JONATHAN FOCHT

Study biology of conservation
or conversation or pinball strategies.
Earn a title like Mr. Mystery or
The Boy Who Can’t Be Damaged.
Take advantage of open lanes
like Pac Man or defensemen
in the neutral zone trying to enter
a new one. Wear as little as possible
(scarves, sleeves, worries, baggage
(try carrying less)). Drink a dry-
hopped lime sour or something
encouraging thought. Turn
as many corners as possible.
Observe birds, behaviour, pressure
in bottles. Eat out often. Spurt mustard
on the chalkboard instead of a big
black bored cock. Hang back
for blue opportunities. Marry a man
with a lack of cash but a knack
for making amazing raisin bread.
Construct a bowl with bean, seed,
grain, green. Travel to Victoria
to sleep in parks legally, waking
early to sing opera to peacocks.
Let your body do what it does. Time too.
Search for outlets outside of airports
& lose those fucking flip-flops.

My fat rat plays rabbit,
dunks his head in a bowl,
climbs the couch we fuck on.

He stands behind me
on twenty fingers, sucking
his teeth, bending his whiskers,

licking his balls. His tail
a worm-snake, hairy as heels,
thus pink. Now it’s time to zoom!

He trucks past our napes,
grounds his mass, navigates
a maze & searches for stray spinach.

A brown & white zamboni
chewing on Bukowski.
He knocks illness off my list

for now. I’m too busy
with cardboard & scissors.

After a morning of painting
behemoths in a toilet &
watching a fucked-up mukbang,
I venture to benches
surrounded by pigeons.

A pruned lady hunches a fountain,
seeking wetness. A blonde snob
smokes & snorts rhetorically.
I’m so done with forward—
need the sky like a rat needs a walnut,

but unlike the pigeons I lack the option.
So I hunch alone with cryo hops,
shifting between sections of psycho-
analysis & Garfield. The guy
hitting everything with a stick

is back. A shadow passes
blasting a good song,
reminding me melody
might not be important
as its presentation.