keyboard in the sink and turn on the tap. You let it dry on the radiator overnight. At least two days of drying would be safe, but let’s risk it. You’ll plug it in tomorrow. We’ll see how it goes. Below is a poem for you and also for your friends. As always, if you need to talk, I’m here. The internet can make us more lonely but it can also help with feeling lonely. Have a great week everybody.


blue and red

we look at our numbers.

we sing about the fear of music
the fear or thought
the fear of fear
the fear of whirring appliances
the fear of being turned to clay
the fear of sitting near each other
the fear of watching the window
fall apart.

ownership of character
of tree.

take a cat out of
the bag
treat your
street
with dust
sit in between
the sidewalks
stop the cars in their tracks.

we spend the right period of time in closeness.

we spend our days off singing into each other’s cheeks.

trees come out of trees.

the growing medium can be the same as the organism.

the growing medium indistinguishable from the organism.

the numbers are out of control.

blue clay
blue fortunes
blue gender
blue sing-song

blue drafts of work

blue drafts
of red

the walls are all grey
and our clothing is made of plastic;
oh, the way the body feels.

a flash of
guilt
and hurt and
hair extruding
from what look like pores.

how we spend our days
when we’re sitting down
and the keys track
from moment to moment.

like something electric
the blackboard and the cacaphony,
across the clay
backdrop (blackboard).

you can’t depend on
your own mind
some days.


Originally published March 27, 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