Li'l Bastard. David McGimpsey

for The Biggest Loser. I thought

      a red truck and a beagle named Steve

      were all any sensible Texan would need.

      I asked her, ‘Am I being vain or stupid?’

      ‘Sweetie, it’s like when you asked if I found you

      ugly on the outside or on the inside —

      it really isn’t an either/or situation.’

      6. My Canadian Novel.

      The Newfoundland orphange playground.

      Then asleep in the stiff nunnery’s bed.

      The train was stalled at Portage and Main.

      ‘Just around then my marriage fell apart.’

      The pea garden was not just her hobby,

      but a metaphor for memory and loss:

      when the river ice breaks up in April,

      I discover my father kept a mistress.

      A journal the other woman’s daughter found

      in a cedar chest full of baby clothes

      was the story of a woman’s courage

      and how a war wound kept a man alive.

      In the Stamford, Ontario, archives,

      a historical oddity is unearthed

      and chased into Mediterranean hills —

      where they’ve never endured a real winter.

      7. Bury me beneath the willow but throw out my DVD collection — it’s useless.

      I tell my students Gertrude Stein did not

      just wake up knowing how to punch a zebra.

      You have to be dedicated to the craft.

      First, you have to know how to punch a horse.

      Likewise, I wanted to move to Texas,

      and installing a ranch-dressing pump

      in my kitchen was my inauspicious start.

      Another shift of classes and I’m gone.

      When I announced my intention to leave,

      my friends very caringly inquired into

      how to go about applying for my job.

      I just said, ‘You should ask Jason.’

      ‘Jason from the English Department?’

      ‘No, Jason Seaver, the dad from Growing Pains —

      he’s actually a real person, you know.

      He’s advising me to be a better friend to Boner … ’

      8. Even with the kleptomania, I was the perfect boyfriend.

      When I put on my silk suit and pince-nez,

      I hap to think upon the treading verse

      of McCawmber Hextall. ‘Hush, pale stone,

      there’ll be no more magnets for you!’

      Oh, I enjoyed the poster stand in Sears,

      so much so I spent a Christmas Eve

      in the juvie docket the same day I smacked

      Manny Destrine just for being Manny.

      I would have stolen a bedroom poster

      of Carolyn Forché if I’d seen the jacket

      photo from The Country Between Us —

      I settled for Kathy Ireland all the same.

      In the can, I wrote my very worst poem.

      The poem went, ‘I know where you live, pig,’

      and basically just repeated that line.

      Hush, pale stone, I live in the hip Plateau.

      9. Orville Redenbacher’s mistress rejects the label ‘porn star.’

      ‘Who’re you calling a literary hipster?’

      he huffed, putting down his pint of Steam Whistle.

      I apologized, of course, and promised

      to read his second book, Suck It, Dick Cheney.

      The next day I was back at the office.

      The whole floor had been freshly painted —

      clementine and puce — and the new mirrors

      could expose the most clandestine bald spot.

      I could hear that hipster from last night

      crying in front of Prof. Dean’s class.

      I wished there were more taco stands nearby,

      but no taco, they say, is worth suicide.

      Who was I to diss the hipster poet?

      Bowing my head into my late grading —

      I’ve used the word ‘iffy’ in a reference letter.

      I’ve cancelled two classes to watch Survivor.

      10. You’re now talking to the Sleepy’s Mattress Employee of the Month.

      A new study suggests affirmation chants

      (i.e., I can be loved, I can be loved)

      are generally ineffective. In fact,

      they may tend to have a reverse effect.

      Let’s say you’re about to be evicted

      from your already earwig-infested room.

      You have red spots on the back of your legs,

      and your nickname is Lancelot Loser.

      Let’s say your last prized possession

      is a souvenir glass from Hoboken

      and your ex has just published a poem

      titled ‘I Know the Definition of Small.’

      Chanting I can be loved, I can be loved,

      only stresses how sadly untrue that may be.

      It’s likely better to just buy a toupee.

      I can wear a rug, I can wear a rug.

      11. David McGimpsey likes — then unlikes — this.

      A knife in the back is just the adult

      version of acne. It will clear up.

      Faster, if you learn to mix gin with gin.

      Faster, if you drape mirrors in burlap.

      The words you wrote look good in a shredder:

      ‘If only I didn’t join that knife club!’

      and ‘If only I objected to adding

      the phrase I will be stabbed to our vows.’

      Acceptance is the philosophical concept

      that eases long grief and allows someone

      to consider tan slacks as their destiny.

      That Taylor Swift song is not about you.

      Healing is just a word for understanding

      how I was right and you were unright-like.

      Taylor